Crockett's Beach

She drove through the night,
arriving at the edge of the sea at dawn.
She opened the car door
and stepped out onto the smooth stones.
She stretched,
letting her joints loosen up again
after the long drive,
and turned her gaze fully on the scene before her.
The sun was just growing visible at the edge of the horizon,
the rich purples and deep pinks melting from the sky to the water
or maybe the other way around,
she wasn't sure.
The only sounds in the stillness
were the ticking of her cooling engine
and the soft liquid rumble of waves lapping against rounded stones,
jostling against each other like marbles in a bag.
She grabbed her backpack and moved away from the car,
wanting nothing to interfere with the sound of the ocean's rhythm.
She wandered down the beach,
the sun and the water on her left,
the rocks leading up to a fringe of jagged pines on her right.
She walked until she couldn't see that house
at the end of the causeway behind her,
or the lighthouse
or her car.
The sun crept higher,
muting the vibrant colors,
but wasn't all the way up yet.
She sat down on the stones,
wiggling a little to settle into them,
and unzipped the backpack.
She smiled as she imagined someone saying,
It's a bit early for a drink, isn't it?
A bit late, as far as she was concerned.
She uncorked the bottle and took a long swig.
The waves were relentlessly pressing inland by the tidal forces,
for a few more hours at least,
and then they would slide back out,
each wave shrinking a little further back than the last,
until the bare sand was revealed between the rocks and the water line.
She let the bourbon burn down her throat
and looked at the islands smudged across the water at random intervals
from one horizon to another.
She wondered which was the one.
Which island was where she would need to go to finish this journey.
She knew the closest one was Ash,
and that past the scope of the naked eye,
straight south of here was Metinic.
But in between, somehwere out in that endless sea,
was her destination.
She took another drink and let out a long sigh.
She would have to head back into town and find someone to ferry her out there.
12 hours of driving,
and she still hadn't figured out whether or not it would play to her advantage
to mention her brother's name.
He was such a trouble maker, and now he was in so much trouble.
But he also had that smile that seemed to magically make everyone forgive him;
that laugh,
and the thrilling ability to make everyone around him laugh
and to sometimes even feel like they had helped come up with the joke.
She smiled that crooked smile they almost shared,
shook her head a little,
and took another long drink.
Fuck.
This was going to be an even longer day than the last.

Art Thief

I may be guilty 

of copyright infringement -

I've used your likeness 

for my own 

                               gratification

without your consent.

Rainy Day Woman #43

Sometimes,
even when the sun is shining,
I am a rainy day woman.
I drown in my own thoughts,
thinking too hard
or too far down one rabbit hole or another.
Today I had storm clouds churning inside me,
unbidden.
I thought I had moved past this particular plot point,
this little knot of pain just beneath my sternum.
But I hadn't, as it turns out.
Something brought it back to the surface,
and I felt the depth of the
(possibly imagined) loss,
and it was fresh again.
This searing nausea.
I guess I shouldn't wallow so long in my own imagination,
if I want to avoid such things.
I should just live in the moment,
and enjoy it all.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night...

I walked today at lunch,
so fast,
so far.
The sun was blinding,
and I needed something to guide me,
so I reached deep into my phone
and found
(right there on top, where I left it)
Fleetwood Mac's Rumors.
It worked,
propelling me through the overly bright day.
Later,
I faced the pond as
I paced the back parking lot of my little office
while on hold with the insurance company.
There was New Orleans Jazz
miraculously
(hauntingly)
coming from the tinny speaker of my phone.
I glanced up, and there was a blue jay
so close,
perched in the tree with the big pink blossoms
(like the ones on the front lawn in Maine)
and I saw you in his handsome face, somehow.
I stepped closer
(slowly and softly)
leaning toward you in my mind,
but he spread his gorgeous wings and flew away.
I thought of you,
all those years ago,
and how close we were,
despite the vast distance.
I thought of your laugh,
and how much I loved teasing it out of you with my words.
I thought of your words,
and how perfectly in tune they were with my own
like two birds
singing in harmony.
I knew you inside and out;
you knew every thought in my head,
every beat of my heart;
you knew every inch of my body that a camera could capture.
And when it was time,
somehow,
you let me fly away
with the grace and and love of a true friend.
You were the one who tended the garden of me,
tenderly and constantly,
and then
walked me down the aisle
and handed me over to my groom.

Picasso's Damsels & My Lack of Distress

As I watched Antonio Banderas on the big screen,
playing a late-middle-aged Pablo Picasso,

I was drawn into the current of his passions.

