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...