The swamp, or the lagoon as it’s called, came right up the backside of Barefoot Iguana’s and the hurricane had left heaps of garbage and debris scattered throughout...but here it was, the whorehouse, jilting out of place with its lime green walls and tropical entrance...golf carts lined the side of the building, signaling that all the locals and tourists were present...it was all I could to follow her beautiful posterior inside, in full possession of the fallacy of possession, and my crumminess, my spirituality, my blackness...a man stopped to offer fruit juice, I declined. The dance floor was throbbed and in third gear. There was upstairs with a balcony all around, where local men and women surveyed the movements and the weapons used below...I had Ramona’s smokes in my pocket and every ten minutes she requested another spike...even among those whose opinion was generally favorable, were also absolutely shocked by the nightmare of Ramona’s revolution in smoking...
In between smokes there was more tonguing from Ramona, and then it was time to dance...I had a paper cut on my shin, but there was no reticence, I was moving to the dance floor...it had two levels and we started out on level one, with the throngs...I upgraded my comic lyricism, and started to move like a monkey with a different kind of boss...Unsurpassed bodhi, transported to the plane of delerium, Ramona showed me moves I hadn’t seen since the birthing room...I lamely followed, copied a few of her more blithe moves, and used a Libra smile to conquer my detractors...
I was avid for freedom...and it showed in my artichokes...she mostly laughed at me, at the way my body told the history of a boy who grew up with a century of progress, and no wisdom...There was no way in hell a pasty gangster like me was going to have rhythm...But that didn’t stop us from moving onstage...the teemers made a palisade around her, but I got to move up close behind and hold on...I used my best Spanish argot in her ear, and she got in close and bit mine...this dancing, drinking, and smoking went on for hours...I even took a nail and smoked it in jest and harmony...I regarded this as neither a mistake nor conceivable, as I grew up in a smokeless domicile in a smokeless town, on smokeless letters from a grandfather in Texas...I must have had a series of palpitations for my heart was stricken with love...Women put your thrust in me...don’t be thin and flavorless or sulking too often...Own your desires, or send them by mail to my address in San Francisco.
-Michael Price
