A departure from the grimy depression

Buddy Guy just started playing The Devil In Her and I just killed that last glass. On top of that, I remember someone, somewhere trying to define men, but more importantly find out what they want in women. A nice turn of narcissistic speculative metaphysics, there.

Therefore, I'm drinking and Buddy Guy just fired off a swampy, black-hearted song about a lascivous woman. I'm no longer angry or depressed, though I know it's right there, crawling under the door, sniffing for the first sign of fear and weakness. Let it come. I have memories and appetites requiring attention.

What do I want in women?

Teeth on collar bones and hands under the strap of her thong concealed by tasteful clothing, for one. I'm a carnivore with a sweet tooth when it comes to women. Meaty and true and substantial in the soul, I love that, but they have to have some syrupy quality I know will drag me into states of nausea later with sickening sweetness. But goddamn if that clingy and shy smile brings me down. Or up. Depends how I feel about life just then.

Me and this girl were pinned by our own weight into the door of a cheap hotel in a cross town Cortez casino with no one to control us but self-control itself. I had my mouth on her neck and she had her hands under my belt. She was mostly dressed just enough to ruin a guys morals. I'd spent the afternoon and evening at an old fashioned singing, four part harmony and sacred thoughts and feelings shared between me and God and congregation of archaic religion. I sang my part, a little baritone and a little bass, but always low, always in a state of predation after the belief, the mystic that I yearn for in this cold world. After that yearning is gone, there's a girl with some rum in her glass at the blackjack table and her own conscience to kill. We cajoled ourselves into a state of high humanity, me being convincingly the heavy handed hunter and her the rabbit losing all will to run. She shoved me on to my back and followed me down to the floor.

She got the Devil in her, I guess.

I don't want any more meaning in life, I don't want a mission, I don't want no Goddamned home made vegetable soup, unless any of that shit's got a metaphorical meaning that needs my attention. Don't get me wrong, I love long conversations and the way a phone makes my ear feel after a few too many hours on it, but right now, right here in the Fall sun with my blood full of brackish rocket fuel, I want something less worthy of philosophical talk, but more profound. Fuck a conversation that stoops to the stodgy level of breath blowing past a box full of muscular fiber in our throats. I want to hear breath so ragged it misses any mechanism for intelligent communication.

I met a girl at the airport, once. Some crazy airline bullshit had lost my guitar and my clothes, but I left the nice lady at the counter telling me she was going to find it when this girl, this apparition, walked into the terminal. Without a care that I own very little and most of it was lost, me and her turned into annoying mall teenagers right there, in front of God, the Devil and everybody. Mouths and hands were exploring new and unknown galaxies. The clothes became a non-issue shortly after walking into her home after the long, painful drive from the terminal. Our bodies were unearthed mysteries and salvation for grinding carnality.

She got the Devil in her, I guess.

It's a beautiful day. I have a phone number and some spare time before work. It may be a beautiful night, but if all goes well, I won't see it to care.

God may still live in Lewis, Colorado, there to stay with four part harmony and dinner on the ground, but right now I hope like hell there's a devil. I just may need his assistance tonight.

My phone just rang. It must be the cold, Autumn sun.

She got the Devil in her, I guess. And she says, with the way she won't take no for an answer and with the catch in her voice, but not in her words, she feels like doing something wrong.