Timelessness

I gaze into the past,
and Tom Petty is alive, present -
it's a one-sided, almost-time-travel.
I watch Prince give a conspiratorial grin to George Harrison's son,
in a perfect reflection of his spirit - shy, mischievous.
He doesn't know it,
but he's still here,
still giving us greatness.
I want to climb through my computer's screen
and hold onto them until my heart stops racing.
They were gods.
They are immortal in a way the Greek, Roman, or Christian gods
never could be.

Should Monster

I should be working on
The Novel,
not composing little poems and ponderings for no one's benefit.
I should at least be scrubbing a toilet or dusting a light fixture.
I should be doing lots of things...
but it really depends on who you ask.
My mom?
Would tell you I should be more industrious,
and less indulgent;
she would say I should be going to church,
but that is not a place that exists for me anymore.
It is the unhappy ending to a fairytale
told by a monster or a witch -
and not the good kinds,
like you'd love because they were
    misunderstood.
No, this fairytale was written by monsters
who pretend they're the good guys,
and that if you never do anything you want to,
that after you die you'll be rewarded.
Utter nonsense.
Be kind, be good, be honest.
But be kind to yourself, too.
I don't believe in "shoulds," or "mustn'ts,"
and maybe you should
                                    n't either.

Rainy Haze of Spring

Wet and foggy trees lined the winding roads that led
to that happy place where the god-like woman
used her hands to melt my muscles and remold them.
In a purple haze, I drove,
then "Purple Rain" came on and I was stuck in my car,
even though it made me late.
I floated on Prince's notes
and settled on the table.
I kept thinking the phrases,
"So what's new? How've you been?"
but they never successfully crossed the bridge
between my cerebrum and my soft palate/teeth/tongue.
I was wrapped in my fuzzy purple mind,
remembering, reinventing, imagining.
I floated home
(or drove, probably),
and dipped back into the real world for the afternoon,
to dine and go to a movie,
then dissolved into my second favorite chair
and dialed my favorite number
for what turned into four hours of intense therapy
that felt like a dream, with so many giggles.
I am in balance.

Artful Nudes, in Watercolor

Sometimes,
the mood just strikes. Ya know?
Desire is a feathered vine winding through you,
whispering of orgasms to come,
so you take a moment,
and conjure one up.
Sometimes you have to improvise.
Slip into a darkened office,
your own backseat,
a bathroom stall.
Silence is key -
no moans must be emitted,
no panting.

And then the world recedes around me -
I am an iris folding in on myself
expanding and contracting
like the birth of a new universe.
I pause, and think of giant, vibrantly painted flowers.
I step out of my own mind and click "search."
Wait - now I am lost in a blackhole of Georgia O'Keeffe images
(do yourself a favor and click here to see what I saw
and bask in the light of her flowers and her stoically beautiful face).
I am smitten with her beauty
and the beauty she captured with her brushes,
but I'm caught slightly off guard by the nude photographs
of the artist as a younger woman than I usually picture her -
hard to tell, maybe in her 30s or 40s,
but the raw beauty of her in those forever frozen moments...
aaah...it's almost like magic
(or a chemical reaction on film exposed to light).
I see the inner spark in her-
defiance, ferocity, passion,
a dark storm somehow transforming
into a splash of bright flora -
and crave the ability to slip inside her mind,
her body
for just a moment.
I acknowledge that I feel pivoted
to new perspectives of her work
because of this new connection to her physical beauty -
I suddenly see her as a mortal
who had pain and joy and talent and struggle
and was maybe
just a little bit
in love with the pussy.
I mean, jesus.

Not that we can blame her;

it is a wonder to behold.

And for that matter so is the cock.

But I digress....

     where was I?

Ah, yes -

the portraits of the artist -
they stir in me deeper thoughts,
maybe self-loathing.

Maybe I resent the giant leaden anchor I feel

holding me fast against all the ocean's currents,

snaking its way to my hull and keeping me in place -

the anchor that ties me
not to a point of coordinates on a map,

but to a point of relating to the world:
that you don't matter unless you're beautiful.
It's painful to face this indictment.
I've been so sure of this,
but here, in this instance,
I am sure that 

I have it all wrong -
one imbues the other -
Tom Petty's sexiness is derived directly from his music, right?
There is a balance in him, maybe in us all.

And maybe that's why,
in just the right light

at just the right angle

on a good day

I can see echoes of beauty in myself

(but then a slight shift of the protons and neutrons 

and the illusion dissipates).
But I've chosen to pretend I'm beautiful anyway,

which propels me to imagine great things -

or maybe not lofty things,
but dirty, glorious things,

and sweet, strange things -

and to believe that what I have to say matters.

The Mighty Buuuk!

Starshine

Come with me, she said.

We can smoke, 

then lie on the grass and look at the stars. 

I bet you know things about stars...

He smiled at first, but then stepped away a little,

not quite letting her hand rest on his shoulder.

I gotta go...he said.

She stepped near again, ready to drop all pretenses and say what she really meant.

She was ready to let him see her.

He...
he let her stand there,
inches from his face.

