Yet still foolish enough to wish.
But most of all clear and smooth and beautiful.
I just want to hold you,
Won’t you let me hold you
Like Bernadette would do?
FIONA THROWS OFF her red plastic shower curtain. She is glowing white marble. Her bushel of black hair. Fiona’s red lips have a life all their own. The gap between her front teeth.
Never seen so much leather on one chick in all my life.
In her hand, in her open palm, Fiona is holding the bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol. She is walking Spanish.
Perfect, just perfect.
The Stallion of Love, Going Slack flat out, I lean forward in the saddle, reach down, scoop Fiona up.
Fiona’s in the saddle. I’m riding double, behind, holding on to her, my arms around her waist.
All of us all male and female, all of us all one thing.
My hands on Fiona’s shoulders, I push myself to standing, let go, put my arms out wide. Fiona stands up too, my arms are around her waist until she has her balance.
Fiona puts her arms out, both hands, her index and her fuck-you fingers sticking up.
I put my arms out too.
Double Hippodrome Stand, heading north, away from Dog Shit Park.
At the tunnel, Fiona and I crouch down. The Stallion of Love gallops into the dark hole. Fiona’s breath in, her breath out. My breath. The stallion’s breath. The stallion’s horseshoes against the railroad ties, the gravel, the iron rails, are all that we can hear.
The stallion knows the way exactly.
A whistle blows. A car alarm. Up ahead, there’s a bright light. The bright light is a locomotive iron horse, a one-eyed monster blowing steam, headed right for us.
But it’s not the truth.
The bright light is not a monster. It’s the end of the tunnel.
Ahead of us is the road is red. Ahead of us Crummy Dog is trying to outrace two rabbits.
Fiona’s smile is so big her scar is bleeding. She puts the Extra Strength Tylenol in my open palm.
Complete acceptance of whatever the Divine puts in your path, Fiona says. A neurotransmitter, Gamma something or other, Fiona says. Opens up the part of the brain that is directly connected to the Divine.
I’ll tell you something, so you’ll know.
My eyes look down at the substance of myself.
Charlie’s buckskin bag around my neck, the beaded blue horizontals, the red verticals.
In my hands, my open palms, the cure:
My lovely erect pink penis.
Ocelot skin and a cherry blossom.
It is this way.
A kind of fuck-you-motherfucker joy.
It’s the truth.
I promise.
First published in the United States of America by Grove Press,
841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003
First published in Great Britain in 2001 by Atlantic Books,
an imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd
Copyright © Tom Spanbauer 2001
The moral right of Tom Spanbauer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
1 903809 06 1
E-book ISBN: 978 1 78239 761 8
Printed in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham plc, Chatham, Kent
Atlantic Books
An imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd
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In the City of Shy Hunters Page 58