Amateur

I finally popped this pole-and-platform-shoe riddled cherry -

We made it rain,
while they made it poor...
I probably wasn't drunk enough,
but still haven't found my way back to sober.
There were so many beautiful bodies -
shapes and sizes -
tiny, tall -
Folding bills into their cleavage,
smiling into their eyes.
I thought of you -
conjured
images of us...

I'll have to tell you about it sometime.

Good/Grief

There are no words to make it better.
No words I can hear or speak
that will fill the gnawing emptiness
where you used to be.
Gone are the moments
that used to overflow with
your laughter and lessons and -
         you are gone and
it will never be the same.
It's over and

what reason is there to continue?

Presence

I pile treasures at your feet
attempting to anchor you to a patch of earth adjacent to my roaming roots.
Stay,
I say.
Stay,
I weep.
Be near me -
not always
(I understand that's not feasible
in the surging tides
of this busy world)
but constantly, regularly
be near me.
You calm me, steady me.
You guide me onward;
I follow docilely,
obediently -
hungrily.

Parenthetical Aside

Being loved by her would change a man, I think.

His body wouldn't even keep the same form

as it stretched to contain 

the abundance of adoration.

He would see the world differently,

as he adjusted to the reality that in this other life,

this side-pocket of joy,

that he was the sun and the moon and the stars.

His stride would lengthen, quicken - 

become fully jaunty.

He would be worshipped -

with her mouth, her hands, her words.

He would float above

viewing the whole of his existence from a new angle, 

with her love as the filter 

through which he saw himself and everything around him.

But only if he let himself.

Hypothetical

If even fucking your wife
leaves you feeling shame-filled
and dirty, 
what would be so different?

One love, two loves, red love, blue love

Maybe they are all here
to save me from myself.
I think too hard
and talk too much;
I love in plunges and sweeps -
deep and wide.
I want to pull them all into my world-size embrace
and be adored back with the fervor I radiate.
Am I chasing my own shadow
away from the sunset,
racing away from the perfect ending,
or any ending, at all?
I want to turn back the clock
and live more of this life -
really savor the juicy parts,
the beauty-filled,
luscious parts.
I want to marinate in desires
both those sought and those found.
And through it all,
there is one.

Savor

I liked the look on your face
and where you were looking
as I spoke

Addiction

distraction

comforter

agitator

Source

You are everywhere,
in every ray of light shining down,
and every breath of air pulled in and expelled;
you are the water I thirst for,
the food that sustains me.
You are my alpha
and my omega,
but still

somehow

unattainable.

Doctor Feelgood

The perscription for a good night's sleep,
while stressed out,
and unrested already -
start with one big serving of comfort food,
then slip into your own bed,
and burrow down into your favorite position for relaxation,
then
I will burrow my way up from the foot of the bed,
warm and soft,
I barely disturb your blossoming respite
as I pour your softness into my mouth -
coaxing you to hardness
rocking you gently to release
allowing you to forget all the stresses and worries,
allowing your mind to clear
empty
and cascade into slumber as I curl into you -
comfort, warmth, presence.

University of Utah writing class, circa 2006

John, John, and Jon

Spanish Fork, Utah 1997

The quiet one, wait—

they were all quiet, in a way.

The innocent one, then.

His father’s brothers were polygamists;

the whole clan lived way out

on the dusty open plain

beneath the great, jutting rocks

of the La Sal mountains.

He drove over an hour

to reach the edge of civilization

and quietly wash dishes.

Maybe he was quiet because

he was separate, out of place

in the busy, dirty restaurant world.

He was careful with me,

but not with his roller-skate car.

It ended in a ditch,

its stereo still blasting,

roof in the dirt.

His jokes were soft around the edges,

daring me to return to a time more innocent,

only recently cast aside for a wilder life.

Already too wild for him to touch,

he loved me with his eyes.

The creepy one--

With his battered black case,

its clattering contents.

Those knives were

the tools of his trade, but

       were they necessary

for flipping pancakes and building burgers?

