Mistress
i read in public last night, and it stirred my waters, made them murky, lifted the scabs of not good enough from the inner edge of my belly like dead leaves from the bottom of a pond. “written from your head”, he said, and i slouched, falling off satisfied and landing on cutting, knowing just how deep to go, to turn away, to fall into silver shimmering ice. she is a demanding mistress. she needs my attention daily, insists on absolute commitment, loyalty, devotion, and asks that i show up even when i’m hungry, or tired, imploding or uninspired. she wants my blood, my tears, my sweat, my semen. her tongue kisses me when i shine with the fever of creation, and licks my balls when i’ve lost her number, when i’m stuck in neutral or have my foot on the brake. she always has me coming back for more, begging, even when the flowers have wilted, imagination has flat-lined, my mouth gone dry. like any mistress she’s dangerous - she can make one woman jealous and leave another one wet, she can befriend the devil, dress up as a nurse wanting to take my temperature up the butt, or have me open my mouth and close my eyes.
she never complains if i rush things, if i’m done too soon, walking away from the smoking page, from the turbulence of landing, while she’s just getting used to being spread open wide, receiving. she doesn’t complain if i stay, painting her thighs, tracing veins and bones with fingertips, holding her down, leaving my stain upon her, pushing, pushing in and through, stroking, pounding out truth and resurrection. she doesn’t complain when i want her to join in, to be the third, to set the mood, do the group thing, to sprinkle fairy dust, waving her wand, leaving my dirty laundry smelling mountain fresh, thinning my waist, thickening my hair, hardening my resolve. she accepts and forgives, but i review the tape, searching for clues, for hidden gestures, for the residue of a mother’s pain, of planetary poison, of karmic chaos - for why i’m not satisfied, why my feelings race past her like pages in a stiff wind, flipping one after another, my caricature unveiled, a cartoon short, mid afternoon nap. she wraps around my fancy and squeezes, fills my pockets in the forest, drives me further out, drops me deeper in, tumbles me like a dryer, no “normal” on the dial. i have nothing more to say than the next guy, but she’s holding me down, head underwater, searching for a confession, or understanding, for the indelible story that never comes clean, that cannot be undone, or lost. i sputter and gasp, glad for her ruthlessness, for the itch she cannot scratch alone, because together we have a chance, we have a chance to dance in the moonlight by the sea, beside the relentless rhythm of waking waters.
she never complains if i rush things, if i’m done too soon, walking away from the smoking page, from the turbulence of landing, while she’s just getting used to being spread open wide, receiving. she doesn’t complain if i stay, painting her thighs, tracing veins and bones with fingertips, holding her down, leaving my stain upon her, pushing, pushing in and through, stroking, pounding out truth and resurrection. she doesn’t complain when i want her to join in, to be the third, to set the mood, do the group thing, to sprinkle fairy dust, waving her wand, leaving my dirty laundry smelling mountain fresh, thinning my waist, thickening my hair, hardening my resolve. she accepts and forgives, but i review the tape, searching for clues, for hidden gestures, for the residue of a mother’s pain, of planetary poison, of karmic chaos - for why i’m not satisfied, why my feelings race past her like pages in a stiff wind, flipping one after another, my caricature unveiled, a cartoon short, mid afternoon nap. she wraps around my fancy and squeezes, fills my pockets in the forest, drives me further out, drops me deeper in, tumbles me like a dryer, no “normal” on the dial. i have nothing more to say than the next guy, but she’s holding me down, head underwater, searching for a confession, or understanding, for the indelible story that never comes clean, that cannot be undone, or lost. i sputter and gasp, glad for her ruthlessness, for the itch she cannot scratch alone, because together we have a chance, we have a chance to dance in the moonlight by the sea, beside the relentless rhythm of waking waters.
A Spark
tiger lilies in a vase, words in a circle, our soul-paths criss and cross, weaving together starseeds fit for planting. my brain is a chemical soup, reacting and changing with this sweet smell, that story, it's words dragging corpses, relatives, pets and ideas from hall closets.
her lips quiver and i forgot what i was thinking, what i was going to say, what i know about life and love and good choices.
choices -that's all i've got, but i didn't choose my parents, my family, where i was born, what i look like - sorry - i don't mean to offend any karma huggers. and i don't choose who smells good, who is pleasing to the eye, who heats up the room, who i fall in love with either. i do choose where i take my socks off, and whose foot i rub up against, but not who takes the night ferry and visits once the candle has burned out. and even with choice i often feel possessed, drunk on some glandular cocktail whose tentacles infiltrate reason and maturity, overriding the system, flooding me with if it feels good do it, and let's get down tonight.
