Let Go: A Brooklyn Story
(also listen to the live performance)
A: Well, officer, because I hadnt seen her before. Before the open mic. I mean, I didnt even mean to go to an open mic. I'll be honest. That shits not my scene. I only walked in on account of the sign for cheap booze and the unmistakable scent of supa skunkweed in the air.
Q:
A: No I dont remember the name. Someshit like Lennys or Jennys.
Q:
A: I sat down next to her. It was the only open seat. She was already doing her gyrations making those sounds deep in the back of her throat. Oblivious to me and everyone. Well, seemingly oblivious. I'll tell you this, it wasnt like any open mic I'd ever heard of, that's for sure. I'm telling you it was a scene in there.
Q:
A: Take your most wacked out wound up toked down surreal subway cabaret burlesque encounter and stick it under a spotlight and hand it a mic and just let it go, and there you have this Lennys or Jennys thing. Flarf poetry about Westminster and serious poetry also, oddly, about Westminster, standup shtick about masturbating to a photo of yourself in drag and fingerpainting with menstrual blood and richter scales for dick sizes and how you cant just call someone a nazi for being chintzy with your sweet and sour, and a joke about what you see yourself doing in ten years. A girl whos eight years old now, was the punchline. There was a real big guy with almost but not quite dreadlocks, he was good, playing guitar like it was a brush with greatness. There was a guy with a trumpet who stood up there for seven minutes straight reading a story about living in a box or something. That wasn't weird. That was just boring.
Q:
A: The gyrations, officer? Put it this way: she didnt applaud. She let go. After a funny joke, and usually even after the not so funny ones, she wriggled. All over. Orgasm-esque is the only word for it, and she made these noises deep in her throat like the sound a dog makes before it pukes. But sexy. And then she'd look at you, those pools of punky witch eyes hypnotizing you, and her wriggling leg would rub against you, a thousand volts of woman. Her hands were down between her legs. I mean, I got two mental erections and three real ones just sitting there. So you can see why I didnt just leave.
Q:
A: Well it was dark and I couldnt see very well but it looked like one of those old Victorian black lace deals, faux-elegant, with the dress part slit up the leg. Maybe intentionally. Maybe from years and years of wear and tear. I'm not even gonna pretend to understand all this underground artso-fartso fashion, but even for them she was fucking strange. But sexy.
Q:
A: Yes, left together. Hand in hand. I started letting go, gyrating, gurgling in the back of my throat just like her. I cant explain it. It's like that, that comet theyre talking about in the news. Wartzinberger's Comet. Comes only every hundred fifty years. Maybe some scientist can explain it. I sure cant.
Q:
A: We went to her place, in Bushwick, in the part where you just dont go, where the streetlights are all broken and busted, past where the shady contractors slap a little paint on factories and quote unquote repurpose them as lofts, past even where the really fucking desperate artist-types go. I'll tell you this: when the alien apocalypse comes I'm heading to Bushwick. No way no how any intelligent lifeform messes with Bushwick.
Q:
A: She's holding my hand in front of these warehouse barn doors, gurgling deep in her throat. She kicks the doors open. Her gurgles echo in the empty. She says she lives, if you can call it that, on the top floor. She says there's no electricity in the building. No water neither. We climb the stairs. My erection climbs the stairs too.
Q:
A: The sex was, well, weird. She just let go, wailing these prehuman wails that echoed through all of Bushwick. I was convinced she really was going to inhale my gonads. At one point she lunged at my armpit and bit into my pit hair and pulled it hard with her teeth. Her pits were hairy, too. She looked at me expectantly. I obliged. This is not recommended. Also, she had this dog. It sat in the corner through the sex, half the time watching, curious, slightly concerned, half the time humping a pillow in the corner. I'm not sure how I feel about being doggie porn. But I'm telling you, she had this spell. We stayed up all night, talking about the good old days of King George and Byzantium till the sun rose over the factories in the East. Then we curled up in a curlicue and watched her dog hump the pillow till we fell asleep.
Q:
A: Exactly. Because next thing I know I'm hearing the sirens down below and there I am, strapped with those leather things to the top of the roof, bare-ass naked in Bushwick, the crown of thorns on my head and an eagle pecking out my liver, the firemen yelling dont jump! dont jump! and my prick wagging in the wind and far above in the evening twilight I can just make it out, the thin line of white in the sky, dodging stars, heading home, not to return for another hundred fifty years. So officer, you must understand by now why I did what I did, why, under the circumstances it was the only possible thing, why there only one thing to do. Just let go.
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