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.

Monster

You say you may
have a monster inside,
but I see the light that rushes through every opening -
your eyes, your smile -
a soft glow emanating from the pores of your skin.
You think this thing in you is a monster
because you seek to please an absent god.
This part of you…
your desires, your fears –
the least-refined part,
the roughest, dirtiest, darkest part -
I picture a mossy cavern,
wide and dripping with the earth’s cool sweat –
this inner core of you
is not a place where a beast lies curled and awaiting prey
(would you be its prey,
or would it compel you to prey on others?).
It is a place where
the raw essence of you is rooted,
where your thoughts are powerless,
where it is your instinct that propels you
into motion;
it is where your roots
connect you to the earth,
where your heart
finds its rhythm.
Don’t deny yourself
the pleasure
of being
authentic.
You are exquisite,
all the way down to your roots.

Scraps of Poetry from the Road

You awoke the dragon
but it has only just occurred to me
that you have no intention
of taming it.

            ~ ~ ~

There was Jon Long,
who wasn't,
and John English
who only spoke french.

            ~ ~ ~

I push so many boundaries 

that I'm surprised maps don't spontaneously combust 

in my presence.

            ~ ~ ~

The more distracted you are
the less attracted I am;
and yet I remain a tattered little moth,
drawn to the flaming mass of you.

            ~ ~ ~

Those other boys?
They are placebos;
you are my addiction.

Super, Man

Sometimes I see in you the Clarkest of Kents.
I feel your fragility,
your flaws,
your utter
breakable
                ness.

But other times...

you are bulletproof,
able to fly.
I feel your power and
stand in reverence;
I see the expanse of your mind
spreading out around us all
as you enfold the subtlety of human grace
in your Spock-like logic.
You conduct a symphony of humanity,
the herd pressing around you,
hoping for a bit of wisdom to filter through
or more likely,
just drawn to your light
without any sense of why,
or of how close they are to Greatness.
I usually see in you a smooth perfection, 
a wall of strength.
But in the sunlight
you are dappled with just a
hint of cruelty,
a dash of conceit,
a whisper of carnality.
Together,
this makes the palette of you
even richer.
But I'm not fooled by glasses;
Clark Kent can fly
just as high
   without his cape.

Filled/Hunger

Sometimes I say he is my Prozac,
because I was a ball of boy-crazy
pheremones before I met him.
For 33 years
my entire focus was boys -
crushing on them,
chasing them,
dating them.
That ended when I met him,
like flipping a switch.
Finding him has been
the realization of unconditional love.
He satisfied every craving I'd ever had.
It is a relief -
like coming home after a long absence.
That, plus mutual adoration,
year after year,
is my salvation.
And it might seem kind of weird
how utterly devoted I am to him -
or maybe it just seems a little weird to me
because of the wildness that lives inside me.
Having a crush
is a very natural state for me -
my brain wants that to be the flavor
of every ounce of affection I feel
for any man I'm not related to.
It is
   inconvenient
at times.

I would live a thousand lives all at once,
if I could,
but instead
I'll just love
a thousand times.

Invisible Sins

I see right through you
Or is that just my own shadow?
I condemn you
For doing things I've imagined doing myself.
Which is not to say you aren't guilty.

Letdown

And I was so mad at you.
But I guess I should have been mad at myself
because I dove in pretty deep -
allowing you to captain my ship
allowing you to inspire me
(like a muse)
but I am not amused
anymore.
I misjudged you,
and that sends a slim wave of grief across my heart.
I wish you were real.
I miss the adrenaline rush of electric connection.
I miss the sparks flickering across my synaptic gaps,
neuron to neuron,
Zip, zip, zip!
You were the catalyst
I am the epiphany.
And now I can't get past
my own revelation.

R. E. M. Sleep/Religion Lost

Deep in the folds of my sleeping mind

I stood in the foyer of my childhood church. 

It was the present,
and I was crisply aware that I didn't belong. 

I looked about, waiting for Tim, the head of our congregation when I was a teenager;

I wanted to unburden myself, and considered (skeptically) whether I might find relief through this ancient empty ritual.

When I entered his office

It was you

Standing there to greet me.

I smiled, knowing you would open your arms wide enough to hold all my troubles. 