His love of painting was a big focus,

but it was hard to miss the other great passion of his life:

women.

He was replete with wives and mistresses,

and it seemed somehow right that he would live by his own rules.
It seemed completely natural that a man with such talent 

would not see the world the way the rest of us are expected to.

When you are filled by
and hungry for
art,

you cannot color yourself inside the lines.

Rules are illusions –

straw barriers masquerading as concrete,

easy to brush away and pass through.

Rules are for people without the ability 

to imagine their own reality and fill a canvas with it.

Rules are absorbed subconsciously,

and silently provide structure while the artist fills in around them

with color and light,

pulled from the visions in his mind...

So, if Picasso was inspired by Dora's photography,

and settled by Francoise's steadiness,

and drawn repeatedly to Marie-Therese for her ability to please him,

despite being married to Olga,

then why shouldn't he connect with each of them,

taking into his heart, his bed, or his brush, 

the gifts they had for him?

Each love he claimed allowed him to 

expand.

I can see him with each of them,

focused on the moment,
and on the light in their eyes;

so far removed from cultural and societal norms

that he wasn't affected by the expectations of the outside world;

he would love Dora how and when he was moved to,

and he would spend peaceful days with Francoise and their daughter, Maya, 

when he was moved to do that.

He would then love another, and another,

the same as he had always done before.

He operated within his own plane of existence -

it may have looked like he lived in our world, 

but his genius built the dimension in which he resided.

He was a man living within his own rhythm;

each of the women merely joined him there for a brief time.

I don't know why I am so at ease with his unorthodox ways

(would I be so cavalier if he loved me?)

but maybe it's because I wish I had the balls to live like that -

utterly on my own terms,

and with the power 

to forge my way against the tides of society,

an Amazon Warrior birthed by Aphrodite and Shakespeare.

Reality is what we can accept, and what we decide it should be,
so in a sense, we all make our own rules, don't we?

It's just that most of us aren't as bold or creative
as the Picassos of the world,

and make only small tweaks and minor adjustments
to the template of society's rules,

rather than rewriting the whole Magna Carta in technicolor.

 

Les Demoiselles d'Avignon, 1907

Coming Up Empty, but Feeling Full

All I wanted, all weekend,
was to jack into the matrix and upload my thoughts,
but here I am, and they're all playing hide-and-seek with me...
I was inspired by the film we saw Friday night,
and by the people we engaged with all over the west side,
from Harlem to Tribeca.
But, on this spring day of gentle perfection,
with Led Zepellin filling the air around me,
my bare (and tired) feet up -
fingers to keyboard -
I wait for something to trickle out, onto this page.
Instead of poetry,
I find blocky, blunt narrative:
we did this, and then that; it was good.
I tap-tap-tap, then delete.
I pause and look inside -
cool white sands from horizon to horizon.
Flat, empty.
Even this cannot remove the smile that rests on my face.
It was such a good weekend.
Perfect, cool weather for hustling around the city,
lovely conversation with an old family friend,
excellent food at every turn,
moments of quiet and moments of connecting with strangers.

Moody Skies

I loved the sky tonight on the drive home -
it was stormy and beautiful.
Kind of reminded me of a soul, in just the right light...
or on just the wrong kind of day.
The clouds were dark and quilted,
like thoughts churning across the wide plain of a mind.

I always want to stop and take pictures,
but these god
damned
roads
have no shoulder,
barely even room for two cars at the same time.
Sigh.
Just...imagine an angry gray duvet spread across the sky, and you'll be close, I guess.

