For most of my life I have been worried raw with hurry sickness. A cancerous growth, this impatience spread through my blood and into all my vital organs. But you left my side and I have blossomed into a kind of reckoning with time. I have come to see that the future is not something I should hurtle towards on jackrabbit feet. But rather, I should make each moment mine and savor its beauty. I am learning now more than ever that the words of my witch doctor ring true, the future is not something that should loom over me with uncertainty, it should bloom on the horizon as the sweetest of sunrises staining my eyes with its blush.
My witch doctor has been teaching me so many valuable skills, how to listen, when to speak, how to capitalize on my time and throw off the weighty bonds of anxiety. For these reasons, she gave her blessing to our tortoise and hare romance. In the beginning we were all flash and blinding sparkle, burning like a pillar of fire. We raged and stormed like thunderclaps and lightening bolts mating in the air which sizzled with the hum of static. We sought shelter from the violent tremors which shook the earth in each others arms and fled to the safety of a dry but darkened cave. Once a hovel home, it became a prison, because the only animals that would draw near to the cave were the rabbits of worry and speed. Chasing after them, they represented our hopes and dreams and with clutching fingers we grasped for each one as they slipped from our outstretched hands and into the gloom of the cave.
Receding, I snatched them up in the dark, using only my baser instincts and wrung their necks like crackling dish towels in my frightened hands. I needed to feed us, because I felt as though we were starving, but I didn't know yet what for. Each night we sat alone together in this catacomb of isolated love, you growing more silent and withdrawn and I growing more impatient with the hunger pangs of my now wan and feeble form. I wanted with everything in me for change, but I had grown convinced there wasn't a way out of this cave and through the storm to safety and tranquility. The wind howled through the opening to the cave which we had shrunk from, but life beckoned you to the light outside.
You slipped from my grasp one night as we lay sleeping on the cold sands and disappeared at the sunlight's first breaking. When I woke I was frightened, terror ripping through me like it must have each time my fingers wound around those rabbits' hammering pulse. You were gone, and without you I saw the naked sunlight pour through the yawning mouth of this cave of despair and pessimism. It stung my eyes and I cried for weeks. But I found I grew rapidly claustrophobic in its mouth and like a fish breaks free of fishing line I snapped the last of my bounds and slowly crawled out into the world.
I learned to hunt and forage for myself, and grew strong. I shed the anxieties of my past like the winter coat off a grizzled bear. I learned a taste for any meat other than rabbits. I sampled the fine feathered thighs of wild pheasant and tucked their tail feathers into my hair. I marveled at the variety of ways frogs and toads could be cooked up in all the stages of their metamorphosis: from tadpoles like meaty guppies, to knobby kneed adults strewn across my spitfire, to caviar like eggs housing black specks which wriggled with potential. Moths and butterflies became garnishes for my dandelion and wildflower salads, their wings coating everything in fine rainbow shimmer of their wings. Their antennae were always becoming stuck in my teeth after sampling the delicate chalk like flavors of their brilliant markings.
Around my neck I bore the skull of a felled vulture, I had killed it one day when I was curious for the taste of a fellow predator. It was a challenge to catch it, it took long hours and patience. This was not a scrambling chase after march hares and nimble footed dwarfs I had become used to. I had to exercise all my cunning, hone all my instincts, and bait this precious bone collector to come to its doom. It fed me on its wrinkled sagging skin wrapped form for 3 days. I bleached the bones in the sun and when I had punched a hole through it's skull and drained it of its putrid carrion obsessed mind, I made a necklace of its skeleton. I threw its macabre and lustful stomach into the frying pan and swallowed every last feather to prove I would never choke on the bones of white feathered rabbits again.
Now I hungered for sport with more gameness. I salivated for that all life had to offer, away from caves and warrens buried deep underground. I was a seasoned hunter, a strong solitary being, but I stumbled into the midst of a strange tribe one day. At first I only observed them, they were wondrous to my eyes and twitching ears. The sounds they made, the way they moved their bodies, all revealed the things they kept inside their minds like a cascade of hurricane winds waiting to be unleashed at any moment.
I slipped from the tree line made of my shyness and approached a few of them. Grasping hands and looking into their eyes I said it as plainly as I could without the utterance, "convert me," I pleaded. They taught me their ways, and I began to see, I was one of them. I had always been one of them, but now I learned the calls and snaps of their language. I grew to don myself in the beads of precious knowledge they divested on me. I became versed in the symbols of their warpaint and smeared it on my face. Their prayers and invocations revealed each layer of mythos to my hungry mind, they were each of them a storyteller, each of them a shaman to their own muse gods. Slowly I was becoming more like one of them, and my vulture skull tapped my chest with its pointed beak each time we danced around the bonfire together late into the night.