He was a chef

masquerading as a line cook,

masquerading as one of us -

hiding inside a splattered black duster

and cowboy boots,

even in the heat of summer.

He asked me out.

Once.

He heard me say

we would go as friends, but

        his slicked down hair and hopeful eyes

when he picked me up

exposed his intentions.

We drove to the city

to see a ballet -

the sun on our left,

steadily descending

behind the low mountains.

Those mountains meant west,

the others meant east.

East meant…

home…

But I listened as I drove,

to the stories of his pain

and sadness

and anger 

and felt myself accepting his need to hide.

Then we watched lithe bodies

move gracefully on a stage

and I hoped he wasn’t picturing

my body,

at all.

There were other boys at the restaurant,

but only one more Jon

in love with me.

The sultry-eyed,

dangerous,

charismatic,

broken one.

He loved me much more lightly

than the other two,

like an afterthought,

or an accident.

His quiet was full of mystery.

That night when he sat on the floor,

leaning against the fryer

his tears were silent,

but the thunderous breaking of his heart

made mine beat in overtime,

surging to encompass him.

He was younger than I thought,

but older than he said.

He was a poet

who had already run out of words.

I called his Camaro vintage;

in truth, it was a piece of junk.

His guitar?

A prop

(but a fruitful one).

I bet him a case of beer;

he lost,

so I got to drive that rusty white car

in the blackest part of night,

and finally found the west’s answer

to New England’s backroads:

just as empty,

but wide and straight, 

so I easily discovered the car could fly.

I challenged him then to strip poker;

next, to Truth or Dare.

I thought I had won each match,

but then,

with winter biting at the single-pane window

in the small bedroom

he rented from our night manager,

he said,

You know that was just for fun, right?

And I knew that I had lost.

Open

How would it be
to be
as open as
I want to be?
What if boundaries were fluid,
and everyone understsood and honored
each other's needs?
What if I was allowed to have
everything
everyone
I desire?

Burned

Remember that snowy, January night?

The puffy down of my new ski jacket 

shushing against itself as I walked quickly from car to bar.

I would be meeting Becky there, but she was late, 

so I sat on a stool and chatted with the bartender.

I had New Zealand swirling in my mind (and heart),

and that Peter Pan snowboarder in and out of my bed,

but I didn't have what I wanted yet.

When Becky did arrive,

she brought the party with her - 

she always did.

A one-woman party, really...

she had a knack for drawing in everyone else in a space,

whether by sheer magnetism 

or by her boldness in actively including them.

I guess what I'm saying is, 

it was easy to get laid, with Becky around.

That night we met one of the regulars of that bar we had just discovered

 (squeezed into a deserted stretch of Main St. in American Fork, if I recall correctly).

He was in the darkest, wildest throes of a crumbling family - 

he must have been late 40s, early 50s, unruly graying hair, the eyes of an addict.

Well educated, but worn out.

He told us that his wife had taken their teenagers and left him, 

that he was living in a room above the bar.

He told us how he couldn't stop drinking, 

even though that's what had been the catalyst 

for this change he hadn't sought.

He described the job he'd just lost,

as a sculptor for the nearest university.

He wept as he recalled the molds that had been broken,

taken from him.

He smoked a cigarette and breathed out all his sorrow.

He said, Sometimes people pay me to draw them, but it's not the same.

I just miss the clay in my hands, the bronze...I used to be good, I know you probably don't believe me, but I did. I used to be so fucking good. I could make bronze do whatever I wanted.

We listened somberly (but not soberly)

and wished him well.

Later in the evening,

after the boy with the longish hair came in wearing my same ski parka, 

and after I debated the merits of monogamy with that tatted up accountant,

the sculptor came over and handed me this - 

He wouldn't accept any money,
said he just wanted to draw me.
Becky was offended...she always assumed she was hotter than me,
and she may very well be, but she is a firecracker and I am an ember.
I left a gift for him with the bartender the next week,
and framed this drawing to remember the moment that someone saw me.

