PRAYING MANTIS WIDOWED BLACK
She, a diva doused in deep scarlet, diamonds, glitterati eyes, black sable & hair electric blue, held her place before me as our elevator fell free from the top of the World Trade Tower. Between heaven & hell I fell in love. This much I could feel. This much I was sure of. I felt shame at being nothing & nobody she could love. I flashed back to the ghetto I was branded by. Blank-eyed, my head tilted forward, out & down, my perspective was a hawk’s eye view of Hades. Fifty-Third & Third … mine, mine, mine … used to be mine … my corner … I was fourteen.
Upon the littered streets of Chelsea, Sheridan Square, Christopher Street, the pier, the trucks & my old neighborhood over off Bank street by H. B. Studios lay debris & detriment & minced miniature genitalia of yesterday’s used up action figures greeting good morning through hazed, petrol glassed, excremental eyes. That was yesterday. Today? Well, today … I felt her. She felt it. Damn it! Oh, oh…truth hurts. I hurt. It hurt. Immediately. Yet my fantasies still flew wild just as the hawks on Fifth Avenue do when the pigeons fly their loops.
As her black satin heels hit the curb I found the courage to raise my head. She had glee’d me into submission with her eyes & then she tore my heart to shreds. A praying Mantis widowed black is unbearably attractive. A trickster out tricked by a trickster! That’s a switch. I was sure she was the one. I felt it. She made me feel that way. This must be what it feels like to be an old whore after Mardi Gras.
In the first moment, being mortal, I suffered profoundly. In the next, my blank stare turned starry as I gazed in wonder. Her eyes darted to and fro as her gold leafed head turned circles, I wondered just how she did that? I wondered if she even knew. And then those eyes, those eyes, those oscillating glitter-opticals illuminating my barren heart … what could I do? I simply turned to dust & blew away as she shimmered towards the fading light.