Mercy

up like a fetus as if I were safe, inside her; but there’s nothing

between you and them; she’s not between you and them. Why

did God make you have to sleep? I was born in Camden; I’m

twenty; I can’t remember the last time I heard my name. M y

name is and will the real one please stand up, do you remember

that game show on television, from when it was easy. Women

will whisper it to you, even dirty street women; even leather

women; even mean women. Y ou have to be careful i f you

want it from the street women; they might be harder than you,

know where you’re soft, see through you, you’re all different

with them because maybe they can see through you. M aybe

you’re not the hardest bitch. Maybe she’s going to take from

you. I don’t give; I take. It’s when she’s on me I hear m y name;

doesn’t matter who she is, I love her to death, women are

generous this way, the meanest o f us, I say her name, she says

mine, kisses brushing inside the ear, she’s wet all over me, it’s

all continuous, you’re not in little pieces, I hear m y name like

the sound o f the ocean in a shell; whether she’s saying it or not.

We’re twisted around each other inside slime and sweat and

tear drops, w e’re the wave and the surf, the undercurrent, the

pounding o f the tidal wave halfway around the world banging

the beach on a bright, sunny day, the tide, high tide, low tide,

under the moon or under a black sky, w e’re the sand wet and

hard deserted by the water, the sand under the water, gravel

and shell and m oving claws crawling. I remember this one

woman because I wanted her so bad but something was

wrong, she was lying to me, telling me m y lie but no woman

lies to me. There’s this woman at night I remember, in a

restaurant I go when I’m taking a break, kosher restaurant

with old men waiters, all night it’s open, big room, plain

tables, high ceilings, ballroom high and wide, big, em pty

feeling, old, old building, in N ew Y o rk , wide dow ntow n

street, gray street, fluorescent lights, a greenish light on green

walls, oil paint, green, the old men have thick Jew ish accents,

they’re slow m oving, you can feel their bones aching, I sit

alone over coffee and soup and she’s there at the next table, the

room ’s em pty but she sits at the table next to me, black leather

pants, she’s got black hair, painted black, like I always wanted,

and I want her but I’m her prey because she wants a bow l o f

fucking soup, she’s picked me, she’s coming for me, how did

that happen, how did it get all fucked up, she sees me as the

mark because I’ve got the food which means I’ve got the

money and I can’t go with her now because she has an

underlying bad motive, she wants to eat, and what I feel for

her is complete sex, so I’m the dope; and I don’t do the dopey

part; it’s m y game and she’s playing it on me; she’s got muscles

and I want to see the insides o f her thighs, I want to feel them, I

want her undressed, I want her legs around m y shoulders, she

smiles, asks me how I am; be a fool, tell her how you are. I

look right through her. I stare right through her while I’m

deciding what to do. I ain’t giving; I take. I want to be with

her, I want to be between her legs and all over her and her

thighs a vise around m y neck; I want m y teeth in her; I want

her muscles squeezing me to death and I want to push dow n on

her shoulders and I want m y thighs crushing down on her, all

m y weight on her hips, m y skin, bluish, on the inside o f m y

thighs feeling her bones; but I'm the mark, that’s how she sees

it, and maybe she’s meaner than me, or crazy, or harder, or

feels less, or needs less, so she’s on top and she takes; how

many times have I done what she’s doing now and did they

want me the w ay I want her; well, they’re stupid and I’m not;

it hurts not to take her with me, I could put m y hand on her

and she’d come, I stare right through her, I look right through

her but I’m devouring her at the same time which means she

knows I’m a fool; she’s acting harmless but maybe it’s a lie, my

instincts say it’s a lie, there’s no harmless women left alive this

time o f night, not on these streets. Y ou risk too much if you go

with a woman who needs less than you do; if you don’t have

to, if you have a choice, you don’t take risks— you could lose

your heart or your money or your speed; fucking fool who has

a choice and doesn’t use it; it’s stupid middle-class girls you

have to find or street women past wanting, past ambition,

they live on bits o f this and pieces o f that, they’re not looking

for any heavy score, they live almost on air, it’s pat, habit, they

don’t need you, but sometimes they like a taste; survival’s an

art, there are nuances, she’s a dangerous piece o f shit, stunning

black eyes, and I’m smitten, and I walk out, look behind me,

she came out, watched me, didn’t follow, made me nervous, I

don’t often pass up what I want, I don’t like doing it, it leaves

an ache, don’t like to ache too long without distracting m yself

by activity, anything to pass the time, and it makes me restless

and careless, to want someone like that; I wanted her, she

wanted food, money, most o f what happens happens for food,

all kinds o f food, deep hungers that rock you in their

everloving arms, rocked to eternal sleep by what you need, the

song o f myself, I need; need her; remember her; need women;

need to hear m y name; wanted her; she wanted food. What’s

inside you gets narrow and mean— it’s an edge, it cuts, it’s a

slice o f sharp, a line at the blade’s end, no surface, no waste, no

tease, a thin line where your meanest edge meets the air; an

edge, no blade you can see. If you could stomp on me, this is

what yo u ’d see— a line, touch it, yo u ’re slivers. I’d be cut

glass, yo u ’d be feet. Y o u ’d dance blood. The edge o f the blade,

no surface, just what cuts, a thin line, touch it, draw blood.

Inside, nothing else is alive. Where’s the love I dream of. I hole

up, like a bug in a rug. There’s women who bore me; wasted

time; the taste o f death; junkie time; a junkie woman comes to

me, long, languid afternoons making love but I didn’t like it,

she got beat up by her boyfriend, she’s sincerely in love, black

and blue, loving you, and he’s her source; pure love; true

romance. D on ’t like m ixing women with obligation— in this

case, the obligation to redeem her from pain. I want to want; I

like wanting, ju st so it gets fulfilled and I don’t have to wait too

long; I like the ache just long enough to make what touches it