Retrospective

This morning....I comb through the archives and find little zings of joy.
I was looking for this piece on Restraint -
thinking of how I really do have incredible self-restraint,
since sometimes I am so consumed with Desire
that I have to sneak off and find release from the intensity.
I do wonder what you would think of all this,
but I suppose no one really knows what another is thinking,
or dreaming of.

Sermons Mounting

I'm still digesting that sermon on desire.
It filtered in, through the fog of joy
I'd been floating in since the weekend.
It landed pretty deep, right away,
and has continued to fan out
into the far reaches of my thoughts since then.
My immediate repsonse was to let go of a desire
to be desired.
Chop -
off with her hair.
Desire isn't inherently bad,
and it isn't regulated solely by religion.
It is -
   natural
   organic
   orgasmic...
Desire makes the world go 'round;
it isn't something to run from.
My need to be desirable has pushed me
toward better health,
and I savor the journey.
Letting go now just frees me
from the constant pursuit of an unattainable goal.
I worry, though,
about the preacher -
what is his fear?
What is he outrunning?
And will he win that race?

Why Can't I Get Just One -

I awake, panting.

Not with horror or grief, 

as is often the cause 

of such intensity following me from dream land,

but with raw, unmet desire.

I can still feel your lips on mine, 

and can almost smell your skin.

I try not to allow reality to resume control of my senses - 

swimming in sensory details of you,

and leaning hard 

back into sleep,

intent on satisfaction.

Wetlands

I'm walking alone in the rain
at least I think I am.
I keep hearing someone walking behind me,
but I turn and they disappear.
You
are walking with me,
but you often are -
filling my thoughts.
I run some things by you -
not strategic plans,
or innovations,
but scenes -
sensory moments falling through you like pebbles glittering in a stream.
Scenes of skin-on-skin,
scenes of tangled limbs and clutching -
nails going too deep
because I need to be closer
I need to be inside you
I need
you
to be
inside
me.

Dreams Woven

You were bigger, kind of burly -
evoking Deidrich Bader in Office Space.
You were slightly balding,
but with long (shoulder-length) hair,
not quite stringy, but also not well-brushed.
No facial hair.
You wore jean shorts (not cut-offs)
and a faded and stained band t-shirt from the 80s -
maybe Bananarama or the Bangles -
there was a large pink scalene triangle and some aqua writing.
You were still sexy, somehow,
and I asked you to show me all your tats.
You lifted your shirt
and it exposed your shoulders and upper arms
which were filled with
colorful depictions of sports team logos
woven with tribals in black;
a red cartoonish bird wrapped around your left shoulder.
You were the leader of the pack of old friends who'd shown up
to go golfing with you in the middle of this work day,
like spectres, like lost dreams.
They changed you into a person I never knew,
instead of the one I almost know.

Sandman's Sunrise

I slept hard last night -
straight through,
and dark, muffled.
My sleep was motionless,
deeply satisfying,
and yet I awoke foggy and unwilling to rise.
I fumbled for my phone,
determined to head it off at the pass -
shove the finish line out a ways,
maybe another 30 delicious minutes
of swaddling in down puffiness.
I burrowed in and fell hard back into slumber.
Asleep Me panicked a bit,
worrying more than half-awake Me -
this round of rest was restless,
and I launched into a dream
stitching together the remnants of
the previous day and the worries newly born.

Self Mastery

I rocked myself to sleep last night
with a lullaby of you
on my fingertips

Madonna

Today you are a lost little boy.
Climb into my lap -
I will stroke your back and whisper tales
of a superhero I once knew.
His mind was as vast as a universe -
it was his shield, his weapon, his nourishment.
Not quite omniscient,
but somehow nearly omnipotent,
he deftly maneuvered the whims of his enemies, his suitors, his subjects.
He was gentle and gentlemanly,
powerful and empowering -
effortlessly guiding us all toward higher grounds, brighter lights.
Your body aches from the strain of carrying the world on your back,
so I cradle you in my sky-sized embrace
and rock you to sleep.