I sat and you leaned across your desk,

Staring intently into my eyes as I spoke, softly, steadily. 

I felt as light as air

And a little smug - 

You are no preacher, no man ordained by god. 

And yet

You'd been able to bless me. 

I knelt before you

And held your eyes at I unbuckled your belt. 

I felt the warmth of your body against my skin

And I took you into my mouth. 

The dream slowed down here,

And I traveled through time

Relishing the taste of you, the feel of my tongue as it swirled around the smooth flesh filling my mouth... 

I don't know how dreams work, 

But I lived in that moment for what felt like hours....days....

And then I stood 

and you smiled and took my hand

And then I woke up. 

Come Inside

I wonder what you would think
if you knew
how truly
filthily
dirty
my mind is?
Can you even conceive of the delicious things
I would do
to you?
You have probably learned
not to open the gates
to that particular flood of images,
and you certainly have more self-control than I,
or you would have a string of decomposing affairs in your wake.
Or am I the only one
who strains against the confines of society?
And no, it's not my lack of gods
that allows this portal to gape open
(like my legs under this skirt)
but maybe it proves to me
that they couldn't exist,
none of them,
(The ornery little imps).
But if they did exist, even just one of them,
I would find Him and look him dead in the godly eye
and ask him what it's all for.
And then I would slide my hand up his thigh
and grab him by the long beard
and swallow his entire being
into my own.
Because
I'm not exactly prideful,
but
I am the only god I need.
It's easy to say that when you don't believe in gods, I suppose.
But I am the one that can make my world heaven or hell.
Yours too, if you duck behind the curtain and join me here in my daydreams...

Dirty Thoughts About You

Today what I wanted most

was to find a giant beanbag chair or couch or hammock

and curl up with you and just doze, chat, doze...
and then there are days 

when what I would want,

if I were given the gift of that proximity

would be to slide hands to hidden places and 

press clothing up, down - away -

until I could envelope you in soft wetness

and sigh into your neck,

a tangle of limbs and slow, 

rhythmic connection,

sleepiness building to urgency

and then the melting spread of pleasure and release...

Polished Silverware

I could have fallen asleep at 8.

But I didn't drag my weary 

body and mind

from the embrace of that fat leather chair until nearly 10.

And then

As I burrowed into the fluffy perfection of my bed, 

I murmured, 

"Spoon me for a minute, Love..."

And I could see his smile through my eyelids,
so of course 

he obliged, 

and of course 

spooning turned to forking, 

as it always does. 

And then I was wide awake 

until 11,

and something woke me at 2.

I feel like an old, old woman today - 

Foggy, slow...so, so tired, 

yet shiny and new. 

Frazzle

Breathing in just sort of happens

but the breathing out

feels like an unwinding of all the tension...

all the 

too-many-thoughts

all the 

unfinished plans.

I'm sure I'm forgetting important pieces of the

pie (night)

important aspects of the lovely surprises I'm planning 

for the lov-ed ones I'm 

loving...

I should relax more and breathe more and remember

that's why I'm doing all these things

and enjoy the process of creating the conditions for memories to be made.

Reset Button

It was a perfect day,
started off with a bang.
Well rested
well bedded,
I headed
into the day like a train shooting down the tracks.
Stolen sips of forbidden caffeine
(warm, hazelnutty),
dragged me through my to-do list
slashing through completed items like jet-fueled Zoro.
The evening brought dinner with friends
and baseball with enemies
(same people, different colored shirts),
and a victory that didn't feel as good to me as it would have to them.

Through it all,
my mind swam with images.
Echoes of Friday night's lopsided conversation
and tilted world
bouncing around in my peripheral -
did I really say that?
Did you?
It's hard to remember that foggy world,
through all of today's clarity,
but I'm pretty sure there was some fucked up shit that went down
     verbally.
But I still wanted more.
I don't even know what itch that scratched,
but it did -
those conversations
make me stretch contentedly
like a cat getting up from a long, cozy nap.