They never ate rabbits, but they wore their feet and ears upon their clothing sometimes and twitched their noses in mock indignation at the overwrought spirit of the beast. I still would hop and stammer my feet upon the ground from time to time, still detoxing from the effects of so much fur and not enough scales and feathers. They saw to it to lure me away from the damp smell of clinging root filled ceilings just by singing me the sweet songs of their native tongue: poetry. I was infected with it, each day filled with the lines of their genius circulating my in head. It brought me inspiration and my mind blossomed with it. I was becoming civilized, indoctrinated, learning the sound of my own voice. Imagine the shock that ran through me on the day that I should stumble upon you while I was looking for somewhere quiet in the forest to practice my singing voice.
You came to me, like a person approaches a wild animal, slowly and speaking in soothing tones. I did not run or bolt, but rather stood my ground. Still I sniffed warily, because I thought I could smell the scent of love coming off you like perfume. Was this my twitching nose lying to me through the wishful thinking of a poet's mind or were you really touching me lightly, smoothing my brow, and inviting me to visit the caravan of zingaras you had run off with? I followed, curious to see what tribe you now belonged to, but never forsaking my own I donned my finest feathers and smeared my warpaint heavy on my skin.
The bonfires within your circled wagons were large and roaring, much like those of my tribe. But the flame pits we jump carry with them the scent of driftwood, blood, and cedar smoke. Our guttering torches mysteriously mark the entrance to our temples. You must enter wearing bones or teeth upon your naked flesh. You must disrobe and carry only feathers in your heart and painted eyes before your brethren before you can speak the invocation of twisted tongues to call forth Gods and conjure spirits. Only this way can you hope to possess others with the elements we summon. Our tribes ways are no set of esoteric secrets, but they must be learned with an open and willing heart.
And so it was that I wandered with my hand in yours into the midst of the group of vagabonds you had been traveling with. Your band of bohemian brothers and sisters did not channel ghosts but they read the bones that hung around my neck. They traced the lines upon my palms and foretold of new adventures that would come to fill my days in the future as they stared at me through the flickering light of your camp. Your gypsy camp fires and twinkling lanterns blazed with the smells of pine needles, mulled wine, and strange herbs I could not name by heart but knew I recognized from far off times. The group of rogues and wenches you called cousin danced in wheeling circles that were familial to my tribes pagan two steps.
And at least, with legs shaking from our laughter, we sat round the fire and we broke our bread together. I had brought a sack of meats to offer when I first arrived, and before I set to dance and mirth with your kin I set up a large pot and filled it with my ingredients and water from the spring nearby your encampment. For hours it had simmered slowly, over the glowing coals. And your troupe of bards and verbal acrobats swayed closely, sniffing with puzzled nostrils that flared and twitched in a way that made me laugh out loud over the sheer irony of it. Strange smells for your friends, but I saw them lip their lips eyes glistening over the aromas they would soon sample sliding down their throats. And so we sat at last and I filled cracked wooden bowls and tin cups with the hearty mixture.
I watched your eyes look warily as the ladle dipped out of view into my steaming pot and drawing it out deposited its magical elixir into a waiting bowl for your inspection. No doubt, you must have started, expecting to see the main course of our cave dwelling times together. But I stretched out my hands to you to offer you the new fair of my current days. Back then I had filled our stomachs with the sickening taste of too much rabbit stew. But now I turned to watch you sample the first spoonful of the light and subtle flavors of my turtle soup. The flavors woke your palate and your eyes sparkled over the rim of the bowl as you licked the dregs free. Round the table the sounds of smacking lips and choked burps came free from your companions and I smiled warmly, feathers dancing above my ear in the breeze.
That night I fell asleep underneath your wagon. For I could not stand the comfort of a warm bed that wasn't made to smell richly of spilt ale and wood smoke as my hammock back at home with my tribe did. I tried at first in vain to sleep with you on the downy pad of hay and sheets that smelled of muslin, amber, and incense. But I soon rose, visions of tarot cards flashing through my eyes as I stumbled out the curved door of your wagon into the night air. It was balmy, sweat clung in unobtrusive pathways to my ivory skin and welcomed gentle breezes to come kissing at my collar bones and nipping at my nipples. I found a cool bed upon the grass beneath your wagon and listened as the wind sighed through its spoke rimmed wheels. The horses stamped and nickered and I fell into a listless kind of slumber.
