The New Womans Broken Heart

inside, one of them, or some of the wrecked old women I know, too

late not to be wrecked, too many children tom right out of them, but

still, I like the wrinkles, I like the toughness of the heart, one of

them, not one of those new new new girl children playing soccer on

the boys team for the first time, young is dumb, at least it was when I

was young. I have no patience with the untom, anyone who hasnt

weathered rough weather, fallen apart, been ripped to pieces, put

herself back together, big stitches, jagged cuts, nothing nice, then

something shines out. but these ones all shined up on the outside,

the ass wigglers. I’ll be honest, I dont like them, not at all. the

smilers. the soft voices, eyes on the ground or scanning outer space,

its not that I wouldnt give my life for them, I just dont want them to

call me on the telephone.

still, business is business. I needed one of them, the ass wigglers, to

call me on the phone, editors, shits, smiling, cleaned up shits, plasticized turds, everything is too long or too short or too angry or too rude, one even said too urban. Im living on goddam east 5 street, dog

shit, I mean, buried in dog shit, police precinct across the street

sirens blazing day and night, hells angels 2 streets down, toilet in the

hall and of course I have colitis constant diarrhea, and some asshole

smiler says too urban. Id like to be gods editor. I have a few revisions

Id like to make.

so I wait, not quietly, I might add. I sigh and grunt and groan. I

make noise, what can I say. my cat runs to answer and then demands

attention, absolutely demands, not a side glance either but total rapt

absolute attention, my whole body in fact, not a hand, or a touch, or

a little condescending pat on the head. I hiss, why not, I mean I

speak the language so to speak.

which brings me to the heart of the matter, ladies, for instance, a

lady would pretend she did not know exactly what to say to a cat that

demanded her whole life on the spot, she would not hiss, she would

make polite muted gestures, even if she were alone, she would act as

if someone was watching her. or try to. she would push the cat aside

with one hand, pretending gentle, but it would be a goddam rude

push you had better believe it, and she would smile, at the window,

at the wall, at the goddam cat if you can imagine that, me, I hiss,

thus, all my problems in life, the ladies dare not respect hissers. they

wiggle their goddam asses but hissers are pariahs, fem ale hissers.

male hissers are another story altogether.

for example, one morning I go to cover a story. I go 1500 miles to

cover this particular story, now, I need the money, people are very

coy about money, and the ladies arent just coy, they are sci fi about

money, me, Im a hisser. I hate it but I need it. only I dont want to

find it under the pillow the next morning if you know what I mean. I

dont wear stockings and I want to buy my own hershey bars, or steal

them myself at least. Id really like to give them up altogether, but I

wouldnt really and its the only social lie I tell, anyway I pick my own

health hazards and on my list sperm in situ comes somewhere below

being eaten slowly by a gourmet shark and being spit out half way