Sunday Sermon

 It's not a sermon

Exactly

But my hope for us all

A day to rest

From my own thoughts

And desires. 

Both are massive, weighty, enormous burdens. 

I will float and doze and dream and 

Maybe

Find relief, refreshment, repentance.

Laughter with two of my favorite girls among the trees, 

Along the creek. 

Yes. 

I can be whole again... 

Someday. 

Hikers' Hitch

Remember this place?

I remember you,

even though you weren’t still there when I arrived.

I remember facing my fear of falling

as I walked along this narrow rock.

I remember feeling stronger than I ever had

and feeling like maybe I could fly

but grateful I didn’t have to.

I remember hearing the growl of a motorcycle echoing from a few years before,

and the determination of a kid who wandered this earth untethered –

I didn’t even know you existed, but I wanted to be near you.

I wasn’t ready for your untamed growling giggles yet

but I stood at the top of this rock and knew that someday I would be.

Fatal Devotion

 I am a crisp sheet of parchment

Golden, mottled

Words scratched across my surface with the silky black splashes of a quill

He is a flame

Licking at my edges

Gentle, warm

Until, with the hushed sound of my own insistent whimpers, he engulfs me all at once, and charges through me, leaving only ashes.

Fatherhood

Your face looks tinged with happiness 

when viewed sideways, upside down...

Striking is the love, the tenderness of parental bond.

When seen directly the mood shifts -

You are tired, 

you worry, 

you miss him already even while he's snuggled into your side, because he'll be leaving soon.

You want to give him the world, 

but you know he can't hold it. 

So you'll keep hauling it along on your shoulders - 

they grow broader, 

you never struggle to stand upright, 

but the hollow ache grows vast within you at times. 

He deserves to be elevated by all that you have to give him 

and you feel helpless, 

barred from this benefaction.

I am awed and humbled.

Home, Again

Shooshing along familiar routes

under the hush of winter's eve

and the welcoming beacon of a full moon, 

we sneak into town.

Glimpses of dark, twinkling movement on either side,

we wend our way between bays and inlets,

across rivers and past harbors.

Each mile draws a deeper breath,

a gentler smile.

A sleeping Main St. greets us in Wiscasset, then Thomaston...

We roll and coast along the unfurled ribbon of Buttermilk Lane,

its marsh lit by the cool moon glow.

We shoot past the runways

and as we turn away from the head of the bay,

(west, maybe, like the street's name)

memories wash over me of all the years my parents drove along this very spot.

Memories of each of them, strong and capable -

     The years of the crab business,

the years of running us to church and dances and school and everything else "in town".

The drives they made without us.

The cold in our bones some winters when the car's heater crapped out -

but driving my giggling friends and I the 2 hours each way to that swoonerific concert anyway.

All of the beauty in the acts of love and sacrifice and expertly cooked meals.

All of the library trips and the camping trips and the beach walks...

The windy days on the rumbling lobster boat, or warm days picking berries. 

These trees and roads are suffused with my childhood,

with all the building blocks of who I became.

I don't stop to savor it often.

Usually I skim upon the surface,

cramming new experiences on top of the old so fast and urgently... 

Tonight, I let myself miss my parents for a moment.

And maybe I'll do it again some day.

Baptism By Arias

We sit in the dark, 

at the top of the arena, 

rich notes filling the air. 

I wear a dress, heels. 

You're dashing in your suit. 

I slip my hand under your waist band and down, 

lightly stroking, 

movements constricted, 

hungry for more. 

Furtive kisses, 

Stolen nibbles, 

Fearing to draw attention...

Your fingers plunge deftly into wetness, I whimper...

You show no mercy, 

relentlessly bestowing pleasure, 

conjuring moans that blend with the mournful notes of the soprano on stage. 

Panting, wild-eyed, I grab your hand - 

We stumble out to the deserted corridor and into the first bathroom we find. 

