Ping Pong Fuck

We stood in the auditorium, my having just received oral sex from a black college student, and my wife just now standing up staggering like through darkness with a stout young slick-haired punk guy who zipped up an over-sized zipper on the front of a pair of black and neon green overalls. They had fucked behind a ping-pong table which was used in the past to entertain her children or alternately serve the needs of drunken men in her father-in-law's charge. Her hair was now a gaudy orange, the effect of attempting to dye black hair blonde in a slipshod manner. Had they enjoyed rebellious sweetness of their youthful, programmed movements? For me it's like wrenching an object, which I know is vapid and empty. The thought disgusted and enthralled me, like a massive curling wave of human waste crashing through my chest.

Kipple

Four panel sash window. Look out of it diagonally upwards, a dog is barking one level up out of a dark open window. I wake up speaking gibberish, drooling a cool electric madness of tiny beetle crawlies scattered on my pillow and forearm. Retreating back to the warm home. I read something about this recently. A soldier will always upon near-death, draw on the kipple of home life--empty snack bags, summer haircuts, ice-tea, barbecue, mother. There is a home for us there when death is near or when freight drives us mad--a warm blowing of sweet grass scented wind through cracked sash windows, flavored by radiance. The needle-points of manifold anxieties point us home, usually late afternoon on into evening--the day's work settled and forgotten the comfort of empty schedule leaves us simply alive and with dropsical bellies to ponder.

The dog is black and hanging over the ledge, my animal instincts pang me with fear of imminent attack, but crossbeams of these windows--metal wood and elevation make that fear short lived. In the mirror I wonder if this mechanism is of any great importance. This sophisticated analogue computer contained in my skull. Is my writing of any greater import than a dolphin slipping its body through water or a cricket unwinding a subtle byplay?

Driving though the darkness I observed the coiffure in my hair, pasted with indignity above my head like uncut fetlock. Will this do? Will someone laugh and ask me to perform some bawdy impression, or worse, to sing? Humor is a subjugating force in this manner. The courtesans of ancient Japan had so asked one another to 'be witty' on-command; accordingly it has always made me feel servile; one who lives in the service of others.

I must go now...with any luck, more later.