He let himself feel her breath on his neck as she looked up at him.

She started to speak,

but instead she sighed, chewed her bottom lip as her brows furrowed,

and stepped back.

Some other time, I guess. She shrugged and dropped her eyes.

She was just shifting her weight to one foot so she could step backward,

when his hands were in her hair and he was drawing her mouth to his.

Swallowed

She feels like a dog snarling against a muzzle - 

she can't get the satisfaction of a good chomp, a good howl. 

Maybe that's just a by-product 

of her inability 

to obtain 

the object of her desire. 

She feels like a cat chasing a laser dot:

it's exhilarating for a while, 

but she never gets to sink her teeth into it, 

and this makes her growl with foot-stomping frustration. 

Tantrums...

for her
and 

      her kitty.

And so, instead of growling,

she takes a moment.

She breathes in slowly,

and out again,

creating some distance...

*
     *
   *
        *

Imagine leaning in to tell him

something mischievous,

and lightly cupping his face in one hand 

as you breathe/giggle words close to his ear.

Imagine the sparkle in your eyes

igniting the sparkle in his.

Maybe he would cock an eyebrow

as if to say, you can't be serious?

But

imagine that you were.

Imagine replying with a slight nod,

a mostly-suppressed grin,

before you turn and bound away.

Or, imagine rounding a corner

and nearly walking into him.

Imagine pulling him down the narrow aisle,

between the stacks of boxes and shadows.

Imagine him pressing the full length of his body against you,

and taking your face in his hands 

with the slight shake of his head 

before he covers your mouth with his

(as if he can't believe 

you've created this little pocket of devouring need, 

to be filled whenever and wherever you can).

Back up,

and imagine

in delicate detail

the feel of his mouth on yours.

Imagine his lips pressing, 

his tongue darting;

imagine sinking into the kiss

like a lifeboat.

Imagine stumbling back into the world

with shaky breath and wild eyes (and hair),

blinking your way back to an appearance of normalcy.

I'm not sure that imagining 

        like this

is at all helpful to the pursuit of freedom from desire.

There is a fine line between enjoying the tension it creates,

and being engulfed by it entirely...

You need to rein it in,

you know you do.

But maybe you want to push it a little further first.

Maybe you want to be the one to shove against a wall,

and maybe you want to pull a face to yours,

and maybe you would sink to your knees 

before he'd even figured out how the kiss happened

and maybe you would try to swallow him whole,

because maybe

that would satisfy your need.

Maybe.

Diamond Fork, 1997

Something about the smell
of the cashews and the dark chocolate
sent me through a wormhole –
and I landed in the mountains of Utah,
the smell of sulfur from the hot springs
having mostly faded into the scent of pines
and smoke.
The day having mostly faded into evening,
obscuring the faces of the laughing voices
connected to the naked bodies soaking in the warm pool of this river –
rolling like an avalanche, coming down the mountain.
We all floated in the warm, minerally water,

and on clouds of smoke.

Me n Jay-Z

I have far fewer than 99 problems

but one of them

(at this moment)

is the inability

of crunching on carrots

to satisfy my urge

to feel the slow melt

of rich chocolate

on my tongue.

But here I am,

counting problems

and calories

like some basic

bitch.

(Self) Possession

I walk toward him,

and he turns with a smile of greeting.

We talk and walk, 

the world shifting and sighing around us,

seeming to part for our passage,

like it was made to be intact,

and we are causing this rift, this shift, 

this new alignment of stars.

I say the words that are expected,

smile and nod,

but inside 

there are butterflies bouncing around in a pattern I can't follow.

I say the right words,

despite the ones charging through my mind in lurid colors, 

pulsing with lust.

He pauses, holds the door for me,

and we ride an elevator straight up into the sky.

The silence spreads out to fill the small box,

and I try not to see myself in the mirrors that are all around.

He reaches out, 

presses a button,

and our ascent is halted.

A snag in my breathing

as he fluidly moves from reaching for that button

to reaching for

me.

I am pressed against the reflection behind me,

his face so close to mine that his beard brushes my chin.

There is no force behind his words,

they are a summer breeze on my cheek -

Are you ready?

I remember to inhale.

Will you follow my lead, no questions asked?

I nod, wide-eyed.

I feel the gentleness of his question,

but the shiver that runs down my spine

comes from the depth of authority that I feel is rooted in him 

like the beginning of time,

the laws of physics, 

and my loyalty, forever.

Good,

he grins and resumes our ascent,

pulling out his phone to tap out one more email 

as he leans against the far wall.

My heart races the elevator to the ceiling of this tall structure

where I make all the arguments I'd prepared.

We end the meeting with handshakes 

and talk of contracts being drawn up, faxed over, etc.

We are in a full elevator on the way back down.

I can see his eyes reflected in one of the mirrors 

(if I look over the shoulder of the man in the deep blue suit

whose cologne is nearly gagging me),

and I focus on them.

We settle back into the dark, smooth interior 

of the car that delivered us.

He on a phone call, 

me making notes to run by our legal department 

before they review those contracts we just negotiated.

