This girl had powerful legs, man. It was like she was a shot put champion or something. But I liked the shade that the tree was making over there, where she was, and so I walked myself on over there. I was tired of being maybe’ed, singing I Am The Walrus striped in neon, sweating it out, and, of course, back in too. Won’t leave that out. Bad for the complexion. A claim at whatever cook’s-hat shit is being labeled all-joked-out when you’re really just kicking over bowling pins without a lane. She was hamming it up, literally, with those thunder thighs pumping in place, with the kind of energy that could blast a locomotive through a mountain of thick basalt. I’m sobering up by this point. It was what they call a sobering sight, I guess. I got all awful and pathetic, and nearly left my place-in-time noticing habits in the gutter there, but I swooped them up and didn’t lose them. Careered towards nothing-better-to-do, particularly there and then, I had a new-carpet stink to me, a pristine smell in my stride, and it was keeping my focus estranged, at least a little, from whatever it was that was really meow-lingering, for a spell, in motivating my motor over that-a-way where she was doing those air step-aerobics. I was punchy with something, that’s for sure. Fast enough, eventually, for grip or gripe, I was able to entertain almost all my thoughts at once, and this had never happened in quite this way before, at least that I could remember. It was easy. It’s like a she-was-just-seventeen sort of thing. The way she looked? Well, I guess I could’ve went ahead and compared it with something, but it was a no-can-do issue with my head all strung, bright and bulby, with ideas like stars, thousands there that I could gaze at and see all of, and all at the same time. Terpsichore moved through me as the gush of thoughts sang, “When you’re alone and life is making you lonely you can always go…” We all want to be rock stars, sing and live and die, all together now. Held in check, though, there I was being ambushed by my lunge towards this lower-body heifer in the style of Carnegie-Hall wannabes. Wonderbreading, as I was, there wasn’t a loaf left in me to pony up anything other than my whole cat-litter soul for all takers to take apart and never put back together ever again, at least not the way it was. It’s all unfair competition at a certain point. I broke for it. I booked past the shade trees and made my living up from pills and this guy keeps saying, “Potions. Potions for sale,” over and over. But he wasn’t just saying it to me. Mother Superior’d gone and jumped the gun. His frown was gone. I got over it. The deep-knee bending chick with shot-putting legs was glorious. She was like a god, or would that be goddess? Hey, Bungalow Bill, you know? Artemis of the concrete. There’s no name for things like that. More to the point would be to say that it’s neither the method of Spencerian or Palmer that matters, but more that there is a method there, and that method is, well, unquantifiable, and, of course, well, ineffable. That’s more to it. Not it. More to it, though. An enfilade of the senses, if you will. Or, hell, even if you won’t. A phalanx of scruffy types were perpetrating crimes against man-made devices, and there I go and get somehow suckered into mumbo-jumboing with the worst of them, ones let’s say who were clothed in the rattier and more flea-infested sort of rags that often times smell of cheesy rot and sun-baked wine. There’s this other guy who’s ranting, “Don’t gotta be so damn cute all the time. Take me back to the wild, to the wild-wild west, why do not cha?” I’m popping in here and there, but not scoping too much. Just Rita-Hayworthing in the mortar of the lord, daubing my jokes on serious walls, jiving around with a Ballet Mecanique clenched in my fist. The squatting-and-rising Lady of The Thick Legs had her eyes closed. I noticed this after sweeping some lint from my eyebrows. I could only get in a peripheral glance, but it was enough. A freshly cool ingot of surprise tumbled and then somehow rolled away from me, and I slid across the heated surface of oh-hell-here-goes-nothing and tried to make it all of heaven’s something. The sky wasn’t at all deeper than I could be, and the equations of star-hopping were not as far out-of-reach and unsolvable as they should’ve been. A pother of distraction emerged from a pendent tailpipe that was almost scraping the street as a pea-green Plymouth clanked and clattered by, and I rushed through fluttering intimacies that were almost the whipping crackle of flags in a great wind. It was too hot and too cold. This deep-knee-bending girl wasn’t giving her attention away for a thing. A surgeon’s concentration. A point she could just stare and stare at like an ice skater spinning. Attached a trifle to everything except herself. God was snoozing through this one. I heard things commuting from lips to ear: “The infinite consists of vowels alone.” Things were getting too easy for the likes of, well, a person like the one I was passing for being then. Badly, sacked when I could’ve been doing so much more, revolving around other lives, but instead just grouchy in the shade. The trapeze of my head was swinging, but back and forth wasn’t ringing the bell backwards like it should’ve been. I wasn’t in the mood to be embarrassed. Then the wind said, “White curtains hang like ghosts in the windows of that building asking if it’s tuesday yet when it won’t be any day now any time soon if weeks stack up and blow by it gets serious if the sun changes expressions over old victorian stick that’s almost worried to rhubarb and mussed cloudy if it sinks to lift if whatever gold doesn’t stay and the longest day of the year is on the wane please be my baby tonight.”
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