When I dreamt, I saw us back in that cave, in a time when I could loved you better. A monster growled at the rear of the cramped tunnel but I did not quake with fear. My eyes shone at the back of the cave and using my fearless words I conjured the spirit of my poet ancestors. It lunged into the back of the cave and dragged the culprit out. At first, it looked like an innocent rabbit, but crouching closer I saw it for what it really was. Its black eyes oozed pools of wasted ink and an emaciated form bent each vertebrae crooked shooting from what should have been its spine through stretched tight skin. No fur graced its charcoal withered skin and its feet were anything but lucky. I shook my bones and stamped my feet at it, bellowing chants of my clan towards its cowering form. It shrunk fast as shooting stars to almost nothing but a pin prick. I grasped it up, watching it trying to snap at me wildly with its fearful jaws. My laughter rose as I took the strange beast my phobias had given birth to and gingerly I dropped it through the hole in my vulture skull to remain imprisoned forever.
I woke smiling as your hand graced my face, and heard my necklace rattle. Pressing my lips to yours, I pulled you down beneath your wagon and made love to you until we fell asleep entangled in each others arms again. This time, as I dreamt, I had visions of my future with you. You were a muse for my poet soul and with a full heart and painted skin that sparkled in the sunlight I walked sure to the beat of my rattle covered heart.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Forty Five 03.29.10
The recorded sounds of a thunderstorm crackle over speakers as a fine mist shines down upon the produce section at Safeway. You click up to me on black heels bearing ruffled edges. Instantly I understand why foot fetishists get hard for the cleavage between toes displayed in heels like yours. They look the way demi-bras let the puckered edges of nipples peak out to any voyeuristic eyes curious enough to wander to their charms. For as long as I can remember, I have always been a voyeur. I've never been one for flashy shows or exhibitionism. But these days, I have every reason to put myself on display.
My eyes scaled your flexed calves and crawled up your supple thighs into the grey pencil shirt that flared around your generously rounded ass. I was wet and wanting before my eyes even alighted to your breasts peeking from your black oxford. Your Wedjat sparkled and did its best to hide the purple blush of the chain of bite hickeys I left around the borders of your breasts the night before. My face stretched taut with a grin reserved for those who know all too well the way you shake and shudder when they fuck you.
It wasn't a mystery to you what was about to happen. This is how I lured you out of the house with me to begin with. First, with the promise of public sex which I know you love so well, and then the offer of a hand cooked meal I would later prepare for us. I can't tell you how many times we had been in this same Safeway when we first met and courted. Over all the long months and years we had been together, I had fantasized about fucking you in the grubby bathroom, but I never had the nerve before now.
You asked me earlier what changed in me to bring out the exhibitionist in me and bring me around to the other side of lust in public. I told you: You. But the answer was only a half truth. Later I expounded at your prompting that it was really also me that has changed. Having put so much work into overcoming my pervasive social anxiety as of late, I felt myself swell with the thought of showing you the desire I felt for you down to the very marrow of my bones. To show you in public was always what I had wanted to do, but never had I dared. Gone were the old worries of being caught and being reprimanded for it. All that I wanted now was to feel you tremble against me as I whispered words so dark and sweet into the helix of your ears it would make your head spin while I touched you, there.
Fingers mated between each others in a warm embrace, I led you knowingly to the bathroom. As we walked through the aisles, I saw the eyes of many men glide across your curves. Yes, I smirked, be jealous. The women were no better with indignant but curious stares. We made such an attractive couple and I found myself snarl. But I appeared to be smiling at those whose eyes I would catch first on you, then see them flit to me and start with confusion and fear. Yes, I smiled, be curious. Be upset that you just imagined us fucking like a dirty picture show in your mind they would have whooped your ass for watching in Sunday school. Be outraged that we would wear the sexuality we bear for each other out in the open, unabashed, shamelessly, rubbing your nose in it. A cartoon super villain's laugh roared in my skull as I tugged you closer to the bathroom nestled in a crummy hallway between the pharmacy and the butcher shop.
