Today I am listening to the Gipsy Kings and the Afro-Cuban All Stars. You wouldn't know it to look at me sitting here and typing on this laptop, but today, in my mind, I am wearing a frilly shirt and tight black pants and clutching a long-stem red rose in my teeth. Today I dance the dance of the love. Today my love is like the nectar from a fruit that is forbidden.
My point is that it would probably not be safe for any of us if I were to write anything new today. So, here's a blast from the not-too-distant past. I hope you enjoy it.
Americanalytic
What is love in postmodern America?
His heart begins to pound
And his hand begins to sweat a little
As he nervously inches it closer to hers
On the car seat beside him
Is there a model for sincerity in the new American sensibility?
He is confused, and he struggles against her with the little strength he has
But he's a small man now, and fifty years have taught her to handle him
"Oh, you stop that," she says, not unkindly
It takes all her strength to get him into the tub
What is the evidence of boomer restlessness in late twentieth century American Literature?
'I need more bookmarks,' he thought
Sliding the airplane napkin between pages twenty-one and twenty-two
Where it stayed until he sold a stack of twenty-six unfinished paperbacks
For twelve dollars eight years later
What is the post-cold-war American dream?
Rock music sounds best at seventy with the top down
And the weather is so nice on Route 66 today
That when you stop to offer a ride to the ghost of Elvis headed west
He just smiles and waves you on
Hola, amigos. ¿Cómo están hoy?
Hasta luego. Con amor.