I tear at your belt buckle, and pull your hardness into me as you shove me against the wall, sinking in deep...

Frayed

       around the edges

Chomping at the bit... 

Restless, searching. 

Seeking stimulation of the parts of my mind that fill me...

My pleasure center sits empty, like a rec center in the summer... Abandoned for bike rides and dips in the lake. 

I want to grab a stranger (or a friend) and run away into the night, start over, forget everything else exists... (except my family) 

I have it all, but I want more.

Frisson

I am a growly, impatient rainbow lately...

Ready to rumble, always. 

Tension bursts through to snappishness.

I feel it under the surface just simmering. 

Am I changing? Or just fed up?

I want more. 

And less. 

I want some quiet, some space. 

I want everything to be my way, or I will howl. 

I want to sleep long and well. 

Then maybe my body will allow my mind peace. 

I want to escape all the emotions that seem to run this show. 

I want to feel the un-name-able anger seep out of me, replaced by the joy that usually floats me along... 

I want! 

I want... 

I want. 

Same

I just heard this for the first time, and I must say - me too. On my happy days, at least... 

She comes in colors everywhere... 

Notes from the Air, Vegas Bound

Surfing the clouds

Chased by the sun -

Stealing hours

Thoughts of you 

tumble through 

the lines of treble and bass 

that flow around me.

The past and the future are blurred in my mind - 

both feel like creations of my own, 

neither rooted in reality more than the other. 

No telling which way is up.

Cherry Poppin Mama

To paraphrase Katy Perry -

I fucked a girl

and I

more than liked it.

I'm starry-eyed,

can't remember why I was so fascinated with dicks 

for so damn long.

Skin so smooth

kisses so...delicate.

Her passion for me?

wilder than the ocean on a March day

raw, but sweet and soft and warm and welcoming

pleasure

Don't worry, dicks, I'll be back. You're my first and forever love.

But this....this was like a rainbow bathing my clit......

Food for Thought

***** explicit ******

I've been craving the taste of your cock - 

Picture perfect, lickable... 

I just slid fingers into wetness and imagined it for rather long, quietly moaning moments, actually... And I'm ready for more. Maybe I could straddle your lap, in that long flowing dress... I like wearing tall heels, they make my legs look long and fierce. But they'd be lost under that skirt... Sitting there, unwittingly, you smile in my direction. I smile back, mischief surging through me.... I'm straddling you before you can blink, worried about the crowd around us. I grind against you, slowly at first. You swallow hard and grip my hips, always on alert for her eagle eye. Fingers probing for panty lines... Finding none, the fabric bunched in your hands, I am wet against your bulging jeans. I lean in and whisper against your ear, cleavage close enough to lick, but you are frozen in place. "Come on..." I say. "Just slide one hand under my skirt... No one will notice..." I made sure she was detained far from our view... Your grip tightens and I bite my lower lip, arching my back a little, as I rub against your achingly hard cock. I pull my skirt up to my thigh, press my face to your neck, "Please?" I'm panting, just a little, almost a whine. You let out a shaky breath and loosen your grip.... Fingers finding their way to wetness... (Like mine are now... Fuck....) I reach under my skirt and pull down your zipper. Your eyes widen, casting about for anyone who might notice us - you're certain we are a spectacle.... Your heart races. Nobody sees us, they all focus on their own conversations, their own insecurities, lost in the thick hum of voices and music. With a throaty sigh I release your cock from its denim bindings and lift slightly to press you inside my wet warmth. Lips parted, eyes closing, my head falls back as I ride you in shallow rhythm, barely perceptible to the casual observer. Your eyes water from the pain of delayed pleasure, cock so deeply enveloped in my slick grip, but unable to thrust with the speed of chasing an orgasm.... (Fuck, I'm nearly cumming and I haven't touched myself since the beginning.... I can feel the suspense....) Just one deep thrust, and quick withdrawal, and once more - in so deep your fingers leave bruises as you pull me into you, you forget your surroundings and wail in release as you fill me with thick ropes...