sometimes i just want to follow the spark, see where it lands and let the fire burn, let it burn down labels and compartments, players in their parts, burn away the book's binding, letting the pages fall into piles.
i fall in love in small doses, or all at once, on the dance floor, or at a movie, beside or between. am i the only one who can see the body-paint, iridescent turquoise on your neck just below your earlobe, a fortune without a cookie, "take me i'm yours"?
sometimes i choose not to choose. i turn from the spark (is that mine?), and saunter away as nonchalantly as eager and obsessed can saunter, biting down on my lower lip ever so slightly.
do i need a polyamorous pollyanna, or just the freedom to feel what i feel, to acknowledge the spark and the possibilities that it ignites? should i seek the waters at their source, or buy bottled water from italy? should i try to run my hands through her hair, or stay here with admire and inspire? do i have the courage to be a free spirit, to own my passions and speak true, to live with the choices i make for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, until my last breath?
i do
her lips quiver and i forgot what i was thinking, what i was going to say, what i know about life and love and good choices.
choices -that's all i've got, but i didn't choose my parents, my family, where i was born, what i look like - sorry - i don't mean to offend any karma huggers. and i don't choose who smells good, who is pleasing to the eye, who heats up the room, who i fall in love with either. i do choose where i take my socks off, and whose foot i rub up against, but not who takes the night ferry and visits once the candle has burned out. and even with choice i often feel possessed, drunk on some glandular cocktail whose tentacles infiltrate reason and maturity, overriding the system, flooding me with if it feels good do it, and let's get down tonight.
sometimes i just want to follow the spark, see where it lands and let the fire burn, let it burn down labels and compartments, players in their parts, burn away the book's binding, letting the pages fall into piles.
i fall in love in small doses, or all at once, on the dance floor, or at a movie, beside or between. am i the only one who can see the body-paint, iridescent turquoise on your neck just below your earlobe, a fortune without a cookie, "take me i'm yours"?
sometimes i choose not to choose. i turn from the spark (is that mine?), and saunter away as nonchalantly as eager and obsessed can saunter, biting down on my lower lip ever so slightly.
do i need a polyamorous pollyanna, or just the freedom to feel what i feel, to acknowledge the spark and the possibilities that it ignites? should i seek the waters at their source, or buy bottled water from italy? should i try to run my hands through her hair, or stay here with admire and inspire? do i have the courage to be a free spirit, to own my passions and speak true, to live with the choices i make for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, until my last breath?
i do
Take Me
i want to slow everything down and slide across watercolor paper, painting yellow roses with my lips, feathers with my toes, as the colors of my longing melt together, diluting my turquoise hunger, my amber thirst.
i want to pause everything and gaze at the naked moon, bathing in her silvery light,
amongst the shadows and cool air, a pink cactus flower, having just opened in the darkness.
i want to rise up, joining the velvet clouds, only to fall as a liquid iridescent pearl
into the rushing mountain stream, washing her bones, disappearing into the vast waters of my birth.
i want to live in a forgotten temple high in the mountains, where i will hug the earth all day,
welcoming the smooth foot of the guru on my back, grateful to be a sandal in this world of innocence lost.
i want to wave and flap, taking on shape after shape, as the flaming hand of an ardent flamenco dancer, having divorced ambition, completely surrendered to the dream of love.
i want to be the sun, licking my gaseous lips, spawning peace and fertility, my tears born human, my songs as seasons, waiting expectantly for a glimpse of my beloved.
i want to walk with the great white bear across the sweeping ice, while it still breathes, whiskered seals taking momentary naps with one eye open.
i want to run free across Mongolian savannas, amongst feather grass and silver birch,
where the gray wolf hunts brown-eared pheasant, the last of the wild horses, with striped strong legs and thick hooves.
i want to be turned upside down and restrung, my bright treble and deep bass, feedback and distortion, a fluid vocabulary in Jimi's LSD inspired hands.
when my time comes i want to greet death with a smile, look into it's eyes, and say, "take me... i'm yours".
i want to pause everything and gaze at the naked moon, bathing in her silvery light,
amongst the shadows and cool air, a pink cactus flower, having just opened in the darkness.
i want to rise up, joining the velvet clouds, only to fall as a liquid iridescent pearl
into the rushing mountain stream, washing her bones, disappearing into the vast waters of my birth.
i want to live in a forgotten temple high in the mountains, where i will hug the earth all day,
welcoming the smooth foot of the guru on my back, grateful to be a sandal in this world of innocence lost.
