“Ramona, te amo. Quiero ser contigo.” Over and over again I pleaded. She was more silent now, but for me it was a need to know…”How you love me…you sleep with fucking negra?” It was nothing, it was nothing…I could hear myself saying…finally she said, “I have to go,” then “Goodbye Michael”
“Ramona, Wait, when will I talk to you again?"
“I don’t know.” And then click. Jesus A-hole fuck. My head contained storms. Typhoons. And prinkum-prankum desolation…I had done it again…the Richard had done the talking and the gods of taxidermy we’re laughing it up…the Richard talks only in cunny, and nothing else…you have made choices and some of those choices are answered in pain and misery. I was come a smeller, all smoke, gammon and spinach…damaged properly. I writhed on the bed, thrashing at my stupidity! I walked out into the living room and sat down where my mom had been watching TV, and definitely listening to my woes…I let out a huge sigh and shook my head…”Well, did she dump you?”
“I don’t know mom, I don’t know…can you tell me why this always happens to your only son?”
“You should stop going out and begging for it.” She was chuckling at me, all the while commiserating, but chuckling as she always did at my recklessness, my fickle snotty inanities…”Ah, well, she’ll take you back…just give her some time to cool off…a woman needs the artic when a man is unable to stifle his squeaker…” Leave it to mom to hit the humor key when I needed it most…
Now the mind storm began in earnest…she would not speak to me again. Better yet, she would come to the island and then not speak to me again. Maybe get a boyfriend, then see me, then never speak to me again…I could sense the tumble up mornings, the dark and Ramona-less wakes, sad skies and try-on smiles, food flavor-less and drinks suicidal….I was in for a melt and I could feel the heat…her words were still walking down my throat for a swipe at my heart when I realized I had been watching the tele for six hours…I had to get away because it would eat me and eat my heart, that fucking tele and it’s cloning machinations, it’s greed and lust, it’s vanity vanity vanity…and the only way I knew how to free myself from it was meditation, the holy dharma, the reading of sacred texts, which could cut tendons, vexation, and phantasmagoria…the triple jewel of Buddha Dharma Sangha…just to read those words carries more merit than a thousand hours of public television…this is what the swooning romantic hours had brought—ache, and real hurt, whim wham and sorrow…and I was fixed in it…
-Michael Price