Talking to myself

 I always seem to want too much - too deep, too wild, too grand. I want to be everything to everyone and gorge myself on their love. 

Today, separate from all that, I don't know how to choose... Maybe I'll just answer all the questions wrong, so I don't even have a choice to make. Maybe I'll stop feeding my own daydreams and instead focus on the career path. But when you find a friend who feels like home..? How do you walk away? Why would you? 

Control

I cede my will

    exert my will

 Let you 

control me 

Give permission 

to hold the reins 

of my submission 

Musings

 I think I need to just start journaling again.

But it's weird to think about where I would do that...because I'd rather be talking to someone, than no one. If that makes sense? 

But I need to clear away the gunk if I'm going to create.

So maybe journal in the morning, fiction in the evening?

I need to get into a rhythm. 

I need to be selfish, if I'm going to write.

But my loves matter more to me than writing, so I choose them.

It's becoming quiet again... they are drifting off, to their own adult lives...

I will silence the echoes of their receding footsteps with stories and poems.

Regretable

I want more time.

But then...

When I have more time,

I use it foolishly.

So.

Whaddo I know?

Still Missing

Today my sweater matches the morning sky

and I don't know why 

but that reminds me of you 

and how very 

not here 

you are. 

Relief

I loved you like some people love Jesus. 

But I'm no longer a believer.

Fairest Lilith

I don't have a blanket attraction to women,

the way that I do for men.

I hunger for male bounty,

while I wrap myelf in lush, 

easily procured love from women.

I remember Jon Long (who wasn't),

his dark eyes, long hair,

Camaro and guitar. 

I remember him asking,

as we lay in tangled sheets,

if I would fuck a girl.

When I said no, he asked why.

I remember how solemnly he absorbed my reply:

because they don't turn me on.

I remember the time Becky and I made out,

as foreplay for our men, 

a pair of brothers.

I remember being mildly repulsed by her touch, 

but wondering if I would enjoy it 

if it was someone else.

Years have passed,

decades.

I dream of two men pleasuring each other, 

but only rarely do I dream of women.

But then I met a girl...

who flirts like a man 

and is soft and sweet 

and the essence of what I love about women.

She is beautiful, too, but I'm not sure that matters.

I imagine 

lying on the floor, 

staring at the smoke as it billows toward the ceiling.

I imagine turning to her and asking just what is her type.

I catch my breath,

(because what if)

and I imagine she just smiles

and I imagine reaching out to touch her face

and I think 

         that if she keeps smiling, 

that I would lean in

and if she leaned in too

I imagine - 

the delicate touch of her lips to mine

a softness,

and then a parting,

tongues darting,

a breath released like the whisper of a moan,

the sweetness of a pleasure restrained,

skimming the surface of desire.

I imagine that we would part

after long moments

with starry eyes,

blinking

and deeply blushing.

I would bite my lip

and look to her for approval -

I didn't cross the line, did I?

She would smile back, so big,

and shake her head,

then kiss my nose.

We would disolve into giggles and fall to our backs.

It's easier for me to imagine sweaty

urgent unions

hands groping for ingress

bodies pressing together,

interlocking.

These scenes are usually ones I populate with a man or two, 

drowning me with pleasure, 

but it is no longer foreign 

to imagine

the intensity 

of pairing with a woman 

filling that tableau -

the softness of curves against curves

the wetness created and filled - 

with knowing fingers or tongue.

      - and I know it would be so hard to stop 

myself 

from being lost 

in that kiss.

Deterioration Station

I feel like I've lost something. 

Words were the brush with which I filled the canvas 

that spools out behind me with the passing of time. 

I carefully chose the adjectives, the adverbs, 

and the stacks of prepositional phrases 

strung together with conjunctions 

weaving between commas 

and jumping over dashes.