We'd become a lucky people. I am compelled to tell you of the clarity, the vantage of the eagle, and the perspective of the dead. I'd gone as electric as I might that first day on the Great River. Perhaps selfishly, the subdued stage two engine had gotten me safely to the current, allowing me to steer silently. Moments ago two topless babes, in a well varnished-glossy, Chriscraft, cheerfully circled me. The girls were half naked.
I saw them approaching with disbelief, and now I rocked; as happy as a child on a swing. The girl with sunlight on her yelling are you the man behind the curtain? Their laughter and rough wake added to the complexity of my good fortune. I wondered if she were the one who spoke of having won the COSMIC LOTTERY, that girl somewhere else on the Internet. No, no I'm not. God, their smiles and summery, youthful bodies were beyond even St. Augustine's passion. I struggled for a an adroit, worthwhile description, as a wide-eyed writer, how to say about their nakedness, winding up with nice big t_ts. Wow!
Adding to the vigor, to humble Hart's panorama, the stern of their classy little boat snapped a 2' x 3' Red Cross flag.
I gave them a surf's up sign like I'd seen on those caps from Hawaii.
Catch any? She motored away, really kicking it in, near hydroplaning. Water lapped into my boat and I cut into the wake, somehow more of a natural sailor than I deserved.
Not that I'm undeserving. Not that I'm trying to get my Levi jacket retired in the Poet's Hall of Fame, either.
Now they were coming back toward me, having pulled on those old tie-dyed shirts of brilliant colors. Like those chicks in line for for Jerry Garcia and the other mystics. Gracefully she idled alongside, and the scent of Victoria Secrets Candy melded with the tepid mossy odor of the Great Mississippi. We tied off with those bungee cords she threw at me. They'd began speaking in French and Italian, a northern Italian, possibly, and, later, after we moored on a sandbar and a small barge sounded his fog horn off the endless forest, off the clouds lofting as slow as Old Man River --- the three of us waving back like movie stars in a small town parade --- I confessed I spoke only English and limited Sanskrit. All it is is repetition, learning a language, the younger woman said. All you Americans know is rock mit roll. I laughed heartily like I practiced whenever I really wanted to laugh, to entice other people to maybe want to be with me, laughing on a summer's day.
As if you could call it "mingling", the wet sand a few billion years old, the women with blonde-silver hair (not) shimmering (not) reflecting off the water as seen through memory of laptop screens (not) mirroring the water of the rolling Great River as the sky doubled and glimmered (not) the raven black hair with blue auras (not) as bright and bountiful (not) other synonyms one might imagine elsewhere (not) black like the just washed shirt of Allen Ginsburg as he stood on the corner looking in both directions, as though in a strange town, the door closing behind him, (not) that color. Not blonde-silver.
I'll leave it to the selfish reader to imbibe the color of their hair, asking that you reflect as well, that you slowly embrace and dance with me. On the wet sand, as the southwest breeze all the way from California, the great Santa Ana wind, touched their long beautiful hair curving it for a moment on their lips.
I peeled off the wax hide on the cedar wheel and spiralled very thin rings of cheese with a wired roll cutter. You could tell they were hungry. I'd been killing my appetite with salted almonds, coffee, eclectic political commentary.
I told them that I take pictures with my eyes.
We had great fun--- strangers, on the Great River, drawing images of our feelings on the wet beach sand with a driftwood white birch stick, and the simple pictures would almost instantly be washed clean by the next wave, leaving the sand as smooth as those stones skimming off before vanishing into Old Man River, the stones gone to its ancient depth.
The older woman and I (I could not tell older/younger as they were closely born sisters) spoke of wild horses and the younger? girl kept changing the subject to WWII. It was absolutely an astounding day, those few hours, as though God were a diamond cutter, smiling down on my center stage to focus upon a magnificent facet etched and reserved for fiction writers at the start of time.
We shared a an index finger's worth of Carmex, and the woman, the older one, delicately touching my lips, asked if I had delusions of grandeur, if I ever dreamed I was a horse/man. Or man/horse, is what she asked, I think she asked it that way, of course not saying horse forward slash man or man forward slash horse. And then, like the old song says, and then she kissed me.
I reversed both pockets on my cutoffs. They laughed so hard they ran waist deep into the water after I said, I said I am the elephant.