Fleeting Obsession

I don't know what happened,
the how or why of  it,
but I have become infatuated with Fleetwood Mac's Rumors album,
and it will 
not
leave me alone.
I listen to it over and over and over and
over.
I half-remember ordering it on vinyl last night as I settled into bed.
I play it in the car,
and in the kitchen;
As soon as I get to my desk,
I fumble for my earbuds and
sigh with relief when I've crammed them in,
reuniting me with the current soundtrack of my life.
I don't know why I bother,
since it's always in my head -
I know there's nothing to say
Someone has taken my place
When times go bad
When times go rough
Won't you lay me down in tall grass
And let me do my stuff
(and the answer, of course, is yes -
I would lay you down in the tall grass and let you do
whatever stuff you have in mind. Obvs.)
Listening doesn't make me want to hear other Fleetwood Mac;
it doesn't make me crave "Landslide" or "Edge of Seventeen;"
it doesn't make me think about the lives of the band members,
and their deeply intertwined love lives -
well, ok, maybe a little...
I mean, Lindsey Buckingham was quite the stallion in 1977,
and Stevie Nicks was a goddess 
(according to reputable sources), 
so it's worth a little thought.
Like, did they love each other, 
or was there just too much coke flying around 
to keep track of who you were supposed to be sleeping with?
I don't know if they even did drugs,
but I can picture them all in someone's artsy loft:
Lindsey picking mindlessly at a guitar 
on a bean bag near a large window,
Stevie barefoot in gauzy skirts and jangly bracelets;
I can see her standing with a bottle of beer in one hand,
the other resting lightly on her hip.
She is mesmerized.
Lindsey's fingers dance across the strings,
and Stevie starts to sway, 
hums a little 
as her feet pick up the beat and her hips follow.
Mick or somebody intercepts her,
hand on her back,
pressing her into an improvised waltz,
spinning and dipping her with insistent gallantry.
Her eyes linger on Lindsey, over Mick's shoulder;
she lets him steer her moves, 
and when he sings along with Lindsey's melody,
Stevie harmonizes with him and ducks under his arm, 
kneeling on the pillows beside Lindsey,
holding his eyes with hers.
He was the one she really wanted.
So what happened to them?
I guess I should read a biography or something....

Well did she make you cry
Make you break down
Shatter your illusions of love
And is it over now, do you know how
Pick up the pieces and go home.

I can't seem to shake it,
and I don't think I even want to anymore.
I don't know know why it's gripping me so,
but now I'm gripping back.

Desire Triptych, Part 1: Stripped

She spun on the stage
wearing only glitter
and absurdly high-heeled shoes.
Each curve exaggerated,
her features accentuated with unnatural colors -
almost beautiful,
almost garish,
too real,
but imaginary.
She smiled at you,
then twirled around the pole,
and leaned toward your outstretched dollar bills.
I half-smiled,
squeezed your thigh.
I couldn't take my eyes off her, either.

Desire Triptych, Part 2: Fire

The dormant need to be desired

can lie purring and still for long stretches.

But then.

Something

someone

will slip through a crack

into the place inside

where desire used to scorch the walls of you -

a dragon in its lair, sleeping beneath piles of gold

in the shape of contentment,

affection,

satisfaction,

commitment...

and you'll feel a spark, 
taste smoke at the back of your throat.

You'll suddenly want

(with a sharpness that surprises you),

and you'll lean into it,

willing the object of your desire

to desire you.

You’ll revel in the fire of it,

The way it burns through you,

But then,

you'll let go,

forgetting again what it is like

to have every cell filled

with anticipation and preoccupation;

to be saturated with lust 
and blind, panting need.

You'll turn away from the dragon,

relieved to settle back into the wholesome wholeness of your life.

But then...

you'll catch yourself daydreaming about touching, tasting...

and in a panic, you'll shift your focus to something else,

evading Desire, for now.

You'll find your inner calm,

your zen,

your drive.

You'll channel all that unspent energy into self-mastery.
You'll think you've outgrown the grasp of desire,
as you smoothly move along the track of your life,
until the next time the embers begin to glow under your skin.

Desire Triptych, Part 3: Dreams

You.
At first glance,
you seem to be just a man,
no different from a thousand others;

but out of the corner of my eye,

I see the hint of glitter that is visible

around the edges of your casual confidence,

or swirling just behind the gentle authority you exude.
You are in command of the room,
and of everyone you pass in a hallway.

You quietly speak magic spells
(hidden in your everyday phrases)

that draw out desire in those around you.

With the deft hand of a conductor, you create need,

pulling heat to the surface like a slow-building string section.

I look around, wondering if I'm the only one

with a symphony of lust

pounding across the stage of my mind.

This thought unsettles me;
I like to be the focus,
so I drift away,
stubbornly repelling your magic,
but I always drift back,

settling into the familiar current,
floating along, wanting -

wanting with a pervasive intensity

that fills my imagination.
Scenes flash by, causing me to bite my lip:

I kiss your wrist, and pull your face to mine –
then an image of you pressing me against a wall,
or my arm slipping inside your sweater,

as I press my face to your chest, then undo your belt.

This image spirals me to lucidity -
I would kneel before you,

worshipping you with my mouth.

The flashes come to me at all hours,
and I see your eyes peering up over the perfect curve of my breast
as I lie in tangled sheets;

I can't take my eyes off the smooth curve of your neck,
just below your ear...I would press my lips to that spot and 
let teeth graze an earlobe as I withdraw...