i want to wave and flap, taking on shape after shape, as the flaming hand of an ardent flamenco dancer, having divorced ambition, completely surrendered to the dream of love.
i want to be the sun, licking my gaseous lips, spawning peace and fertility, my tears born human, my songs as seasons, waiting expectantly for a glimpse of my beloved.
i want to walk with the great white bear across the sweeping ice, while it still breathes, whiskered seals taking momentary naps with one eye open.
i want to run free across Mongolian savannas, amongst feather grass and silver birch,
where the gray wolf hunts brown-eared pheasant, the last of the wild horses, with striped strong legs and thick hooves.
i want to be turned upside down and restrung, my bright treble and deep bass, feedback and distortion, a fluid vocabulary in Jimi's LSD inspired hands.
when my time comes i want to greet death with a smile, look into it's eyes, and say, "take me... i'm yours".
Midnight's Jaguar
we sit cross-legged in the sand, carving impermanent depressions with our buttocks,
like birds nesting, and gaze out across the water to our childhoods.
the ocean roils and grumbles before us, our footprints evaporating like the dreams we packed neatly into our shoulders and hips, thinking we knew where we were going.
although close to each other, our eyes avoid repeating the question, the fruit already bruised from rough hands wanting.
your clenched jaw points to all the love you forgot to give yourself after calloused fingers murdered the fairy princess.
my hand wants to lift the coffin's lid so you can pry your body free from the glue of your family's sorrowful song.
but i have already stepped off the ledge, and am falling through old newspapers and love letters stained with pearls of blood.
as my eyes gently close, the horizon of my ribcage engulfs my setting heart, as the cold hardens my useless wings.
i had a dream, which wasn't a dream... orange morning's dew warmed my brow, signaling the eclipse of your sadness.
in secret we met amongst the flowers and weeds, hidden from the gaze of adolescent God's prying eyes.
as we danced, all i could feel was my burning heart trembling, as you beckoned me to tread the ruby labyrinth's seductive path.
when my shell cracks open, and the waters run through me, through the sewers of my lost city,
all the words i've whispered will wither and die, the blood i've spilled will crystallize and adorn the stained glass of cathedrals not yet imagined.
i have lost what i found in the laughter of your tears.
i want to wash clean your rotting mango flesh and the blinding cloud of flies feeding on your sweet pain.
i want to write poems on your trembling thighs with oils distilled from jungle flowers pressed beneath the paw of midnight's jaguar.
i will sit, forever, taking one breath after another... waiting.
like birds nesting, and gaze out across the water to our childhoods.
the ocean roils and grumbles before us, our footprints evaporating like the dreams we packed neatly into our shoulders and hips, thinking we knew where we were going.
although close to each other, our eyes avoid repeating the question, the fruit already bruised from rough hands wanting.
your clenched jaw points to all the love you forgot to give yourself after calloused fingers murdered the fairy princess.
my hand wants to lift the coffin's lid so you can pry your body free from the glue of your family's sorrowful song.
but i have already stepped off the ledge, and am falling through old newspapers and love letters stained with pearls of blood.
as my eyes gently close, the horizon of my ribcage engulfs my setting heart, as the cold hardens my useless wings.
i had a dream, which wasn't a dream... orange morning's dew warmed my brow, signaling the eclipse of your sadness.
in secret we met amongst the flowers and weeds, hidden from the gaze of adolescent God's prying eyes.
as we danced, all i could feel was my burning heart trembling, as you beckoned me to tread the ruby labyrinth's seductive path.
when my shell cracks open, and the waters run through me, through the sewers of my lost city,
all the words i've whispered will wither and die, the blood i've spilled will crystallize and adorn the stained glass of cathedrals not yet imagined.
i have lost what i found in the laughter of your tears.
i want to wash clean your rotting mango flesh and the blinding cloud of flies feeding on your sweet pain.
i want to write poems on your trembling thighs with oils distilled from jungle flowers pressed beneath the paw of midnight's jaguar.
i will sit, forever, taking one breath after another... waiting.