Measurements

Sizable -
the word rolls around on my tongue,
a placeholder for the part it modifies.
I want to taste it
assess its dimensions myself -
from one tip to
                           the other.
Grant me this one favor...?

Toni Morrison 1931 - 2019

No wonder all the poetry has left my soul today.

The world has lost one of its great flowing portals of light,

one of the greatest poetic prose-ists of our day.

She was a rich twilight glow,

at once warm and inviting –

and bruised with untold pain.

She let anguish and ecstasy flow through her soul

and out her fingertips.

She wove stories of breathtaking hardships

and small daily injustices,

triumphs and tragedies

into the fabric that made fictional worlds so vivid

I feel like I lived them myself.

I bet it wasn’t always easy, or painless.

I bet she could have given up,

or written less,

or more shallowly from within her wells of wisdom and compassion,

but she did not hide her light under a bushel,

and for that I am deeply grateful.

Delirium

In relentless pursuit of
              more
I throw my arms wide
and will the world to soak into me,
to bleed through the flimsy barrier of my skin
and fill me with electricity and soft glowing joy.
I embrace the waves as they fold into me,
and I bend from the force of their impact
and become both less and more,
in that moment.

I have the urge to
vow to live a more deliberate life.
But I'm not always good at remembering to keep promises...
They lose their grip on me,
slip from my focus.
I live in this moment,
this moment fills my vision from horizon to horizon.

Penny for Your Thoughts...

I like the thought
that you might be reading this
I like imagining your reactions -
you smile at that one,
and smirk at another;
you wonder if I'm talking to you,
about you...
You like to think I am, sometimes;
other times you hope I'm not,
the fear shatters through you in a flash -
you crush that image under your size 12 and turn away.
You read another,
something that doesn't pluck at the darkness
crouched at the edge of your floodlight.
You wonder what it's like
to be in my head
(in my bed).
You don't know that I would be gentle,
that I would let you take the lead -
that I would whimper with need for you
and worship you
with reverence and passion.
Have you ever been loved like that?
You want it all,
but not enough.

Duality

Feeling a bit like a mermaid...
I lie on my back,
stretching the soreness out of overworked muscles.
I raise my bare legs
to press my lower back flatter against the floor,
and the curves of my calves are a tail,
my toes, the perfect tailfin...
I wiggle them,
giggle.

My inversion causes the hem of my skirt
to slip higher up my thighs,
and I make a half-hearted attempt
to tug it back to an appropriate position.
I drift in my thoughts,
imagining the water surging around me,
my hair floating,
my tail propelling me upward,
toward the light.
I breathe out slowly,
then right myself.
I see the stack of sea shells,
and half-smile.
Mermaids wear seashells, I think,
and slide them into my hand,
coolly clicking against each other
as they drop into my bag.

Lay, Lady Lay...

The one line, toward the beginning...
gives me a little smirk of smugness,
with an aftertaste of sympathy.
I think of how it would be to have such limited options -
could be the partner, or her own anatomy, I suppose.
But I am grateful to be able to land an orgasm
from any angle and without much fuss.

And then he says -
dressed me up in women's clothes
messed around with gender roles,
and I smile, maybe bite my bottom lip a little.
I see you in one of my green dresses -
you do a little twirl,
or a mocking curtsy,
but the look on your face -
you're kind of glowing,
kind of shy,
kind of in awe of this moment -
you feel seen for the first time,
and I feel a surge of love for the raw realness of you,
finally able to be fully expressed.

Musings for Muses

I itch for freedom
these days.
Not freedom from this wonderful
(supportive, sexy, sweet, stolid)
partner of mine;
not freedom from the giant beloved puppies my sons are;
just...a bit of blank canvas time.
A window of open road.
Lessening of expectations -
not lower ones, just fewer of them.
So...
maybe this is something I could build for myself?
I could claim Thursday nights, perhaps.
Thursdays after work I would just evaporate into mist and be alone somewhere or with a friend somewhere or on a motorcycle (if I get my license) or at the gym for a long long time or having a beer or writing -
wait!
I got it!
I could go for a walk on the trail
and then I could sit in the bar
and eat a sandwich
and have a beer
and write and write and finish that elusive
ephemeral
exhausted
little novel of mine.
I could do that.
I should.
Thursdays are good days
for a little dollop of freedom,
just a short walk from my love-filled, adored home.
Yes.
This.
Now to find the courage to do it.