Full Moon Fever

I'm feverish
talking more than usual
(hardly seems possible, I know)
and entirely without a filter.
I type all the words
and then I delete half of them -
the world shrinking back to its usual size when I do so;
contained,
breathable,
navigable.
I feel almost unhinged,
but remain connected more securely than it seems.
I flutter in the wind,
free and wild,
but not quite out of control.
No, I like to say
I have no self-control,
but I exercise an
utterly extraordinary
amount of self-control
every
(damn)
day
when I manage to refrain from touching you at all,
let alone in all the places I want to.

The moon is fat, round, glowing -
filling the horizon with its cool, reflected sunlight.
And I am tossed about by its gravitational pull on the earth -
the tides of me ebb and flow,
a calm lapping of waves on sand
and a great arcing surf,
each in its turn.

Reminiscence

Sweater season is BACK!
And that reminded me of this post.
Yum.

You

You are a field of calm strength.

I could hurl myself against you,

with giggles or growls

for an eternity,

and you would never be breached.

But 

don't you 

sometimes

just want to lie in the sunshine

in the cool green grass

and let the whole world flow through you?

Because it could,

it does - 

just clear your mind

and allow it all, 

the peaceandjoy
the birthanddeath
the ebbandflow the laughter...

it could all be contained in you

or me.

And don't you sometimes wish you could take some of that

and let it flow out of you and into me?

Bodies are the metaphor and the reality;

they are too real to be beautiful

but so beautiful in their realness.

I don't know

any

thing.

Scattered Stars

Watching Lady Gaga in the movie tonight,
I was struck by her character's inability to believe she was worthy of fame
all because of her nose...
And the power she held
in spite of
(the nose on her face)
was kind of thrilling.
It kind of reminded me of
The Ex
just the other day
showering me with praise,
(the you-should-believe-in-yourself kind)
and then declaring that instead of trying to please everyone
all the time,
I should consider
that it might be time
for me to tell them all
to just
FUCK OFF.
Hm...
I like it.

Well, anyway.
The movie had me.
It folded me into its embrace,
and fed me all the goodness I crave -
a scruffy-as-fuck Bradley Cooper,
deep, bluesy rock,
a girl with a big nose
(the likes of which I haven't seen since  Jennifer Gray in Dirty Dancing)
and an empahsis on writing -
oh sure, her voice was the highlight,
rich and husky and so Gaga-licious,
but she wrote her own songs,
and that was cooool, man, cool...
There were cheesy parts;
and I hated the ending,
but maybe I won't think about the part that made me cry
and why it made me cry,
or the long conversation I had with nobody,
while the final song was being sung.
Because that shit is complicated.
And I'd rather focus on the way it felt to be Gaga for 2 hours,
and to think of the soft rain
that misted the air
as we wove our way through the darkness
and back to our happy little home;
I'd rather lean back in my writing chair and smile
when my sweet man says,
Yeah, but your tits are better than Gaga's
(I giggle my assent, and say, But I'll take her tiny waist any day...)
and then I turn up Ella Fitzgerald and remind him that I need to concentrate...
Not that this quite counts as writing,
it's sort of the palate cleansing, the decluttering of the brain waves,
but when he speaks my thoughts scatter like a bowl of rice knocked from a counter...

I've been listening to the Lumineers all week.
The last time I listened to this album so incessantly
was on my ten-thousand-mile roadtrip,
from the center of our country to the east coast,
then the west coast,
and back to center -
(like a warm-up stretch, but larger-than-life).
This album pulls me back to that hot, long summer -
all those hours of solitude,
driving from state to state,
ocean to ocean.
I keep getting stuck on "Dead Sea,"
because it played as I drove through Utah's Salt Flats,
and out to the Great Salt Lake,
which I used to hear described as America's Dead Sea.
That drive,
and subsequently that album,
stir up some memories,
like a pile of fallen leaves.

Dry/Heat

Soft red sands dance across broad curves of red rock.

The heat presses down from the cool blue sky,

presses up from the oven-like earth,

sucking the water from my cells.

I will dry up and tumble away

like the husk of a once-green bush

blowing across the backdrop of an old Western.

A rhythm (like small beans in a maraca)

erases my breath as I pause to scan--

the coil of scales in shades of brown

perches on the far embankment,

and I breathe again.

The memory of a stream,

this arroyo is a note left to remind the desert to run out for supplies—

pick up some eggs, bread, and definitely               
                     some water.