slow movement forward

It was nearly four in the morning, when the boy every girl wanted pointed to a party we underwrote with presence the night before, and said : I’m so pissed I’m not a girl. Why? Cuz those chicks lived for free in that mansion. Being pretty is actually worth something; someone takes care of you. The place was wall to wall with desire; I saw Susan in the corner, surrounded by men ... some wallflower making out with a rock star was too ravishing for words. Her, he said. Can you believe it?! Fuck. It sucks being a man. Frankly, I was shocked. YOU think that?! The guy girls droop over? Christ! What’s the collective doing, under our outsides’ noses? Every chick was tarted to the nines, checking each other out, as warriors might, surmising each others weapons, silently testing their armors’ mettle ... I ruminated on kilts, how the nine aphorisms were born [kilts have nine yards of fabric], and why each person was here. I next consider snake venom. The possibility the digestion of prey taught the biochemical toxin factory what factors of anesthesia stopped their preferred fare. The blatant sexual references of WWII cartoons reminded me where anime comes from; I sound the bottom of the idea people’s psyches had long ago been digested, and rendered into a toxin the chosen few have access to. As time goes on, the neurotoxin is perfected. What followed, was the inevitable degeneration into scraping all flat surfaces, licking mirrors, drinking whiskey, and sniffing rubber cement, was ugly. A four am walk through the howling wind of rain-glistened streets in uncomfortable dress shoes seals sobriety’s bargain; the possibility of escaping happy from other’s judgments appears just about nil when you awake after hearing the birds sing. A deep rich snowstorm of pink cherry blossoms swirls at my feet; the sun is falling all about me. Hung over on fives and nines isn’t a pleasant discovery with three hours' sleep/wake behind you.