Oceans Apart

I am driftwood
an empty bottle
tossed about on the currents.
For now, I float along in the sunshine;
but I remember the swirling vortex
of millions of gallons of salty water
pressing me down to the dark, sandy floor.
I remember you
sailing above me
a god -
out of reach,
out of breath,
out of time...
You didn't save me.
I saved myself.
And maybe I
                      will climb onto the warm
wooden boards of your deck and lie there,
panting
while the blue sky pours warmth back into my body.

Adjustments

You adjusted yourself in your chair
in a way that reminded me of
that time I gave my therapist a boner.
I'm not accusing you of the same,
(but I might be salivating a little at the possibility).

I was giving my therapist
an example
of one of the times
I struggled to say no -
I was telling him
about the man I met at a bar
the man who introduced himself
with a picture of his cock on his phone.
I licked the screen and handed it back -
smiling at him with shock at myself;
he laughed and ate it up,
and then
we spent the evening
accepting each other's dares,
and ended up
skimming the surface of a fuck
in the bathroom.
Not my classiest move
but he was that irresistable
(a beautiful bear of a man).
I was just trying to describe the mechanics of this situation
to illustrate
for my therapist
that I hadn't really said no very well,
but that I had really tried.
(I can hear myself saying things that sounded like polite excuses -
I can't, I really shouldn't, I have other commitments... My voice dampened by the layers of bar sounds on a Saturday night
But his smile was beaming too bright
to let his ears hear.)
With the therapist, I was sure;
with you...
you were probably just in need of a standard adjustment,
but still...
I liked seeing you shift your position
ever-so-slightly
because...
what if...?
What if
you had felt
just the smallest rush of blood,
the slightest change in tempo,
how delicious that would be
for me...

Negotiations

Just one kiss?

He leaned in and pressed his lips against her forehead.

She smiled and shook her head.

More.

He almost smiled back, 

then kissed the tip of her nose.

Moooore…

She leaned slightly closer to him 

and turned her face up.

They locked eyes for a mile-long second 

and he bent to meet her.

The kiss itself was brief, 

lips barely brushing lips 

before he took a full step back 

and folded his arms across his chest.

Her eyes shone with the thrill of it, 

her fingers went to her lips 

to marvel at the sensation still lingering there.

She smiled a crooked little smile of satisfaction and delight, 

and let out a whisper of a moan.

His eyes grew darker 

and he stepped back, 

turning away.

Enough.

Not yet...

She pressed her face against his back, 

arms encircling his waist and chest.

He stiffened at the first touch, 

but as she held on, gently, 

their heartbeats synced up and filled the silence of the room.

He slowly shifted 

so her embrace fit inside his. 

He rested his cheek on the top of her head 

and wrapped his arms so fully around her 

that a thumb rested on the outer curve of her breast.

She burrowed into the embrace for long, sweet moments, 

then pressed her lips to his collarbone, 

once, 

twice…

following a path up through the scratchy part of his neck 

and through the thicket of beard, 

pausing just before reaching his lips. 

Pausing to feel his heartbeat hitch, 

pausing to smell his skin, 

pausing to read him. 

He dipped to breach the chasm of millimeters separating them 

and kissed her fully this time – 

a resigned, but smiling sigh 

muted as their mouths crushed together.

Rough Ride

The machine growls and purrs beneath me

so heavy

so solid.

I giggle as it lurches forward

pleased at my ability to control the beastly thing.

It rumbles along, doing exactly what I say,

following my gaze wherever I point it.

This beast is mine

but not quite tamed.

It listens too well,

but I don't have all the commands.

