Mud And Meat

The water’s been rolling down the side of the mountain, taking everything with it, and I’ve watched with intense scrutiny, pleased with what I see.
I’ve been filling holes with mulch and meat, salt and mud, my days on a course all their own; the world a wisp of vapor, talking heads muffled to silence, the strains gorging me with blood while I vibrated and conjured, allowing the voices to blend and synthesize, round edges grown smooth and distinct under my tutelage, soft clay in between my fingers. And invariably when I encountered a hole, I scrambled to fill it with mud, with meat, to keep the road smooth while I hustled into the shadows to find my way. I didn’t have a clue on where I was headed, but I didn’t let anyone know for fear of complete mutiny. Our ship stayed its course. I didn’t rattle. I allowed the manna to spirit me away and the mud and the meat shouldered my weight.
Talking heads were sipping coffee and chatting amiably. The Mississippi mudfarmer let if fly while the white woman plucked her harp, and the simplicity escaped most, but I was moved, appreciating as I did the attention to detail. They cared not a flip what I thought, they just did it. I drank some cold milk and I jiggled to the beat. Around me, talking heads acted like they were intelligent, but I knew they were faking it. I wanted to talk, but not a sound left my mouth and I felt teeny tiny, but Mississippi mudfarmer man only smiled more, understanding as he did my inability to function in the presence of greatness. Life is strange...
A lungful of sticky psychosis, a zoo of noise escaped from his fingers; from a lover’s howl to a deafening jet engine, jagged screels and excitable monkey chatter. The white woman sat on the couch in a pretzel, a look of abject terror masking her visage, both confused and troubled by the assault. I was moved to tears. Only later did she admit to being soothed by the savageness. By the look in her eyes at the end of the evening, she appeared liberated, sexually satisfied. Tribal beats swam in and out of the room, demanding our attention, rendering the fear of the unknown into a glop of foolishness and folly.
The mirror ball spun and turned the room into swimming slow motion. She adjusted her glasses and warbled and squeaked, her drummer doing his best to turn the movement sideways, upside down, while the crowd tapped their feet and bopped. She turned a gallon jug up and suckled the sweetness down her goose neck while the talking heads smacked their hands together in approval, gobbling like turkeys. The girl in the glasses -who strummed the guitar inside out- spoke her piece in a language all her own, and we were all the better for it. My hands were sore, my soul nourished
Potato chip bags littered the floor, candy wrappers scuttled from room to room. Guitars were dusted and in alignment, feng shui like a mushroom cloud spilling over the couch, over the woman sitting in the flowers, over the instruments perfectly placed in accord with the grand design. Little quiet white man was The Odd Couple, all wrapped up into one J C Penney package. Big muff Bootsy stomped like Godzilla, tearing the roof off the sucker. Wham bam backwoods stomp made the tourists all nervous like. Made my ass all pointy. Little quiet white man with the smelly feet shouted the world down. The talking heads ordered some tacos and beer and tittered nervously.
The girls with the black fur coats made themselves at home in the dark and the quiet. Lights were blinking, meters were fluctuating, and the white woman caressed the keys, letting her madness escape for a while into binary code. Another quiet white man conducted and captured the melodies. Hunched over and inflexible, she trusted her instincts and gave forth the effort needed and as she did so I watched her body relax, her composure at once fluid and endemic, knowing we were in her heart, giving her the years of experience we’d absorbed to let the flower blossom. She smiled. She giggled. She snarled. The hills were alive.
A chorus of holes filled with mud and meat littered the road behind me, glistening and bubbling, adjusting to the Texas heat.
My gals flexed their paws and spoke their mind. To a woman in another state who could understand them. The headless bodiless woman told me the girls are a Greek chorus, telling her of the uniqueness, their specialness, and how other talking heads knew, too. The gals told her of their fan club, of their fondness for the river, of their sadness over the short woman who’s gone, of the angels who watch over us, while they teach me about life, and I listen, and they know this. They’re delighted we travel as a trio, and are supplanted by understanding, by love, and nothing will stand in our way. The headless bodiless woman existed on another plane, and she met us in the clouds. We were a banana fudgesickle licked by a most exquisite woman who wielded a velvet tongue
I’ve diligently filled the holes with mulch and meat, salt and mud. I’ve not procrastinated, nor delayed. Hair is growing on the pulsating flesh. Blood oozes from the holes’ edges. I walk on. Music is the wind beneath my wings while meat drips from my soles onto the faces of onlookers; the talking heads who are too afraid to walk to the edge and look over into the abyss, only watching me from a safe distance, hoping I will plunge to my death so they can talk about me in the past tense. But I fly. Take that.
Tomorrow is another day. I want to take you higher.
Boomshakalakalaka Boomshakalakalaka.