The moon in a frosted sky, frosted like the hair of a disco diva,
frosted like an eyelid from the seventies, the moon in the drunken 80s,
the moon in a frosted sky and a warm katabatic wind swirling around the
car after the bar has closed, sitting in the passenger seat with Wendy,
playing games with Wendy Touchtongues, essaying a feel of her heavy and
solid brassiere. Drink sands down the interstices and the corners, runs
it together in a more godly display, warm and serene sesquisensations.
Drink is cotton to swathe and segue sensations in a warm 2:15 a.m.
parked mere yards from the immigrants' apartment complex -- should've
feared danger, but the waitress took that fear away, and the unused ice
cubes.

Truly, the only danger was emotional, with Wendy. Romantic humiliations
when it should've been funner. Psychoentangulations, so I amnesiacked
her number and left her on the corner when she dropped me off with her
little car. She loved Poison, the guy from Poison, before they were
famous, would haunt the clubs & dressing rooms. She liked "guys who
look like chicks", to use her words.

This doesn't however destroy the moment of moonlight slithering in that
passenger seat all drunken and coy. I have that moment, I own that
moment she probably doesn't remember, a moment of glowing sky and
blowing foliage all body temperature. Is there anything more than that?
All the time I spent blundering into moments like that -- give me a
dial to dial them up at any moment -- oh, I got that. My own memory
dial. When and how am I gonna make more of those? My memory days are
behind me? I'm all about memories, mine and the memories of someone
else's, real and faux all mixed together -- I have, you see, the
continuous memory of the world to access and can step over the dividing
line of my individual self and remember things that did not happen to
me, and those events I call creativity. I don't know how it happened or
how I do it, all I know is I do and always have.