By: George Sparling
You knew all about my uncanny ability to wince just before some small or large event occurs. You’ve seen my involuntary scowl, a contraction of my body out of pain, distress, mortification, affliction, heartache, torment---the whole gamut. You’ve not let on to others about this condition. I don’t think of myself as possessing mystical powers. It’s a body thing, soma, something lurks in my genome but I don’t want to know about it. It takes great courage to project and preserve uniqueness, that special umph, these days. I wince, just before I understand I’m talking to myself. You? There’s no “You,” only me.
For instance, just before my pelvic bone hurt, I winced each time. Before I cross one leg over the other, feeling my knee go ouch, I winced. Solitarily, I gloat: I, wincer. Making breakfast, the pot burned today at five AM, and I winced just before, and said to myself, “The smoke detector will go off, its wail waking up the neighbor in the adjoining apartment.” I winced just before he threatened to take me out: he had a black belt in karate. I winced just before I thought, “Shit, my Glock will turn his threat into a corpse.” I winced prior to taking an axe and smashed it against the wall, poking the weapon through the rough hole I created and winced again when I emptied the Glock into him as I heard a thud on his wooden floor.
Today, as I walked down the street to get my mail, I talked to myself, actually screaming, “Fuck you.” Passersby shied away from me, walking to the other side of the street and drivers either smiled, ignored me, or screamed back, “Fuck you.” One driver turned sharply over the curb and blocked my path on the sidewalk. I winced and knew Joseph Goebbels would limp out of the Mercedes, winced again just before I got kicked in the rump by his lame leg. I winced and knew I had to kiss his lips, which I did, and I winced when I told him, “You can stick your Reich Minister of Propaganda up your bleeding rectum.” But then I realized he, yes, it’s an historical fact, actually bled right on the sidewalk, saying, “I’ll take my stigmata any day over your cheap, vulgar wincing.”
I then knew you had let my secret loose upon the hyenas and vipers of the world. What is betrayal but another form of onanism.
Pedaling as fast as possible on my stationary bicycle, I knew my right testicle would hurt because I’m cheap and won’t get Jockey briefs. Then I winced again, when the thought occurred to me that my testicle was as big as Charles Bukowski’s, who boasted about his large balls. I winced again, seeing myself in the reflection of a large, framed print on the wall as I speed-pedaled: I was Buk, that he never died, and if he died that was me buried in the San Pedro cemetery. I tell you, wincing sure can make life miserable.
I go to YouTube and wrote, “beautiful legs spread,” and preceding the clip, I winced, knowing it would be Prime Minister Winston Churchill’s genitalia as he raised his kilt, parted his fat legs and exposed himself. Damn, I said just before I winced, and thought, “I love naked octogenarian men of power.”
I watched a New York Yankee game on television and ahead of what I would consider the main event of the twenty-first century, I winced and then came huge explosions, from the box seats, upper deck, from the left-to right-field stands…I winced when I knew the death count far exceeded those who died on 9/11 (isn’t everything a game), winced again knowing martial law would be declared in the USA.
And I winced at you at least thirty seconds before you gave me a spiteful face, looks of disgust, contempt, hatred. After ten seconds passed, I winced when I knew I’d have to hammer you with a dumbbell. Yep, I winced and knew I had married a transsexual priest…except, for my final wince, I realized I had married myself.
So I hammered myself.