Who am I?

This song is my anthem,
my anguish.

Melodious Thunks

There's a melancholy
to their melodies
that speaks a little too directly
to my own soul.
So sometimes my chest gets heavy
in an urgent way and I have to escape their beauty.

Threeway My Way

**EXPLICIT**

I want to step close and speak quietly
My breath hot on your neck, tickling your ear
I say, what about him? I think he would join us.
Your grip on my wrist tightens, your breath quickens.
I smile in response and drag my teeth across your earlobe.
Your voice low and husky, you say, go ask...
My fingers skim across your stubbled neck as I move away from you, pressing through the crowd toward him.
You watch me touch his shoulder
You stop breathing as I lean in to make my case.
You fight the urge to run away,
to at least look away.
You catch his eye as he follows my gesture
His smile makes your heart gallop
He slips an arm around my waist and propels me back across the crowded space and you stand.
He smiles and tosses his head toward the exit
We are all in a dream, floating through the hallways, the elevator, fumbling with the card and the door and the lights then each other
He kisses you first then takes off my shirt while you revel in the memory of his mouth on yours
He fills his palm with my breast while reaching for more of your awe-filled kisses
I should feel like an intruder, but I don't -
Watching your hunger for him fuels my desire for you
And I want you to touch him
He pulls away from you and kisses me deeply
I taste you on his lips and moan a little, peeling away from him to taste you myself
You grin in wonder and kiss me hard
I unbuckle your belt and place his hand on your waistband
He kneels before you and slowly unbuttons your fly
You press your face into my cleavage and release my bra hook
I feel you moan into my chest as he takes you into his mouth
Your grip on me tightens
And your breathing becomes shallow
Your eyes slide across mine on your way to closing them
And I know that you know how much I love you
You brace yourself and surrender completely to the pleasure of his mouth and tongue and the rough hands that are so gentle with you

Sea Sadness

The octopus and I
curl in hues of blues -
or is that just my soul?

Bipolar Order

Half of my genes came from the man
who was knitted from the wool of symptoms
detailed on page 123 of the DSM-V.
He was so much more than that,
it should go without saying,
but there is so much to say -
his words were often an endless stream
of slow-paced inner musings
spoken at whatever audience he'd secured (trapped) -
his dissection of the various methods of securing an object to a flatbed
or the only approved approach to changing one's oil;
on a good day,
it might be the intricate outline
of his plans to start another business -
from a dating hotline
to firewood (chopped/delivered)
to a prescient but unactualized taxi alternative.
My words -
an endless stream of teenage drama
and delight -
(Who's dating whom?
What to wear to the dance?
Will he call?)
never aimed at him,
meant for anyone else -
crunched under foot
and stripped of their ebullience
by his arrival.

And then I let the other half of my genes
(perfect and whole in every way)
be the bridge between us
a relief for us all,
except her, perhaps.
We always have enough to say
to fill every moment
of the time we carve out
for each other
through the week,
from across town or,
for most of my adulthood,
across the country.
Our connection didn't tether him,
only us before, after, always.
And then
he dove out of existence
on 1/23.
The page is still in the book,
but his story has ended.

Missing Peace

It was Tuesday
and I missed you
while the tulips bloomed.
I missed you on Wednesday
until the bath water went cold.
On Thursday I looked for you
and you weren't there.
I missed you on Friday
so much that I couldn't go home -
so I ordered gin-and-tonics
until I ended up at the strip club
where I looked for your face
in the bottom of a bottle.
On Saturday I woke up with a hangover
eclipsed by the aching of my heart.
On Sunday I went to church
and prayed for your return -
I knelt until my knees bled,
and begged until my throat rasped.
On Monday I awoke panting
you were nowhere
you were nowhere
you are gone

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.