We take bites out of each other

and retreat to lick our wounds.

Ship/Wrecked

For now,
I have a reprieve
from the sea sickness caused
by my own feelings -
they are the waves
crashing against the sides
of my matchstick vessel,
tossing me about on the blue-grey expanse.
I am keeping my eyes on the horizon
and keeping you at arm's length.
I am nothing to you,
I am nothing to you,
I am nothing to you...
This, I repeat with each list of the hull -
I am nothing to you,
to the starboard,
I am nothing to you,
to port side...
Eyes locked on the line
where the ocean meets the sky.
I pace my breathing,
keeping myself steady,
keeping my heart
carefully tucked away,
out of reach of your charm.
The only way
to avoid disappointment
is to want nothing from you.
And give as little as possible.
Eyes on the horizon.
Steady breathing.

Addendum -

Perhaps a better mantra would be
You are nothing to me.
Let's give that one a shot.

Shifting Sands

Keeping you
at arm's length
is the greatest feat of strength
I've yet achieved.
My shoulders shake,
my skin weeps
with exertion.
My mind is a dark
and shrunken place -
I've closed all the doors
that lead to you,
leaving me
nowhere
to point my thoughts.

Keeping My Distance

You are poison
disguised as confection.
I must expel you
from all the places
I'd allowed you to saturate.
Traces of you linger,
haunting me
with reminders of the joy
you used to engender.
Now, your forced overtures
spark a wince of pain,
and I recoil from your falsity.

Major Flashback

94 was a rough year for me
but also a good one -
one man broke my heart
another my hymen.

In 94 I was obsessed with kiwis.
It would be another decade before I became obsessed with a Kiwi.

Spot On

Rain
drops down -
polka dots on my polka dots.

Licking Old Wounds

So this is a tough one...

I was looking through old emails and stumbled across this submission I made to Lick magazine (a brilliant little undertaking by a talented blogger in my circle, back in the glory days).

The premise was that you could send in anything you wanted, anonymously - contributions were limited to women, I think.

This confession breaks my heart for the girl I was then, although it only scratches the surface of the pain I lived with. I remember writing it and feeling wary of discovery. I worded it carefully so that I wouldn't hurt his feelings if he happened to read it. But distance and wisdom allow me to see that this is another way in which I just didn't stand up for myself and speak my No's loudly enough.


Date: Fri, 8 Apr 2005 15:01:49 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: Lick Magazine

Sometimes when we're making love, I hate you. I want to push you off, I want to cry. What can feel so incredible when I want it, feels like torture when I don't.

And you don't listen to me. I have told you what not to do. A thousand times, at least. But you still do those things because YOU like them. It makes me feel like a blow up doll, a life-sized sex toy, instead of the wife you say you love. I send very plain signals, but you choose to ignore them, because you can. You have been able to get away with pleading ignorance if I bring it up. But I know that you can tell the difference between the moans and screams of a woman in blissful torment and the hate filled sounds of one in pure torment.

I don't want to risk upsetting the delicate balance of our life, so I keep quiet. But please, for god's sake, if you're out there and somehow through cosmic intervention you get this message--pay attention to my eyes, my breathing and don't continue to be selfish by ignoring these signs. And know that I only hate you sometimes.

Battlefield

Love is possession
                  ownership;
love is you are mine.
Love is pain...
       uncertainty-fear-longing.
Love is I am yours forever.
Love isn't a choice -
it is an avalanche.
Love is a waterfall pounding you into my soul,
crushing my chest and filling my lungs -
I gasp and fight and try to survive you.

Vivid / Vernal

The sky is full and rolling with grays;

the earth is lush with new life, 

shades of green licking up all that wet air.

Soon there will be deep blue skies 

and blossoms of pinks and yellows,

with a sun that bakes and steams.

So I will savor the coolness of these gray days,
splashing through puddles,
breathing in the soil-scented mist.

Father Time

My son paced in the other room, on the line with his father. 

His calm, commanding voice brought comfort to us both as he offered tech support over speaker  for the elusive solution to the problem our son's newly built computer was having. 