"How quaint," I mused as you tried for the door. Viagra, Vicoden, syringes and Sweet meats dripping with fresh blood were about to bookend our torrid acts of public wanting. We had to wait, for there was someone using it for a more natural purpose. As we did I thought about how all these people were going to be out here, shopping for groceries, checking off lists on crumbled paper or mentally scrawled on the backs of their eyelids. Life would go on, boring, ordinary, and banal while I would soon slip my tongue into your mouth and feel your teeth tugging at my bottom lip. Electricity shot along the back of my optic nerve and I felt my pupils dilate like twin eclipses mirroring each other.
A middle aged woman exited the bathroom, her eyes scanned first over you, then to me and she seemed shocked for the briefest of moments. That is, before her eyes wandered to the ground and glazed over, pushing away from us in a waddle I pitied because it bore testament to her aching joints. The click of your heels brought me about center as you pushed the door open in front of me. I lingered for a moment, watching your backside stretch the fabric of your pencil skirt around its form and the small of your back flatten into a deliciously curving bow. When we walked inside, the bathroom was just as I remembered it. Limp rags of transparent tissue lay strewn about the floor, the beige tiling on the floor and wall held so much grim and soil it looked as though someone mopped the floor with a bucket of swill. Love and sex in the time of Cholera indeed.
This shabby bathroom should have been repulsive to me but instead it was oddly romantic, because it meant, you could not touch a single thing for fear of being contaminated by waste. It meant the only thing you would be able to hold onto, the only way to keep from slipping to that scuffed stained floor was to cling to me, your harbor in this tempest of need. I moved towards you suddenly and wrapped my arm underneath your rib cage. Holding you to my chest, my breasts flattened against yours which swelled into my vision. Our lips tangled in a slippery exchange, our tongues enmeshed with the heat of each others mouths. My hand parted your thighs and squeezed upwards through the confines of your silken flesh which were held together by the trappings of your skirt.
You wore stockings and at first I found myself dismayed because I had told you to wear something that would give me easy access to your soaking cunt. But as my hand crawled further north, I felt the fresh heat of your naked skin and the moistening lace of your panties where you had torn a hole into the crotch of your stockings. "That's my girl" I felt my mind purr, as my hand sought the quickest way around the edge of the lace and jewels hugging your quivering snatch. I pulled the fabric away and felt the moist heat surge like a blast of steam when one walks into a tobacconist's humidifier. My fingers traced through your heated tangled curls, but soon they parted your wetness and found what I desperately wanted, your hardened clit. Straining against me in your heels, leaning into the staccato flick of my fingertips, you ground your cunt against me and wrapped your fingernails into my skin like little knife points.
You trembled you whole form sagging against me and I felt my cunt begin to drool in my jeans, the heat becoming distracting. I trailed ravenous kisses down your cleavage and then slid my tongue up your neck to your ear. Pressing my face into your downy ringlets I whispered to you how hard your clit was and how much your body shook in my arms. As I spoke to you, I revealed what I had thought earlier, how all those people in the store were outside just feet away shopping and completely unaware of how I was fucking you in this instant. You whimpered against me and I cooed a soothing "Shhhh..." to you before clamping my mouth upon yours again. You broke our kiss, clawing your nails into my arms, starting to buck and sway with buckling knees. Your clit was as hard as a ruby under my finger tip and I let the slippery pads of the tips of my fingers drive you mad with the orgasm that was suddenly threatening to break over you.
You clawed your leg up calve and thigh. I was standing on braced legs as I abused your clit and told you how I love it when you tremble. I told you I wanted you to come for me, and you insisted your were close. How close, I had no idea, as usually it takes a bit longer for you to come like this, especially standing up. But only an instant later your hips exploded in spasms, your form when limp and rigid in waves, heaving against me in a silent breathy explosion of gasps you almost dragged me down to the floor. I gathered you up and felt you spasm in my arms, your clit throbbing against my fingers as you came. You face contorted in a silent scream and your cheek slide down my collar bone going lax with your fading orgasm. You stilled and panted against me.
When I was sure you were steady, you wound your hands up to my shoulders and stepped away on heels that didn't miss a dime. You were as solid as you ever were. The whole exchange felt far too brief, and I found myself alternatively satisfied in a smug way that I could make you come so quickly, but also defiantly petulant that the moment did not last longer. No matter, there will plenty more adventures, we would soon discover. As we walked from the bathroom together, the blush of your freshly fucked glow kissed the apples of your cheeks. We sauntered out into the parking lot and I killed the fresh air with the smoke from my cigarette.