When the car glides to a stop,

I reach for my door handle 

and hear a soft click as he presses the lock button.

Follow,

he reminds, gently,
and I see one corner of his mouth twitch with an almost-smile.

One question,

I smile and lean toward him

(maybe aware that this produces a perfect view of perfect cleavage).

Starting now...?

He nods - part indulgence, part scolding.

Now, no more questions.

A thrill runs through me at the prospect of releasing
all of my personal decisions to his judgement.
I will do everything he says,
nothing more,
nothing less.

He holds the reins
and my heart thrums with the adrenaline rush of possibilities. 

I perch at the edge of my seat,

my nerves as tight as violin strings,

just waiting for him to make the first command 

and pull exquisite notes from deep inside me.

Placid/Flacid

And then
one day,
it all just stopped.

The surging waves 

that had threatened to overtake me 

and sink my whole ship straight to the bottom of the ocean;

the pervasive presence in my thoughts:

poof, gone.

The raging desire melted back into a calm sea,

and I saw clearly again,

blinded no more.

Puff the Magic Mango

Mango
flavored
joy.

I inhale,
and then I smile,
and float like a feather.
I inhale again,
too deeply,
and then I melt into a chair
with all the world's gravity pressing down on me with ferocity.
I can't lift my head,
but when I do,
I nearly puke;
so I don't lift my head again.
How did this happen?
I don't fight it,
but sit as still as I am able,
and just let it take me away.
I had hoped to be buoyed by mangoes to the heighths of inspiration,
but instead I am crushed under their weight.

Sympathy from the Devil

The first time I saw him,
I already knew the story of his grief.
The line items on his inventory of pain start and end with:
gasping for air in a world that suddenly holds too few people,
or at least too few of the ones he created,
the ones he rocked and coached and disciplined
(too much, not enough? he would wonder);
the world was tilting from the sudden imbalance
in the ratio of parents to children -
not the way that it had when they had graduated, moved out;
but the way it does when all that is left is ash,
so light - shifting and moving, unable to be held.
This, this I knew before I stepped around the corner
and saw him standing behind his desk,
sternly it seemed at first,
but within one heartbeat
I recognized the true pattern of the shredded edges of his soul -
not too-businesslike, but too-crushed and too-hollow
to remember how or why to smile.

The pain he had suffered was unimaginable,
even for such a relentless imagination as mine.
As I spoke of mundane, purposeful things,
I felt a canyon open up inside my chest.
I wanted to reach out, and pull him to me,
not to fill this newly hollow space,
but to push some of my lightness and joy into him.
I would continue to find reasons for my path to cross his,
and I would be so gentle as we spoke of business,
willing him to breathe out some of his pain so that I could take it in.

One day, when I went to him
we discussed briefly the issue that brought me there,
and then
without asking
I closed his door.
My cheeks flushed as I turned to face him
but his head was down,
so I went around his vast oak desk.
He looked up from the reports he was skimming
just as I reached him.
He pushed his chair back a little to turn to face me,
as I stood beside him,
a quizzical look just appearing at the edges of his eyes.
Solemnly,
I slid onto his lap
and wrapped myself around him.
I couldn't let him hold the pain anymore.
I breathed it in as my lips pressed against his,
inhaling deeply,
and giving back the sweetest parts of me.
He began to sob,
then clutched me so hard he left bruises.
His tears didn't stop
as he stood and placed me on the desk;
his tears didn't stop as we fought with his belt
and shoved up my skirt;
his tears didn't stop as he pulled me to him
entering me with a sigh;
the tears flowed
as we rocked together frantically -
like he was running for his life.
His eyes found mine,
for only a moment,
and I saw the clouds parting.
This momentary escape wouldn't leave him feeling weaker;
it would leave him feeling lighter.
His tears were almost dry
as my legs wrapped around him and held him deep inside,
welcoming his release -
release from heavy burdens of grief,
release from holding in tears so he could be strong for others.
I smiled at him as he blinked like a man waking up in a strange place
with no idea how he got there.
I slid off his desk and stood so close to him
that I could feel his heart beating (fast);
I rested one hand on his cheek for a moment,
then kissed him lightly on the lips and smiled again,
hoping to reassure him that this was good,
that it was a gift.
He let out a long breath,
like he'd been holding it for months.

I would sometimes make appointments,
but more often, I would just show up.
I would enter without speaking,
and close the door behind me.
I wore long skirts
and I can still feel his sadness flowing into me
as the fabric rustled around us;
I can feel him pulling me to him,
almost always roughly,
with the great wildness of his pain surging through us both.
I can see his face right before I kissed him,
right after,
and I can see the change in the light in his eyes.
I remember the cedar and linen smell of his neck,
and the way his hands found places I didn't even know
existed, and christened them with pleasure.
I remember him as all roughness,
from the stubble on his face
to the callouses on his palms,
to the way he held onto me as I took him inside,
as deep as his pain.
As the summer passed into fall,
his stern look began to fade,
and then slowly morphed into serenity.
Instead of pain,
I felt his gratitude with every breath,
and the only tears were mine.