my moether'd never smoke in public but when i found her pack she was busted, and when she saw some missing she said, "well, i hope you enjoyed them." some smart people think sarcasm and ironic is smart. she was in england in 1944 to work on radar, whatever she did she never told me. "book-keeping". he was still rich, i mean, smelt it, looked it, and she had a keen sense of smell -- 'you've been drinking??' -- no mom, i'm just tired. it never went further. she knew my father. some 'tards like me also sarcase for the occasion.
which is why, on this spring day of 1959 i'm riding my bike to the beach and smoking a cigarette past the first dorms of UCSB. over there are the big kids in college and they're there. i mean, more alive than. which is why i dream of being in bed with one, instead of just on the bed jerking with steve v. opportunist. so, anyway, there's steve with some girls on the beach, he's surfer steve when he's not getting butt fucked. which is why i really don't think the beach is all that cool, cause it's just wet. not like a river in dry rocks and scruffle tree roots and that smell of willow and sage in dry water.
she kept the birth certificate in a shoe box.
i can imagine how it happened. but, i can't. he didn't drink, she did. maybe he wanted to feel what it was; maybe she seemed so artless she wouldn't remember. maybe steve didn't remember me. i'm maybe saying we're all whores: he, steve, her, me. but, whore is a profession and all my life i've been surrounded by amateurs the way wittgenstein's dick was surrounded by my mother. except that i can imagine, and that's my inheritance from the hapsburg empire -- the karl kraus, kick in the knee, slapping sound which goes so well with haydn, clinks so well with silver porcelain in the servant's fingers freshened from the inside surrounding of the kitchen maid. Kaiser und Konig and his friend W.
let's say he talked his way into my mother's charms, the way his father talked his way into empire -- sweet nothings and the hint of paper -- money, marriage, mortgage. it's kind of dumb. like a short sea wave slapping sand. in the library at UCSB there's a few of his books -- two. one. does he talk about me? written in 1918, 1930's -- he's sort of precocious, maybe psychic: i will have a trailer-trash dog son and he will disappoint everyone he meets because he doesn't want to fuck them for their money or cute tiddly-wink. people hate me, maybe it's the austrian in me, they hate little rabbits. why shouldn't i hate myself?
so, my mom says, "if someone asks you to do something like that..." and, here she drops some asshole sarcastic shit i'm supposed to say to mr. right of my dreams. "yes, mom." maybe they were both drunk. who'd want to fuck if it meant getting a little monster out of it, her; out of the moon in silesia.
he said, i said, "without aether, no speech; no light. in a jar void of anything, light would not shine. but, being void, there'd be no form and the bell jar would never form. two people talking is what talks."