feeling good (james dean, part 1)

he walks across the brick as if there is music backing him up; judging by his rhythm, it's some kind of orchestral intro to a kennedy-era striptease act. his chin is tucked down as if he's about to enter the ring; the greasy black forelock arcs over his brow, like i remember, when he was hard at work; he's smirking, damn him.

with his head cocked to one side, balancing a cigarette over his ear, he looks up from under his eyebrows, and he says, "hi, bird."

bird says, "hihowareyou."

he takes his time. i know this is just what he does, his ploy to cover a multitude of sins, and fears and passions as well. still, his insouciance, his toying with the time between us, as if all time were contained in a watch on a chain he could dangle at his side, drives me crazy. i want it. i want to see him get impatient and insistent, while i stand back and smile as if i'm the one with all the cards.

there was a time...one night...when i did have all the cards, and just for a minute i saw what i wanted to see. but then he folded. i've heard that he's since found another game.

we stand facing each other, and i know it cannot last. the breeze, unseasonably warm, stirs his clothes and throws his scent tauntingly into my face. i smell cigarettes, his undistinguished cologne, cheap fresh beer. i smell kisses that tasted like cheap fresh beer; i smell the heavy warmth of his irish cable sweater soaked in tobacco-tainted breaths; i smell the side of his face, from the brow to the jaw to the back of the ear, as surely as if i were buried in it. a renegade bolt, of what i shall try to characterize as hopeless ecstasy, vessels like a torpedo up from my feet to my face, against the current of blood. against all expectation i feel every muscle breaking the bonds they've worn ever since he left them alone; i feel cool in my head, copacetic with the breeze and the blushing autumn sunshine, languid and alive and feral and flexible. i feel as if i'd like to break his arm; i'd like him to try to break mine. i'd devour him; at least, i'd fight him like a cat. i have the feeling that comes of holding two magnets just barely out of each other's reach. whatever elements are stirred up in me have suddenly been thrown into eschatological fury. it's a mayhem of rational self-assertion pushed down, down into my gut, by the pure clarity in my head expanding, the way gases do when released from the earth. this is why it's best to meet him when we dance--then i don't have to think, then music makes harmony of these unruly elements, just as nietzsche assured me it would.

he makes me feel so good.

yes, and that's all he does.

he smiles, and then he leaves, and then it's just as if i've been punched in the throat.