TalkerPosted: 1, 23 May , 2013
I become a talker once… me… just raged right on for a time.
Slipped into it easy. Was just all of a once, and I couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop stop it. Never seemed like no poco loco at the time, though.
On the street, like it should be. I’m out there all day, all hours waitin’ to go back in women’s shelters anyway. Street… that’s where we do do the talkin’ and the rantin’ and the pantin’.
The ragin’ and the ruination, Jesus said, whatever’s in there, inside, that black, inky demon got to come flyin’ out. Old Scratchy want out, itchin’ to get gone! Meds is standard. But them meds impede. So no med I said.
See things ain’t standard. Never was. Kyphosis for one. Look it up. Also right leg longer than the left leg long; right foot bigger or the left one teeny and tiny. Paint them little toe nails on that side. All about limb length, not limber length, like a lumber length. Makes for a shuffle like that stinky talkin’ fiend but no pee.
All you need to know. Was a time for me, way on back. Fix it. Fix it, little baby; infants got to be repaired, repatriated. Come back little Sheeba, little Kimberlina Lee LeBlanc. Praise the lord. Trust Jesus! Stub down the right leg stub or pull out the left.
Shriners promised to help… shim sham Shriners hospital over Korea Town. My mom said. But she was drunk most of the time. Went with them red hats, but they’re too busy riding my momma and them tiny motorcycles anyway, and liars, lied to her, so still I do shuffle, dropped shoulder mummy walk.
When I preached… when I become a talker, I went off on them Masonics. Shirnners Shriners itsy scooters, parade! Fizz me your Fez! Zeg zog zug donut hole hell. Take me to the circus you bastards! Al Malaikah Al Malaikah, Zig-Zag, mama say roll me another one just like the other one. I musta ranted on bettern a week.
‘Nother one I remember… Chinese lady bump me over Alameda way. Broke my soy sauce bottle. You son of a bitch. Why you did do that? Why you break drop it all over the ground? Baby long gone, I’ll get the baby towel for to mop it up upity. Stain? Will it stain? Will baby’s towel ever come clean? Tide Extra. Tie up the Tide. Lemon. Vinegar. Baking soda. There for ever more.
She didn’t lose no face but didn’t know what hit. Devil be out. Lucifer don’t care what language. He talk tongues like he feel like it. Seen a Filipino talker talkin’ in tic tac tagalog, Takes his lumps; get me a lumpia. No soy though.
Queen talker, they say a lady ranter’s creepier’n a man. See, a male, big old fellow, wooly head, rotten crotch, bad cheese smell you know, you ‘bout see stuff crawlin’ on him, many a many leg-ed critter, heebie jeebie as hell… Smell of old old pee too, peebie jeebie.
A he-talker might go off, tear you arms away, stuff ‘em in a Ralph’s cart, maybe Vaughn’s, take ‘em over the tunnel, bury up under the Bunker Hill. But you safe if you run. Run, run run. He don’t chase on them cracky old stinky feet… only ever got but seven eight toe, anyway. Diabetes. Die and beat us.
Woman? Woe man? Womany, woe many crazy. You don’t know nothin’ what she do. Might lurch out at ya… got some manner o’shiv. Hysterical, histrionical, history, hysterectomy. Cut you up with a wine bottle. Malt liquor. Sumpin’ sharp and dirty. Take a eye ball. Crazier than a man is crazy. Man’ll want to live in the end. Woman don’t care.
Raved out a man talker, once… Raging shoot out, a duel, Tom Dooley… Fifth and Grand… opposite corners, and them young judges passersby… hang down your head and cry. I started… Been to Zanzibar, been to Zion, Minnetonka and Mendota. Been Methodist, and been nowhere. Could be gone. Yes. Yes. Hear me. Heed me. Listen you greasy bastard glistenin’.
He only holler back about Lazarus and Jesus rolled away the stone, and he go shuffle shuffle away cartin’ barefoot, leave a slimy rancid burger wake, wafts, wobbles through the air behind with pee. Pew. But I am the bare and natural winner, and should go naked, nude, but don’t. Got standards, standards and banners; standards counts.
Missing my time of the month… Missed it years and years. Nothing for it. Nothin’ for my head neither. Nothin’ for my toes or my bones, my boney maroney Kyphosis, kryptonosis, Johnny Unitas. On the street, Number Two Street Tunnel, Spring and Hope. But hopped up downtown, got no hope.
Then the end. I ain’t talkin’ no more. El Diablo still down there, but ain’t comin’ sayin’ this and that way he used to do. Me, ’bout doubled over anyway, back shot to hell, I’d be rantin’ at the street…
So it ain’t still upon me. Ain’t no Jesus neither. And now come the waitin’. Just biding and waitin’ for the next thing. Waitin’ for sumpin’. Sumpin’ else.