I would moan your name and insist that you shift positions

because I need you inside me, now.

I struggle to evade these scenes

(created in vivid sensory detail and playing on a loop)

because they do not quell my desire,

they feed it like dry wood on a pyre.

This.
This is desire,
this is dangerous and all-consuming.

Desire - Epilogue

One more thing about desire, though...
All this pondering has led to a new insight.
I have long operated under the assumption
that attaining the object of my desire was the ultimate goal.
That only when the item has been purchased,
food has been eaten, or boy has been fucked--
only then is satisfaction achieved.
On an evolutionary level,
the whole point of desire is to propel,
to motivate,
but once satisfied, there will just be another object to pursue.
It's a slippery cycle,
and can rule your life for you if you let it.

Desire burns within, not a fire that needs quenching,
but a fire that needs careful maintenance -
a fire to warm a house, not turn it to ashes.
I've been missing the point all along...
struggling to tame this beast,
but only because I thought society
(and the constraints I've subjected myself to)
required it,
not because I understood.
I don't know if I'll be able to remember this,
and maintain a balanced fire,
or if it even makes sense yet in print
but I'm glad it has clicked for now.

Virginity, Vermont & Stevie Nicks

And then there was the time Stevie Nicks took my virginity.
Well.
Not directly, not personally.
But I was home for the first summer of college,
and I'd had my first broken heart,
and I was hell bent on making someone pay.
I wanted that sweet boy who'd loved me for two years,
and then married someone else without bothering to break up with me,
to return from his Presidential Support duties with the Marine Corps
for long enough
for me to punch him
so hard
that my heart would unbreak,
to the rhythm of his cracking mandible...
but he didn't.
He stayed thousands of miles away
and he stayed married to someone else,
(someone I would later find out he loved with a pale immitation of what he'd felt for me,
someone he would spend years feeling stuck with);
maybe if I'd known those things sooner,
I wouldn't have felt the need to punish him vicariously.
He stayed a villain in my mind,
and a haunting memory of sweetness in my heart.
And when I arrived home for the summer,
heart in shreds,
I was just trying to survive.
So when my new crush introduced me to his less attractive
(and also less gay, as it would turn out) friend,
I let myself date him, passively hoping it would help me to heal.
I pushed and pushed him
to tell me how many times he'd been in love,
how many girls he'd slept with.
I was sure I was the only one who'd loved so deeply, and lost;
I was sure that I was the Last American Virgin.
And I was sure I would always regret not having
my one and only First Time be with my first love.
Instead, I had his unworthy successor,
his understudy, the imposter who'd shown up
to try to fit into the Charly-shaped hole in my heart.
When he told me that he'd loved three times;
had sex with three girls,
I saw the symmetry
and the intense desire to be loved again overtook me;
I believed that if I could get him to have sex with me
that would mean that he was in love with me,
and I would have avenged that spineless Marine of mine.
To throw a little more fuel on the fire,
my best friends were describing
in glorious detail
their various sexual pursuits from our year apart,
at colleges spread across the country like a handful of rice thrown.
They made it sound so much better than
eternal salvation
or whatever the fuck it was
that my Bishop insisted would be mine
if I didn't let a boy put his hand above my knee
or under my shirt or
whatever other dirty little images
that (adulterous) asshole painted for us.
Their giggled details outshone his stern threats
by a whole spectrum of light.
Their instructions on how to give head sounded like the map
that would lead me to a place where my poor little heart would finally mend.
Their eyes sparkled and I couldn't stand to not know for myself.
So.
I spent time with the Replacement Boyfriend all summer,
mildly disgusted by his tobacco chewing,
not terribly comfortable with his thrash metal,
slightly scared of his older sister,
but unwilling to be deterred.
I can still see the cloud of smoke hanging lazily above the small kitchen,
as I learned to play Hearts with his parents and him that summer
(which is kind of ironic because I was definitely playing with his heart).
I didn't set out to hurt him,
I just needed to be needed,
and he felt lucky to have such a sweet girl,
so I told myself it was fair.
But really, we were from different worlds -
we had so little in common,
and we just didn't belong together.

