What is IT?

I’m losing it.

So much time has passed in this northern town that I’m losing it.

What is IT? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s that spark. That hit. That rush of warm sunlight on a beach lined with palms and a cozy feeling on your flesh when some warm lover is leaning against you, and all you got is the breeze, the salt air, the sun, and warm sand beneath you.

It’s a religion. An ambiance that is my Avalon. 

I sit in these dark rooms with a beer or some drink, and fall into a gauzy tone. A quicksand of longing. And I think, are these the symptoms of amnesia? You get that one taste, and you know where it first dropped on your tongue, but like a Hollywood tragedy you spend too much of the story trying to get back to that ideal, while this or that obstacle stymies your path, instead of just sticking with it in the first place.  

When I really think about it, I’m quite certain somewhere deep inside I feel I don’t deserve this victory, this attainment… that I’m working off some martyr karma. Yet if I bide my time long enough, ye ole Grim Reaper will have his way sho’ nuff! And ma’ purdy tears won’t wet a thang! Pull the sheet over my face and strike up the old Hammond. 

The beauty, the saving grace, of being a far-flung cocksucker that is so out of place on this joint of dirt, is that a revolution of continuous affairs, trysts and ensemble heart-renderings in a tropical clime is all I could ever ask for in my remaining years. I don’t give a royal damn about true love, ever-lasting love, “my love is your love”, but only the love that exists at one moment in time, neither past nor future. 

As Whitman moved amongst the sleepers, I shall move amongst the lithe brown figurines of equatorial jive and forever swim in the mist of their lanky dark hair, their kinky juice hung studs and luscious suicide-worthy lips, their bouncy gait, and the clarity of their eyes. I will hold each one as a child. But love each one as a man.