More Lives Than You'll Ever Know

There is a woman out there who I love dearly. I have said it out loud before, but only when I am close to the floor. It is much easier to squash such a thing when it's that low.
Well, see, I love her now a whole lot. I didn't really before. I mean, I did, but well, I was stupid. I would fuck around a lot. I thought different pussy was always gonna be different. But it always ends up the same. Usually mad at me.
So, as the story goes, I got her sister pregnant.
Did I mention she had--not her sister, but Eilene--has had two abortions for me? Simply because I asked her to, and she loved me. But I didn't really love her, even though I do, but not really at the time. So, ya, I fuck around and I started doing it with her sister. And like I said, her sister gets pregnant. I guess I got one hell of a seed. Christ. Anyhow, I decided the right thing to do would be to tell Eilene.
I brought out the Teacher's whiskey, and I had her sit with me on the floor. We had a few drinks. Maybe six or so. She started telling me that we should probably stop drinking like this. I asked her if she would like to move up to the table. But that wasn't what she meant.
She continued on about how we were killing ourselves or something, and what the hell was on my mind? Just then I remembered this phrase from our little Portuguese phrase book--we used to try to learn one phrase a night. It was under the emergency section.
"Nao ha antidoto para essa vemeno."
So, I said it. My face got sweaty. I guess I panicked. What that means is "there no antidote for this poison."
She slapped my leg like I was playing around. "I love that one! Like, why would anyone ever need that phrase? I'll drink to that," she exclaimed. But that wasn't what I was trying to say. So then I came clean. I told her how I fuck around and got her sister pregnant.
She stood up and over me looking horribly massive and powerful. Then she said with a clenched, low voice, "well, kill it like you killed mine."
I don't know where she is now.
I've been stuck to the floor for a few days. It is easy to squash such a thing when it's that low.

"Between The Gutter And The Stars, People Are What People Are" -K. Friedman

Sao Paulo, 3 a.m., maybe 5--

I'm at that point again. The point where the beers can't do a god-damned thing. I wish they could obliterate my memory, knock me out and put me to bed. But I'm still disastrously awake, sitting at the desk in my motel room. The lights are off, and I am writing in the dark. I tell myself that maybe that last sentence carries weight. Stupid to think such a thing right now. Just write.
I peer out the window upon graffiti walls of exposed concrete. A few heads milling about and some cars driving slow. Somebody told me the transvestites walk this street.
I wipe the sweat off my brow and rub it into my hair. I ring out my eyes. Maybe one more beer will do the trick? I turn to fish one from the ice in the sink. The ice has melted. So has Camila in the bed. Camila. Camila. I like to say the name. I say it aloud this time, "Camila!" She wakes up briefly and spouts something hostile towards me in Portuguese, then melts again. Camila.
I met her this evening at the reading in Madalena. She approached me shortly after I read and told me that my poetry was vile and it disgusted her. I told her I agreed, that it disgusted me too, and that I hate myself most of the time, so I'll buy us a round to celebrate our honesty and disgust...
Now my disgust sleeps there in that bed, wrapped up in my sheets, in my sweat, even a little bit of blood, and she is about to become another one of those poems. Somebody out there loves Camila.

Brazilian Women

In America, men are madly infatuated with Brazilian women. Mention something about Brazil, and possessed like a drunk confession, a man will drain all of his brilliance into retelling a story he once heard regarding Brazilian women. Sometimes you get somebody who has even been to Brazil.
I was in a small restaurant having dinner with family a few days before leaving the States. An elderly man and his wife, probably in their 70's, were eating dinner at the table next to us. He overheard that I was leaving for Brazil, leaned over and grasped my arm with desperation. His eyes illuminated. A death grip. It was over for him, I thought. But it was only beginning.
Sternly, fiercely and longingly, "Son, you are moving to Brazil?"
I nodded.
"I was in Rio in '63. Son, the women. I have never seen anything like it. Never-in-my-life."
I nodded again, saying thanks and that I was looking forward to it. He let go peacefully, looked towards his wife, recognized her briefly and returned to their quiet dinner.
I have been in Brazil about four weeks. Every few days I get a letter from a friend wondering if I have done it yet. Wondering if I have slept with a Brazilian, and to please include details if I have. Ok, I have. I have done it. I have slept with about 30 of them.
First of all, they have three tits, golden vaginas, and if you touch them just right they come liquid diamonds. Upon request, their golden vaginas have the ability to clench the base of the penis just before climax to ensure longevity. When kissing, their lips release the most dreamy hallucinogenic. It's a personal trip, so whenever I kiss them I end up in a forest full of boobs, spirit guides and electric guitars. Sometimes my friends Charles is there, but he usually has his own thing going on. Also, they can defy gravity. Once a good rhythm is established, weightlessness is achieved. Sex happens near the ceiling, in the sky, in the clouds, near the moon...They can even descend to hell if so desired. I don't recommend it, however. I tried it on a whim. It's filled with American women, age 17, and they are very, very attractive.