Despite his preference for music that scarred my ears,
he admitted to a secret Stevie Nicks fetish.
She happened to be touring that summer,
but the closest venue was a 6-hour drive,
Saratoga Springs Performing Arts Center
in upstate New York.
I wanted to give him a birthday present
before we both headed back to college,
so, the second choice and I headed inland,
and west, west, west -
over Maine's mountainous border with New Hampshire,
across its forests
(which should not have been distiguishable from Maine's,
but somehow were)
and made our way to the far side of Vermont.
We were welcomed by his college roommate,
whose hand-crafted log cabin nestled deep in the forest
(but, really, isn't every house in Vermont nestled deep in a forest?).
Sometime the next morning,
we got a call from the amphitheater:
there would be thunderstorms all day and into the night,
so Stevie Nicks would not be performing.
He was
disappointed?
annoyed?
(angry)
something like that...
He went to bed early
and I sat up talking to his friend
over a firepit and wine coolers.
When I went upstairs
I undressed and slid into bed next to him.
(My bed was untouched, across the hall.)
He stirred and I kissed him until he kissed back.
It was so dark, a starless night behind the crowd of trees outside the window.
Mr. Penultimate knew I was angling to give him my virginity,
and I knew he wouldn't take it until he loved me,
so when I started to pull his boxers away from his body
he paused, asked if I was sure -
and I wanted to ask him the same thing,
but I didn't.
He didn't taste like Charly,
he didn't feel like Charly,
with his scratchy beard and stocky build...
I kissed him and kissed him
trying to conjure up the lean, wiry boy I'd loved with all my heart
(and most of my body).
I almost growled, or maybe did,
because his voice was threatening my illusion -
I pressed onward,
and he reluctantly followed.
The poor guy knew I wasn't really ready,
and he knew I was breaking a rule I felt strongly about -
he knew I felt I was committing a huge sin.
But, he was only human...
so he kept pace with me
as the ferocity of my kisses grew to envelope us both.
My body responded, even if my heart didn't.
I remember how it felt to think of his body as a foreign place,
something I could negotiate, but not know.
I didn't crave him, I didn't memorize him;
I allowed him.
I focused on the rhythm, and on blocking out the smell of his skin
(it was all wrong)
I focused on the black, black ceiling -
not looking at him, not touching him anywhere that wasn't strictly necessary.
His rhythm slowed as he pressed into me,
my breath catching at the discomfort, the fullness.
He tried to talk again, some gruff pronouncement of adoration probably,
but I didn't hear him, lost in the echoes of my own mind.
Tears slipped down my cheeks and took with them my hopes -
   hope to hurt Charly with this,
   hope to ever be worthy of my religion's blessings again,
   hope to be worthy of real love again.
The thunder clapped and rain poured down on the thin roof.
He got up to find a towel, and to close the window.
I felt hollow and restless.
I curled up in a ball, overshelmed with the desire to go home,
but I think what I really wanted was to go back in time.
I wanted to be a child again and start over;
I wanted to have never loved, so that I would not feel the pain of loss.
I wanted stupid Frank to disappear in a puff of smoke,
and be erased from my memory forever.
I lay in the dark, feeling triumphant and defeated all at once.
I didn't want to move, but when he curled up beside me,
and said, "I love you, babe," I wanted to throw up,
or throw something
at him,
so I just squeezed his arm and said, "I gotta pee,"
and I went across the hall instead.
I slipped into the cool sheets
and felt the stillness of the sleeping house,
the closeness of these wildly unfamiliar trees.
If this was one of my fantasies,
here's where I would wait for him to fall asleep,
then slip into his friend's room,
and look again for the missing piece of my puzzle,
but it's not a fantasy, it's just the sad truth.
I did continue looking, though, after we broke up,
with greater and greater success.

Roots are for Trees

I have spent my adult life
dragging my Self

and my stuff

from one corner of the country to another

and back again

and then plopping down in the middle,

a pouting child –

but then one more jagged run toward the northeastern coast,

flopping down a bit too far inland,

stubbornly finished with all the upheaval.

Each time, I left a chunk of Me behind.

Each time, the landscape of my dreams was altered in irreversible ways.

I can’t find my desire for Maine’s crushed-rock fingers of land

or the choppy gray-blue ocean they press into;

I can’t find my certainty

my roots

my belonging –

or even my longing.

I float, adrift on this giant land mass,

remembering the rumble of my father’s lobster boat

and the swell and surge of the unending waves beneath us;

I have lost my sea legs,

instead stumbling and swaying here on the firm ground,

willing it to be a blustery, frigid day in early spring

on a white-capped expanse of deeper colder water

than most people I’ve lived near could even imagine -

water that they would only want to skim over the surface of,

or, better, look at from the fog-shrouded wharf 
as they await the return of the catch-laden boat.