I attempted to read a book as they moved through all the usual suspects. Eyes flickered across the page, landing on disjointed words and phrases, but eventually I gave up and closed the book, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes. 

It was warm, familiar, familial... I wanted to nestle into the imagined Good Times of yore, but I liked the moment too much to slip into a memory. 

Miles Above

I sprinkled notes from Bitches Brew
in a crumb trail across the ocean....
That was...kaleidescopic?
Trippy...
The hush of a darkened cabin,
the loud quiet of the engines...
Almost comfortable,
almost asleep...
Thoughts suspended
in the sky of my mind,
like our bus full of humanity...

Old Friends

Your face fills my mind's eye
as I write these words -
the letters slide across the slim lines of your body -
muscle
bone
scars -
all the places my hands can't touch.
Your face
so deeply known to me,
is craggy now with the decades that have passed since
you were part of
the scenery of my life.
Time lays across you in sheets 
the stubble on your cheeks
draws my hand to your face.
I blink and we are 20 again,
blink again and the present sharpens into focus - joy, laughter, distance 

Starving Artist

He said I look like one of DaVinci's sketches
I smiled sadly
(maybe that's why?)
and told him I didn't feel like one.
I feel like Monet inside
with Klimt's gold burning my skin.
I feel like he sees all of me,
'though none of me is visible.
I have memorized every false detail of him,
as he feeds me half-truths and flattery.
These do not nourish me;
I hunger.

Real/Dream

I dreamed of you last night.
I almost never do,
which is surprising,
considering how much I think of you.
It was raining and dark,
I drove slowly through a parking lot.
When I put my hand on your knee,
you followed suit, then went higher.
I urged you on,
then parked and you moved in for a kiss.
It was funny at first, but beautiful

I wanted to stay asleep all day...

I'm My Own Kryptonite

I caught a glimpse of superman again today.
Focused on my own routine,
my eyes swept across the room -
there he was
and it took my breath away.
He rippled across the surface of you, obscuring the metaphorical glasses.
I swallowed hard and turned away.
Better to stay in the antechamber
way
out
here
where it's safe.
Where all I see is Clark:
my pal, my brother.

Three of Hearts

An image -
two bodies
intertwined
violent kisses
greedy hands,
                 legs 
parting,
wrapping (around)
pulling into
panting with urgency.
And while we race to the crescendo,
your throaty whispers are of him
- what you would do to him,
or let him do to you -
and it makes me wetter,
you harder...
We peak together and collapse
in a sweaty heap,
smiling,
still dreaming of each other
and him.

Slumber Salvation

The weekend has been filled with heavy,
richly detailed dreams -
my mind is trying to soothe me
by weaving stories of comfort
and intimate moments of friendship.
I want to stay asleep
so I can inhabit these alternate realities
that branch off from my actual world.
I want to wedge myself back into
the fictions of my mind's creation
and rest there,
far
    far
          away
from the worries of my present.

Morning update

I walked into your office to say to A.W.,
"How do I walk around all day,
knowing I'm garbage,
without bursting into tears all the time?"
But before I could speak,
her face lit up and she said,
"Your hair is a beautiful blonde mane today, and I LOVE it!!"
I lit up in turn,
and then said,
"I came in here to ask you how do I walk around all day,
knowing I'm  garbage,
without bursting into tears all the time?" but before I finished speaking,
Br. peeked out from behind her and with a very somber face said,
"You are not garbage.
You are a kind and lovely person,
please don't say you're garbage."
Aaaaaand THIS dumbass burst into tears.
So embarrassing.
I just wasn't expecting genuine kindness like that -
I was hoping to pop in
and joke about the misery of life.
A.W. did provide her wisdom, though,
"From garbage you came,
to garbage you return,
and the garbage in the middle isn't so bad."
Anyway, they asked if it was You-related sorrow,
and I had to admit that was at least part of it :)
Mostly it was just me being a Moody-ass drama queen,
but it turned my day around,
so who am I to argue?

