Ron Silliman Dream #35: Sixshooter

artist's rendition of Ron and Me

I walk into a Chelsea club and up on the bar dancing languidly about in his white underwear is my Ron Silliman.

And he's got a Cowboy hat on and he's twirling a couple of sixshooters slowly and languidly in his rough, beautiful hands. And now he's firing them: Bang. Bang.

And he smacks his lips and runs his tongue up and out each time he says the magical and intoxicating syllable: Bang. Bang. And this could be a dangerous auction, I think. But I'm ready for the ride (this aint my first rodeo, you know).

A scrawny guy with piss-yellow hair's talking to Ron, now, and I feel, watching them, now, that I'm in a Catullus poem. Or a Sappho fragment.

Then, after what seems like an eternity, Ron comes towards me slowly taking off his underwear while uttering the magic word over and over: Bang. Bang. Bang.

He stands over me, and--taking his sweet ol' time--begins to open up his beautiful, enormous pussy for me.

"Will you still love me," he croons, "when I'm old."

His pussy's so adorable, furry, and glistening, and, as he squats down, it's almost touching my face.

A rich aroma envelopes and penetrates me to the depths of my soul. The richness is overwhelming. And I can't breathe enough of it in. (Deep breath. Sigh. Deep breath.)

And, the next thing I know, I'm wandering alone in some old, misty forest. And I'm looking at my hands. And they are covered in blood. Blood that keeps changing color. Keeps changing color.

And I'm spinning around and around. Till I fall down and nuzzle into and suck, suck, suck at the wet soothing earth. (I know this smell, I think. It's like the shoveled earth of a grave. Or Poetry!)

And I'm crying. Crying out for joy. Joy. Joy.

Till joy's filled the whole, old boat of the world. And I let it all go.