I sit
(like an empty lobster trap

hung with sea moss, 
drying in the cold gray light)

smelling of salt, 

tears for the home I’ve lost my way back to.

The Wren

She broods -
an island of pouting
in the sea of a happy life.
She embarks on a restlessness,
purposely diverting from the path of calm goodness.
She just wants
a slight
detour.
--to slip through the fabric of time
that is woven with memories, roots, commitments,
and plunge into a separate journey
(falling, climbing, seeking),
a parenthetical aside in this joy-filled life.

Hunger

It fills me
and gnaws its way out through my laughing face.
My joy pulls you to me,
luring you close enough for me to
bite.

Spring/Sprang/Sprung

Winter didn't seem to want to start this year

then it didn't seem to want to end.

It kept fading away under the warmth of the sun,

then charging back in to blanket us with white.

Today the sun was brighter than expected,

the tinted glass weakly shielding my eyes against it;

the wind was colder than expected,

my light fleece jacket failing to intercept it

before contact with my pale, hidden skin.

The sky was bluer than expected,

no clouds to mar its completeness.

My walk along the busy road was muffled –

music came between the whoosh of passing cars

the rumble of halting trucks 
and my ears;

the world was blurred around the edges,

since I'd left my glasses on my desk.

I was cocooned in my own thoughts,

bobbing along the shoulder;

you were there.

Saturdaze

The afternoon spread out before them:
a gift.

They lolled in soft chairs, 

delighting in the lack of structure.
They had no where to go,
nothing to do,
just the luxury of time to squander.

Then she got some startling news

and he leapt into action

while she scrambled to gain purchase -

somehow she needed to fully comprehend it,

digest it,

before she could overcome inertia

but he

he was sheer velocity,

hurtling through the seconds, minutes, 

minutes stacking up as he lifted, carried, wrapped, moved

things -

his temper rising with the tempo of his movements

as she stammered and stalled and tried to hold time at a distance -

wait!

just let me!

hold on!

But she couldn't find her footing.

They volleyed in a stilted fever pitch -

each trying to make their case -

out of sync, and overlapping,

his fear like a wind at his back,

hers an anchor dragging her under the ocean's choppy surface.

Later,

the threat contained, neutralized for now,

they would retreat upstairs,

naked,

since their clothes now baked in an angry dryer.

We might as well...

he smiled with a mixture of suggestiveness and a shrug, 

as if to say, I mean...we're here, so why not?

They giggled, and dove for the crisp white-with-blue-paisley sheets,

sweeping the puffy white duvet  to the far side of the vast bed.

After,

she snaked a hand out from under the pile of bedding and satisfaction,

finding the top drawer pull by touch,

and slipped the small choclate bar out of its secret spot.

She let the medically infused confection disolve on her tongue,

the flavor of the plant a wicked reminder 

that she would soon be floating on its currents.

The afternoon had crept into evening

while they were distracted,

and they tumbled into pants-shirts-shoes

and out into the dimming world.

Dinner tasted better than usual,

the Nutella shake might have been the manna from a christian legend...

it felt like heaven on her tongue, 

and she was connected to its Italian provenance,

and to all the other devotees.

A new religion.

What Life Hands You

She drove with the beach at her back 

and the sun in her eyes,

heading for the desert --

heading for Leo and his lemons.

She looked forward to collecting the sunny, rough-skinned fruit,

and to seeing her fella.

She was too old to have a boyfriend,

(but she hadn't planned on being a divorcee again at 75).

The citrus trees dotted the perimeter of his parched land,

keeping out unwanted gazes,

but doing nothing to deter the rattlers

which in turn kept her from ever feeling quite at home there.

She peeked around every bush she passed,

carefully stepping across the porch

and taking the last few steps quickly, in case a coiled beast lay in wait.

She hated snakes,
but it was worth it
for Leo
and those lemons.

Do you remember when...?

Do you remember when blogging was

kind of a big deal?

Do you remember when we poured our souls into keyboards,

and connected like our own mini worldwide web?

We were a microcosm of art and beauty and sex and rock n' roll.

We were raw and joyful and angry and loud.

But

then

we all grew up.

We got too busy to

get busy, wink-wink,

and worked too hard 

to work it hard, nudge-nudge.

But it's time for another round.

Past time, maybe.

Time to dig in and shove the Self out into the public sphere again.

--Artist Formerly Known as the Bored Housewife