Sal the Great

Sal was a complex man with a twisted heart. He hated to love but yearned for the loving of others. His dorian gray self portrait never aged but faded slowly like a tattoo exposed to equator sun. The lines blur and the human traits drip like melted gold to a flat expressionless surface.

Always he lied, void of benevolence but with fortitude. Only in times of deceit did he yield to fear and weakness, rarely allowing these wounds to be exposed. "Poor lonely Sal," the city folks would say. While he roamed aimlessly drink in hand, smoke in mouth and emotions on sleeve, chatter arose. "Why this man with all this money, all this beauty and courage alas, sit like stone to pass the time pouring poising in his veins? His loft sits high above the town, and the marble floors reflect a prism of color through the stain glass windows. There is a notion of omnipotence that stems down from above, casting shadows over the everyday worker bees.

If they would go visit Sal as some ill-informed ladies and men would, they would find that the exterior masked the blank canvas within. 1700 sq. feet of echoing space perfectly empty with a bed, a light, and a water-filled row machine. The loft was like a prison to exist in but not truly live. There was no food, no paintings, no character..only a persistent lack of warmth. The bathroom stood only to expect the company of the mist that collects against the crystal swinging doors and porcelain sink. Soap bottles were for one time us,e like a hotel. Clarissa, his maid, would throw them away daily regardless if they were used or not.

The stoic beams that hold up the ceiling from falling down around Sal sit polished and unwavering... even with the tension he carries on his shoulders similar to the chain whipping water on his exercising machine. This is a tomb, a sarcophagus for all to see and none to cherish. The only guests are short time lovers. Sal did not discriminate with sex. His latest companion was a 23-year-old student from Tufts Dental school. After spending a few nights together and becoming "comfortable," Sal allowed him to perform dental procedures on him naked. It was a sort of oral fixation that had multiple facets. But his guests came and went. He often kept them in his life long enough to where they wanted to stay. When and only when he felt the pull of their gentle intentions he would release them back to the wild like a guppy fish - once in a catered-for bowl, then back to the pond of mildew, scum and vultures. This was in fact for the best because Sal was the ultimate vulture - feeding off the nectar dripping from hopelessly romantic pores.

When does the charade stop? Why had it begun? Finding the end is like looking through the back end of binoculars, squinting to find a point without a focus. Sal blames his past and curses his future as a priest who molests children and expects gods forgiveness - fruitless hope.

Tender is the heart that bleeds the slowest
Emptying its cells to spread amongst the frozen floor
Puddled and muddled, thick and mundane
Slow river drift into a thin dark cul-de-sac
Minutes keep ticking like an automatic watch
Never let go, and always worn
Eventually its stops when the tender heart ceases to beat
The great man is alone without time

When he wakes after a conquest there is a moment of panic as he searches for some semblance of wholesomeness. He reaches for the white pills in the transparent orange bottle, flushing them down with alka seltzer or wine. She or he disappears with the coming of the morning sun and the routine begins again. There is no love lost or love gained. There is only a feel of momentary completeness derived form the high of sex and passion...then repressed with innate flight mechanisms cursing through his loins.

Back to the hunt for survival with an empty slate.

Sal the sociopath, Sal the emotioness? Sal the Great.