My eyes scaled your flexed calves and crawled up your supple thighs into the grey pencil shirt that flared around your generously rounded ass. I was wet and wanting before my eyes even alighted to your breasts peeking from your black oxford. Your Wedjat sparkled and did its best to hide the purple blush of the chain of bite hickeys I left around the borders of your breasts the night before. My face stretched taut with a grin reserved for those who know all too well the way you shake and shudder when they fuck you.
It wasn't a mystery to you what was about to happen. This is how I lured you out of the house with me to begin with. First, with the promise of public sex which I know you love so well, and then the offer of a hand cooked meal I would later prepare for us. I can't tell you how many times we had been in this same Safeway when we first met and courted. Over all the long months and years we had been together, I had fantasized about fucking you in the grubby bathroom, but I never had the nerve before now.
You asked me earlier what changed in me to bring out the exhibitionist in me and bring me around to the other side of lust in public. I told you: You. But the answer was only a half truth. Later I expounded at your prompting that it was really also me that has changed. Having put so much work into overcoming my pervasive social anxiety as of late, I felt myself swell with the thought of showing you the desire I felt for you down to the very marrow of my bones. To show you in public was always what I had wanted to do, but never had I dared. Gone were the old worries of being caught and being reprimanded for it. All that I wanted now was to feel you tremble against me as I whispered words so dark and sweet into the helix of your ears it would make your head spin while I touched you, there.
Fingers mated between each others in a warm embrace, I led you knowingly to the bathroom. As we walked through the aisles, I saw the eyes of many men glide across your curves. Yes, I smirked, be jealous. The women were no better with indignant but curious stares. We made such an attractive couple and I found myself snarl. But I appeared to be smiling at those whose eyes I would catch first on you, then see them flit to me and start with confusion and fear. Yes, I smiled, be curious. Be upset that you just imagined us fucking like a dirty picture show in your mind they would have whooped your ass for watching in Sunday school. Be outraged that we would wear the sexuality we bear for each other out in the open, unabashed, shamelessly, rubbing your nose in it. A cartoon super villain's laugh roared in my skull as I tugged you closer to the bathroom nestled in a crummy hallway between the pharmacy and the butcher shop.
"How quaint," I mused as you tried for the door. Viagra, Vicoden, syringes and Sweet meats dripping with fresh blood were about to bookend our torrid acts of public wanting. We had to wait, for there was someone using it for a more natural purpose. As we did I thought about how all these people were going to be out here, shopping for groceries, checking off lists on crumbled paper or mentally scrawled on the backs of their eyelids. Life would go on, boring, ordinary, and banal while I would soon slip my tongue into your mouth and feel your teeth tugging at my bottom lip. Electricity shot along the back of my optic nerve and I felt my pupils dilate like twin eclipses mirroring each other.
A middle aged woman exited the bathroom, her eyes scanned first over you, then to me and she seemed shocked for the briefest of moments. That is, before her eyes wandered to the ground and glazed over, pushing away from us in a waddle I pitied because it bore testament to her aching joints. The click of your heels brought me about center as you pushed the door open in front of me. I lingered for a moment, watching your backside stretch the fabric of your pencil skirt around its form and the small of your back flatten into a deliciously curving bow. When we walked inside, the bathroom was just as I remembered it. Limp rags of transparent tissue lay strewn about the floor, the beige tiling on the floor and wall held so much grim and soil it looked as though someone mopped the floor with a bucket of swill. Love and sex in the time of Cholera indeed.
This shabby bathroom should have been repulsive to me but instead it was oddly romantic, because it meant, you could not touch a single thing for fear of being contaminated by waste. It meant the only thing you would be able to hold onto, the only way to keep from slipping to that scuffed stained floor was to cling to me, your harbor in this tempest of need. I moved towards you suddenly and wrapped my arm underneath your rib cage. Holding you to my chest, my breasts flattened against yours which swelled into my vision. Our lips tangled in a slippery exchange, our tongues enmeshed with the heat of each others mouths. My hand parted your thighs and squeezed upwards through the confines of your silken flesh which were held together by the trappings of your skirt.