Ashes and Confetti
the breeze is back, rearranging my hair as i sit to write. it has been a peaceful day, allowing my nervous system to go from drive-through to tablecloth, from maelstrom to millpond. myna birds and weedwackers, rustling palms and distant cars, all in the same orchestra, conductor on extended leave, audience members coming and going as they please. a few drops of blowing wetness find paper as sun heats my neck, pacing the soundtrack seamlessly. it feels good to be embodied today, salty blood pulsing, desire warming its hands, humor no longer lurking in the shadows. i've fallen into the book i'm reading, and even after i put it down it lingers, like the woodsy moist earth scent of vetiver on my neck, seeping into my dreams, inspiring my soliloquy. this writing thing has gotten really interesting. i begin to believe a book is possible, that i might be able to exhume a story from the ashes and confetti, from almost kisses in fluorescent corridors, to knees bent on dojo floors, from inipi fire-keeper over seaside cliffs, to weighted fog coalescing with rocky mountain juniper. but where do i start? what story do i tell? Midi-Pyrenées in the summer, open hearth and ancestral ghosts, my great great-grandfather's bamboo, church bells chiming at dawn, black powder muskets from wars long past, chasing tadpoles in cattle troughs, Berthe's chickens and the juice of deep red plump cherries running down my chin? or is it time to tell of tantrikas and roadmen, initiation by fire, in solitude, where the sweeping cornfields border the Glen, and three sisters dance together at the water's edge, as trees? my imagination stands tall, and wanders through the peaceful countryside wreaking havoc on white picket fences and high school proms, disturbing the sleep of numbness and disconnection, rattling their cages with vigorous footfalls and clamorous laughter. i have so much to be thankful for, and just told my dad, while i still can, how grateful i am to have been raised by books, their words my escort, their tales my mistress, removing gossamer veils of innocent aquamarine and wary burnt sienna. it is here my passion shimmers, my intensity finds momentary equilibrium, as my hair grays, the dreams i carried slipping from my grasp. there is more here than meets the eye, more than i choose to remember, more that i long to tell. i hope you can feel it.
Smiling for no reason
constantly changing, warm and cool, moist and dry, the tradewinds whisper in the palms by my window, seeds and pollen in their breath. its nice to lie still and quiet as the day wanes, although i'm not sure this qualifies as still, now that i've begun to write. what is it that's changing in me? what seeds are sprouting? right now its hard, hard to be patient, to let life come and meet me, when all i want is to fling myself down upon it, planting wet kisses, holding it hostage. i'm waiting for the light to turn green, for the punchline. waiting until courage replaces doubt and cities crumble and rise again. its hard to be a man, to be solid, dependable, protecting the saplings and flowers in bloom, while the rebellious boy still runs free in the caverns of my heart on a personal quest, in search of hidden stones and ancient knowledge. i'm waiting to be smiling for no reason, to wed contentment and bear children from the union, to return home through the night sky in an instant, laying my head upon my mother's bosom once again. i don't want to know what's easy, what you're proud of. i only want to know about the promise you didn't keep, the words you wish you hadn't spoken, the fear that holds you hostage, even now, as you find your voice at last. good and bad, right and wrong, die a slow and painful death, and the desert stretches before me bleak and endless. i am encouraged, excited even, as dust becomes a seed. there is clay in my hands, ready to be shaped. all i have to do now is let my beard grow, toss my sunglasses, relinquish my name, and wait. wait until the season's drums, sun and rain, work their magic. after a time i'll throw a party, come as you were, come as you are, come as you wish. the invitation is on the way.
Pushing Through Landslides
my mother is an idiot. she's fat, she's stupid, a terrible cook. she's a good for nothing useless artifact. at least that is what she keeps saying over and over, what i've heard for decades., what has been carved into the stone of our family testament. i think she's the one that has been calling in the middle of the night and then hanging up. the one singing lullabies backwards, off key. i think she's the voice in my head that can shout the loudest, the one offering me pink roses in one hand, concealing a jewel-encrusted sacrificial dagger in the other, humming hypnotically, white gloves under glass. she's shame in my naked ass, my cock and balls. she's my sharp tongue drawing blood, patience lost in the woods after the sun has set. she's the "i'm not enough" choir serenading me with that "i'm not worthy of love" song, operatic rap in double time. she's a lawyer with a corset, the critic behind my smile, the fly dreaming of the web, the spider having already had a taste. really, my mother is elegant, superbly intelligent, highly educated, a good artist, and am even better listener. bombs and uniforms, hunger and uncertainty made her a survivor, raising a family gave her purpose, divorce made her bitter, new love brought laughter and loss. i think she's the one that taught me how to push through red lights and landslides, how to talk my way into a hat and out of a marriage, how to paint my thunder and dance my dessert. she's my soapy hands, my neat drawers, my French feng shui, artichoke hearts and olives, fork on the left. i loved her roses, lilacs and daffodils, her strong back stroking water, her voice the troll's timbre, the drawbridge chain, the stone's hunger, her love shaping me, hardening my clay, braiding feathers into my hair, giving me words to juggle, a ball of smoky quartz to consult.
my mother is no idiot.
my mother is no idiot.
