Sep 16, 2007

Visions of Brooke: Part One of One

Brooke Shields hovered over me as I tried to sleep. She was reciting poems. Roethke and Rexroth would have trashed them all, laughing wildly, but I realized the delicate grace of her delivery. She was the release point of a jumpshot; the digging paw of a lion in mid-creep amongst the brush.

She was wearing a tunic with her initials embroidered on both sleeves, slimming blue jeans and a feather boa. She gesticulated wildly and pounded her fist into her open palm. Her pockets were filled with Monopoly money and hotels. They fell over my bed like rain.

I won't lie to you. I was scared. Shitless. I was abruptly awoken by her ice-cold hands running lightly over my leg-- hanging out from my blanket at an attempt at warmth homeostasis. Then the poetry started. It was still a bit frightening, but she believed in it. She wanted it. She broke into song for certain parts-- caterwauling her life story in metered stanzas.

Oh Lord, ours is the woebegone weariness of women past. She repeated this in shouts. Her breathing was heavy. Her head moved about as if tugged by a puppeteer. She floated only three feet above me. Her body warmth oozed over me like slime.

When she finished, she was panting heavily and not looking for reaction. She lay languidly beside me, aglow, and slept for an hour. Sprawled across the left hand side of my bed, she smelled of sweat and stale marijuana smoke. She snored loudly and wore a sneer of contempt anytime there was an accidental touch of feet or brush of backs in the struggle for comfort.

I've not seen her in days, nor do I ever want to again. But to see that kind of release (her chest collapsing afterward as if she had ripped her own failure from her pale skin) was divine and maddening like a glimpse of God in an oil slick or seeing the devil form inside a delicious taco. She burned right next to me and dissipated into a cloud of smoke. I've not slept right since and my sheets still smell like a campfire.

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