Old Math

Oh, how we danced,
with our chests opened wide to the world
and life pouring in in great gaping bursts.
How we danced,
always knowing that we were right,
that the primal drums of our generation
played a rhythm that "they "
could not hear as we calculated
the sqaure roots of society's
misconceptions and derived the
quadrilaterals that would lead us
to salvation.
And we knew we would never
become "them.".

Three rooms, one bed
the windows covered with the symbols
we despised to keep out "their" eyes.
We sat on the floor, our minds melding
into mobius strips as we planned strategies
to liberate humanity from its enslavement
to itself. And we laughed, even
when we fucked
because we knew "they"
never laughed
and "they" never fucked
preferring instead to "have sex"
or "consummate" or possibly even
to "copulate" and we thought,
on rare occasion, maybe,
"they" screwed,
but we knew "they" never fucked.
So we fucked and laughed and planned
our chests open wide to the world
and life pouring in
in great gaping bursts.

I don't remember when it began.
I think maybe it was when you
gave in to "their" demands
and wrapped both our fingers
in traditon,
but it was insidious, creeping in
like fungus.
eating away at the laughter,
growing over your mind
and trapping your thoughts
in little plastic containers
that "they" carried in suit pockets
and placed in desk drawers each morning,
'till finally your chest closed to life.

Then one night as you grimaced
and grunted your way to orgasm
while I imagined mobius strips
on the ceiling, I realized that we
had become "them"
and that my chest, too,
was closing.

I remember, I cried that night,
great racking sobs that started
somewhere deep inside
and forced their way out of me
in forgotten rhythm with the silent drums
that lay scattered in dusty corners
waiting for a beat that your music
would never again know.

But I didn't cry the next day
when I hocked that required piece
of gold tradition
and bought a bus ticket
west...

I didn't cry...
I danced...

---

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     Hi. My name is W. Laura Alleman. No one, remembers what the W. is for and only my chidren, who are various and sundry, ranging in age from 21 to 4, of whom, thank god, only four entered this world through my vaginal canal and of whom, thank god, only four still share this rambling monstrosity we call a house, call me Laura. Almost everyone else knows me as "Phant", "Phantie", "Phantom", Phantomheart", or "Oh my god, there she is again." I am old as dirt (47), although I think by the time dirt is that old it has mostly been recycled into worm poo, so I guess I am holding my own faily well, because I haven't completely turned to shit, yet...at least, I don't think so. My husband, however, might argue that point...Oh, yes, I do have some of those husband thingys, one current, several previous, and I also have a big gray tomcat who likes to rub on my legs after he goes out whoring around the neighborhood.
     I began my long and illustrious university career in Louisiana in 1971 where I majored in Psychedelia, continued my education in California, where I studied Street Bands and Washtub Base Techniques, returning to Lousiana to collect the various assortment of three letter tags that I can hang at the end of my name when the mood strikes me, and the stack of framed documents that collects dust on the top of my hutch. After trying on several different careers, from greasy spoon waitress to oilfield truck driver, I settled into the teaching profession where I spent fifteen years filling my students' heads with literary bullshit and social activism, and from which profession I am currently taking an unspecified leave of absence to decide what I want to be when I grow up. And that brings us here, to The Hold, where I am going to attempt to drive both our devoted readers and our eminent editor completely insane with my flagrant and often incoherent ebullitions and my penchant for erratic and remonstrative ramblings.