Fish on Dry Land

Letting go

is never easy.

(Why is it always in pairs?)

I just need to find my balance.

It was wonderful to want again,

but now...

it is a relief to not care anymore.

...although this carefully cultivated apathy

 is harder to maintain

than I expected.

Or maybe I just miss the exhilaration

of infatuation.

Still, though.

So far so good.

Except for that other loss....

the one I didn't work hard to attain,

the one I didn't even see coming.

I'm gutted.

Music in My Veins

A long weekend filled with live music -
                                talented musicians
                                   sexy lead singers
                                          great friends
                                            cold drinks

Tonight I drifted on two different clouds at once
up high
and down low -
the thoughts were smooth around the edges,
but sort of blurred out in the middle;
I wanted
to want
to be
wild and magnetic -
I didn't want to keep yawning,
and jokingly complaining about the excessive volume
(so hard to be witty when no one can hear you...)
The bar, so familiar, but
instead of a quiet week night,
and trivia with the crew,
it was a buzzing, thrumming place.
Happy.
Tart blueberry cider,
comfort and unfamiliarity
all mashed together;
that singer...
he looked so much like you
that I would have
used him
               as a substitute if I'd been able to slip away from reality.
But he was also just plain sexy of his own accord -
his reputation just dirty enough to increase the appeal.


         *   *   *   *   *

I've been weaning myself off
the euphoric adoration
that swelled within me for so long.
I think I'm winning the fight;
many days I feel so little
that I forget to even think dirty thoughts at all,
let alone to orchestrate paths through the boundaries that divide us.
It is a relief,
and also a loss.
I miss the glittering sense of purpose and meaning
that euphoria added to my daily grind,
but I am relieved to own myself again.
I am relieved to have not fallen through the ice
and drowned in frigid water
as I clawed at the unbreakable ceiling rushing overhead...
It's good to be free.

Freedom is a Winged Thing

She stood at the edge of a broad field,
the land dropping away to rocks and waves below.
She felt the wind's currents rushing past her,
pressing the salt air up and over the dry grasses.
She looked out at the islands,
the sun just sliding up behind them.
She smiled a little, no teeth,
and burst into a run
for the few yards between her and the air -

          her arms spread wide,
she caught the updraft and soared.
Her hair fluttered behind her like a cape,
her bare feet poked out from her long skirt,
like a little bird's.
She always loved the feel of the wind on her face,
the warm pockets and cool pockets,
reminding her of that time
she wrapped herself around
the man named Freedom
as they wound through the desert on his Harley.
She closed her eyes and climbed higher,
forgetting Freedom and his too-big cowboy boots
(but not before smirking at their lie).
When she felt the cool mist of morning clouds all around her
she flipped and dove straight down again -
hurtling toward the shore of the nearest island,
in an almost-fall, but still just barely in control.
She slowed her descent and fluttered to earth,
cheeks rosy from exertion, hair a little bit wild.
Hey, mama...
She turned at the sound of The Voice -
the one that gave her wings.
Her whole being glowed,
Hey, yourself.
He pulled her to the blanket he'd spread out on the sand
and asked her to tell him a story.
They lay back and looked up at the soft blue of the new day's sky.
She traced a path along his arm
as she told him the tale of the pirates and the mermaids;
he didn't know where the fairy tales ended and her truth began,
so he believed every word.
Somewhere around the part where the pirates walked into the sea
he rolled onto his side and watched her face.
Her voice had grown softer,
and tears slipped silently down into her hair.
The pirates were bad-guys in her story,
unequivocally -
murdering innocents,
stealing from those who'd worked hard to earn honestly -
but
but still
her heart ached for them
because they loved the mermaids so much
that they lost their ability to reason -
they lived on the sea,
so they knew they couldn't just walk into its crushing depths,
but their eyes were filled with golden love for the green-eyed beauties.
She remembered that night,
and how the moonlight glinted off the hilts of their swords
as they left this life.
She wept
knowing this sweet man at her side
would follow her into the sky if she asked.