Canons booming, the sky lit up by artillery. Enemies laid slain, others maimed beyond recognition. The soldier fielded his way into something that felt remotely sheltering–blades of grass, near the sound of a babbling brook.
He rested there, slept, dreamed, of his family, the dog that lapped up water and made everyone laugh.
He felt the dog’s tongue on his face now.
He woke up. He was alive. Not at war. But not yet at peace.

Brewing underneath my skin, infused in colors of red, green, brown, gold. Flecks flying through me. This burst of color will last for about seventy-eight years. And then the colors will fade to one color. A dull gray. But that’s okay.

Summertime in Caper’s Babe. I’m sure summers are the same elsewhere here in Texas, but summers in Caper’s Babe are special, to me at least, because of the people. There are some interesting people here. Like the men I’d watched earlier. I slept in their attic later that night. But before that, I sat with them at dinner. But before that, they showered off the sweat. They used Dial soap and Prell shampoo and splashed on Brut aftershave. They dried each other off. They dressed.
I find dressing one’s body more fascinating than anything; the choices, colors, fabrics, the buttons, zippers, the softness and harness, the lines and curves.
Once they were ready, off they went to participate in various activities. I wondered if I should follow or stay on in the house and find my own things to participate in.

I love the dark recesses of a room on a show like the Young and the Restless. I love the flying hair of the Bionic Woman. I love the attachments of song to image. I love the stillness of a scene. I love just standing there. And I did, from the outside of a house, near a tree. There were two men inside the house, making love. At times they were soft and gentle with each other; at other times, violent. I watched only for a moment before I noticed the little red wagon parked next to the garden hose, which was coiled along the left bank of the house, just next to the small steps leading into what I assumed was a service room or garage.

I loved finding the red wagon. I loved lifting it’s handle seeing its relative newness. And knowing their were no children in the house, I found it intriguing. Did it belong to one of the men. Which one? The shorter dark, swarthier one or the blond with the long limbs and golden haired chest? Along its chassis, in white lettering was the name Radio Flyer. A classic, I presumed. I thought about this for awhile. It wasn’t that I would disturb the men if I started pulling it along the house. For I’d often done things right in front of them that they never noticed. I’d even been in their bedroom when they’d been having sex and they hardly batted an eye (except to each other) In fact, no one in this town seemed to notice my activity. And in particular, this house was far from the main road. And at this time of the day, nearing late afternoon, they’d done all the farm work. The cows had been milked. The barn swept and maintained. I was basically alone at my own disposal. And that of the little red wagon.

So, I took the wagon by the handle and began my journey, pulling it along the footpath that the men had worn from the service door to the front of the house, where a large porch met me and my red, shiny conveyance. I waved at the potted plants. I waved at the black and white cat that watched me, as it sat along the northeast banister of the porch.  I stopped and asked her if she’d like a ride. She yawned and looked the other way, seemingly bored. So I continued. I passed the porch onto the other side of the house where there less windows, more higher up. for the second floors. I loved the second floor. This is where I planned on staying the night.

Preens massage their way through paths, you see, through spaces, in much the same way as water. Only we are not as clear. We take on many shapes but our true one tends to frighten humans. Except for special humans. I suspected one or both of the men making love to each other might be one of those special humans. But I wasn’t sure.

So I decided to stick around and see in the current form I was, the unnoticeable form, the safe form, the form that massaged through.

I rounded the house and found myself passing underneath the bedroom window of the men again. Each time I passed underneath it (for I went around the house probably hundreds of times until the night came) I heard the men, their catches of breath, the bed springs creaking. They were in it for the long haul.

And so was this preen, whose quality for loving things they loved might sometime, this summer, prove vital in their lives. And my own.

The lines of her muscles seemed to run at cross purposes. The chest rippling into her armpit like mad water running over a gorge. In order to mount her, I have to raft my way to the left of her hips; the current will carry me there. Or her perfume.

But I am stopped at bridge after bridge. I bring too much cargo. I am weighed down. I will sink to the bottom if I don’t unload. Very, very soon, I must unload.

But nothing personal.

It did nothing for me. It was blank. There’s nothing here. I’m looking but I can’t find it. When I bend to look for it, it hurts, well not really hurts but it doesn’t feel great when I do, but I should because I really need to. I need to do a lot of things. I need new knees but really need better eyes. But,really, if the mind was better than any of those things, that other stuff wouldn’t matter so much. Then things would make more sense. She would look better. The weather might clear. I might breathe better. Nights wouldn’t be so long. Things would make sense.

It starts with the itch and then itch leads to a scratch and before I know it my shirt is off and i’m digging my nails into my torso. It only lasts awhile. By then I’m left shirtless and wondering what is next.

I knew Karen in the first grade. Her parents were a constant disappointment to her.
She wanted a glossy plastic red ruler. Her mother bought the wooden kind and painted it with leftover semi-gloss from the local hardware store.

When her mother arrived to school, for parties or functions, she usually wore rollers in her hair. She wrapped her daughter’s sandwiches in foil and her Kool Aid was put into empty bottles of Sanka jars.

The kids roared with laughter when Karen’s  mother arrived to put on her new shoes–Why Karen? Why would your mother come to school to put on your new shoes? Didn’t you know she’d fuck that up too? They were loafers that looked like they were made of plastic, maybe even cardboard, the laces were dyed yellow and evidently the dye had not yet dried–her mother’s habit of painting things the way she wanted to be too, like the ruler.

Years later, while we were in our forties, when I happened to run into Karen in a grocery store in our home town–after being gone for so long, I asked her about those shoes.

She didn’t remember. She really didn’t. I realized all this time that I had lived that humiliation alone, without hers. I alone carried it. I didn’t try to force her to remember–for all I knew, the memory was just under the surface, right underneath like the pudding underneath the hard glaze of a creme brulee. A distant dessert of a memory. We ended up exchanging addresses. I looked forward to writing to her. For I also knew of some good memories of Karen. And those I would make her remember. No matter how many letters it took.

She arrived from Andover, on the eight thirty-five. On the train’s platform, she ran into her lover’s arms. He gripped her tightly, beheld her small figure like the ingredients of a splendidly delicious cauldron of nourishment.

They fed off each other, while kissing. But they would never be satisfied. For it would be a short trip. Until the next time, which would also be too short.

As they drove back to his place: “You can take a nap if you want,” he said. “I know it’s been a long day for you.”

“Not long enough,” she responded, while looking at long expanse of pastures jutted by the occasional tree in the distance. The setting sun had turned the landscape purple.

And her slightly blue. “The day is never long enough.”
“Nor the night,” he added.

But they made the best they could of that night. By morning, they promised this would be the last of the short days and the beginning of the longest nights.

And there would be greener pastures.