by Bodwyn Wook
THE Fugitive sensation of a fleeting recurrent press of thightops to thightops while jitterbugging drunk in May in the Terre de Bleu City cigaretty country & western music-lounge of 1982, drunk beyond shyness and letting her lead, she the honey-haired and bareback-legged, horsewomanly, embodiment of his complete experience of brief clarity in that dirty adult oasis of shifty lust and foggy colored light, she of those dancing minutes for ever would be to Edgar Stanley afterward the final realization of bouncing women’s and men’s entangled legs alive, then-yet-to-come other and far-more-prolonged and drugged and degraded, ecstatic, intervals already beforehand only thin shadows of this memory, so that he, Edgar Stanley, was well-ready for fifteen years to read at last of Borges’ tangos nine years ago in 1997, in a bad translation to today’s nursinghome.
[Emmett R Smith all rights reserved 14 August 2006]
Leave a Reply