Raining, Snowing, Sleeting Men

Maybe I don’t want to feel so very

heavily

staggeringly

much

anymore.

And maybe I deserve a break.

Everyone does, right?

Maybe I’m riding the waves of all the emotions that drive through me,

like a weather pattern with no pattern.

I am their hostage, their unwilling passenger.

I ride along and hold on for dear life.

I bask in the sunny days and feel sure I am holding the reins at last,

but then the storm front gathers just off screen – I feel it coming sometimes,

and fold in on myself in defense against its battering forces,

but more often I am blindsided by the sheer onslaught of anguish or desire or despair.

Years of practice and introspection have led me to the only peace I can find in those times –

to remind myself that every emotion is temporary.

But when I’m buried under 8 tons of heartbreak-filled dirt and rocks,

it’s really hard to remember that little ray of hope.

But that is when I have given the reins to someone else,

voluntarily surrendered the ownership of my own heart.

I don’t know how else to love –

all in, so fully open and welcoming that I am easily torn to shreds by my own out-of-control imagination.

Closed

I stand at the door to you
my words spilling out
and piling up so high
I am unable to see past them.
If I knock,
you will answer reluctantly,
so I will not knock.
I will choke on my words
so that when you open the door
I will have nothing to say to you.

Impression

The heaviness of a world sinks into my chest
I peer up at the dim light,
far away at the top of this hole.
There is a list,
somwhere along the root-and-soil crumbled walls,
a list of reasons to climb out.
But it's dark
and I can't find where it starts.
I hear distant voices,
indistinct words -
life going on
life not needing me
life of those I've disappointed and failed.
They are on the list,
and many others,
but the list just feels heavy now, too.
It is so dark and soft down here.
I'll just stay a while.

Velocity

You gently roll along,
undulating like a sea of grass,
a Kansas prairie under a wide blue sky.
I skitter along,
a perfectly smooth, flat rock
tossed with the flick of an expert wrist
out across the surface of the water.

Our paths cross in a mismatched frequency,
as your heart beats easily, slowly, sturdily
and mine zips along
ready to feel the next new surge of endorphins
far faster than you are wired to deliver them.

Perpetual

National Poetry Month - Day 2

Over and over and over - you

Loving you was a labor
The pain came in spikes,
receding in heavy waves
The joy was mostly of my own making,
and rocked me gently
with a false sense of security.

Dinner dreaming

Three beautiful men from Chile
who came to Mexico to open a restaurant. Walking poetry -
fluid movements,
fluent tongues -
so many languages flow
from their beautiful minds
and bridge the space between theirs
and our minds.
Ponytails, beards, soft voices,
and the depth of a rich, balanced soul...

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