I was to pick Tanya up at her house...I was driving a white 69 VW Micro Bus which I had just bought in Sonoma from a groovy Black breather named Jimmy, a mechanic on the Golden Gate bridge, the ribald and rust deco wonder that connected the hills and trellises of Marin to the gates of sin in San Francisco...Jimmy put up scaffolding for the painters, those lifelong back-and-forth blue collars whose job never came to an end, except in the case of the Big one, and he fixed anything broken...but what the hell could break on something as large and extra terrestrial as the fame Golden Gate? Pins and cables, rivets, lives pitched over the sides, 60 foot sway in the Pacific winds, annual poetry readings on the fort point for surfers frostbitten by catechism and supposed hobby...this bridge inspired all types of madness, but mostly a madness of pride...Pride as thick as blood in the glorious San Francisco...where the local news proclaims it the best place on earth each night at six...where cool becomes simply cold, and there isn’t a real woman for kilometers...one bindlestiff city confused by its mediocrity and forced into the defensive posture of constant gloating...long live dynamite! Oh but what the earthquake will take care of...
I had to climb two flights of stairs to the apartment of Tanya, who met me at the door with her amorous gap-toothed smile, the kind Chaucer made famous, the one that affirmed that sexual desire could be measured by dentrics and and dentrics alone... we had decided within the first ten minutes of small talk not to go out, but rather sit amongst her clutter of books and records and CDs and an acoustic guitar and drink red wine and get loose, get to know her rather lanky, universal-jointed limbs, let her size up my rooster-short hair, black preen pants and foil-mesh socks...
And that’s how it went for the few hours I spent lounging on her floor, her couch spinning cds and drinking pretty decent wines which she poured one after another...The night was beginning to look like it could get off the hook, the air was heavy with cattle and jonquils...I was getting the feeling, that timeless jocular bliss-is-coming feeling that there would be some foolery...so out came the monologues, my best being my motel-room rise to the abstract POETRY CAREER story, which, given I was destined to either engineer things or SELL some load of crap or another, was pathetically enough, quite remarkable in this day and age...a conversation with my father recently confirmed this, that I had broken away from the money curtain of grandfather, the kindly lamp of “make-a-living, suffer greatly” bore it straight ahead American venereal corporate cunt-all life that both my uncle and father had been forced to pursue...and pursue would be a strong way of putting it for what burned in them was killed off when the choices were laid out in dollars, and more rightly, lack thereof if an acting career or public indecency were part of the plan...So I told Tanya how I made it to poetry, how it found me longing to make midnights of accelerandos, retardos and rubatos...how it was a miraculously described pair of breasts that pushed me to sign up for a writing class, SHAM that they are, and that there the shocks and bruises heretofore indescribable in advertising slogans...
“So how is the lawering?” And Tanya told me enough in very little time to make me realize how bad off we are, that her dour and uninspired occupation was no different than 98% of Amerika, but worse for me, and this had been the case all my life, was how uninspiring SHE was in the face of getting up and Carpe motherfuckin’ Diem, how uninspired playstation/shoppingmall/un-French and boring we had all become...one couldn’t or wouldn’t dare to be original beyond the label of a shirt or, or, or, a motorcycle...I’m bewildered by the mediocrity! I ask, “How are we supposed to heal if all we can feel is time?
Tanya didn’t know any better, that there was little to risk in any of her conversation, much less her everyday life..
We had some good talk despite it all as the wine was loosening up the grip of Luna...I knew I had to move with all the caution of a barracuda, that one move out of context could produce physical pain or a hasty exit out the door and I thought maybe T and I could make this a regular thing, that in spite of the booby traps of ego vs ego, there might be grace and supplication present and that maybe there could be real chemical or tactile means to an end...And so I kept moving so slightly closer and every once in a while I could reach out and touch her leg or play with her outstretched toes...and she seemed ok with my overhand spectacle...she said she needed a massage and I quickly explained that my skills in that area had increased to the positive lately thanks to my brief affair with Stacy, the Aspen L.A. guru-ess masseuse freak, whom I had been lucky enough to receive some teaching from...it all had to do with pressure and patience, areas where I was either applying too much and didn’t have enough of...
Tanya clothed on the floor...between piles of good books I had barely heard of, as she had an eye for good world literature whereas I knew poetry like a pro in a blizzard of butterflies looking for the elusive painted lady and then there would be a tremendous explosion of beads and the jewel thoughts of a thousand emperors would be at my disposal...running for my terrified baby, awakened by the bizarre impression that we were fully clothed and would say that way through the course of the rub, tho Tanya did take off her sweater and I became aroused as I sat atop her jeweled buns...and so it was...I think we ended up on the couch and I roused the mettle to kiss her and rather violently we went into what I would call a VMO (violent make out) and up went my hand to the land of breast and beast and remarkably there was no backlash or rebuttle...she was hot to death but she would hold back from copulation and oral organization as we barely knew each other and what woman in the continental United States wanted tit to be known that she gave up the nappy dugout on the first date...and so it was time for me to exit with the point being, the point pertinent to the failure with Ramona was this: it was late November and I had become tremendously aroused, to the point of the leakage common to dry-hump, and there had been no release and I refrained from masturbatory indulgence because I was gifted a book on Tantric love practices and had always at least five years been interested in finding a way to last for hours and not lose the precious seed known as the essence of man...the potent process of spermatogenesis...the subdivisions of spermatocyle four ways into the spermatozoa which have the amazing morphological value...the fluid that can and has produced world power, carburetors, the yogi, the portable Nietzsche...I want to forever hold the juice within, steam it up the Kundalini spine, awaken the potency, burn on the helionic level of superna, the desire-less transformative modus operandi of one unmistakable, slightly nauseating sense realm of enlightenmentation, the spin dizzy screen of no single fear or caution, six pillars of glowing white for forty one miles or years, the age of my rebirth, the age of my first death...Man made and madness and moving day began...The pillars lunged, roaring, into the skies thermite azul history being made...like big ideas...sperms and ideas, theories oh rotten theories I’ve always hated a good theory...and philosophers too, I don’t think much of...it is me or you...mothers...So this was the first instance of the phenomenon known as sorrow balls, or backlogged thermocouple ball halt, or just plain blue balls...the first...
-Michael Price