You wore stockings and at first I found myself dismayed because I had told you to wear something that would give me easy access to your soaking cunt. But as my hand crawled further north, I felt the fresh heat of your naked skin and the moistening lace of your panties where you had torn a hole into the crotch of your stockings. "That's my girl" I felt my mind purr, as my hand sought the quickest way around the edge of the lace and jewels hugging your quivering snatch. I pulled the fabric away and felt the moist heat surge like a blast of steam when one walks into a tobacconist's humidifier. My fingers traced through your heated tangled curls, but soon they parted your wetness and found what I desperately wanted, your hardened clit. Straining against me in your heels, leaning into the staccato flick of my fingertips, you ground your cunt against me and wrapped your fingernails into my skin like little knife points.
You trembled you whole form sagging against me and I felt my cunt begin to drool in my jeans, the heat becoming distracting. I trailed ravenous kisses down your cleavage and then slid my tongue up your neck to your ear. Pressing my face into your downy ringlets I whispered to you how hard your clit was and how much your body shook in my arms. As I spoke to you, I revealed what I had thought earlier, how all those people in the store were outside just feet away shopping and completely unaware of how I was fucking you in this instant. You whimpered against me and I cooed a soothing "Shhhh..." to you before clamping my mouth upon yours again. You broke our kiss, clawing your nails into my arms, starting to buck and sway with buckling knees. Your clit was as hard as a ruby under my finger tip and I let the slippery pads of the tips of my fingers drive you mad with the orgasm that was suddenly threatening to break over you.
You clawed your leg up calve and thigh. I was standing on braced legs as I abused your clit and told you how I love it when you tremble. I told you I wanted you to come for me, and you insisted your were close. How close, I had no idea, as usually it takes a bit longer for you to come like this, especially standing up. But only an instant later your hips exploded in spasms, your form when limp and rigid in waves, heaving against me in a silent breathy explosion of gasps you almost dragged me down to the floor. I gathered you up and felt you spasm in my arms, your clit throbbing against my fingers as you came. You face contorted in a silent scream and your cheek slide down my collar bone going lax with your fading orgasm. You stilled and panted against me.
When I was sure you were steady, you wound your hands up to my shoulders and stepped away on heels that didn't miss a dime. You were as solid as you ever were. The whole exchange felt far too brief, and I found myself alternatively satisfied in a smug way that I could make you come so quickly, but also defiantly petulant that the moment did not last longer. No matter, there will plenty more adventures, we would soon discover. As we walked from the bathroom together, the blush of your freshly fucked glow kissed the apples of your cheeks. We sauntered out into the parking lot and I killed the fresh air with the smoke from my cigarette.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Forty Four 03.28.10
One night spent in your arms and I limp away on sore and shaky legs. My back bears scratches that have turned to brilliant tiger stripes. The sheer skin of my chest wears marks like an octopus kissed me with its fierce tentacled embrace. My skin is tattooed by your teeth.
On my knees last night, you brandished me like a proper SWITCH. I shook so hard my eyes rattled in their sockets. Muffled screams fade into strangled moans. You bring out the Catholic School girl in me, clinging to your kisses like plaid skirts used to cling to my thighs in my youth.
I get lost inside you, the slap I didn't see coming is a tender caress. That piercing glint off your dilated pupils tells me all I need to know: I'm Yours. Own me. Fix my neck with a collar made of hickeys. Pierce my tongue with a tag bearing your number.
I am your junkyard dog and you can beat me when I get out of line. I'll guard your spare tire empire and razor wire crow's nest on blistered paws and a limping gait. I promise not to bite your hands as long as you keep feeding me, fattening me up with sweet words that tickle my cerebrum like:
"You mark up so pretty for me."
"Harder."
"Scream for me, bitch."
Other people might recoil at your fierce nothings growled sweetly in my ears, but I understand the language you speak. Call me a cunt and I'll swoon all lovestruck. Wrap me in barbed wire and I'll write you love poems with the blood off my skin. I'd rather have you swallow me whole than give me a diamonds and posies. Leave me with marks I can display like branded cattle. Give me scars for souvenirs to attest to my nights spent in the knife thrower's tent.
One night spent in your arms and I stumble away, with the taste of blood embedded in my teeth. I move slowly for my backside burns still where you struck me with your fish tail hands. Pupils shrink to pencil point flecks when I realize these marks won't last. The most brutal words you gave me last night ring in my ears like tinnitus: "I love you, I want you, forever."
On my knees last night, you brandished me like a proper SWITCH. I shook so hard my eyes rattled in their sockets. Muffled screams fade into strangled moans. You bring out the Catholic School girl in me, clinging to your kisses like plaid skirts used to cling to my thighs in my youth.
I get lost inside you, the slap I didn't see coming is a tender caress. That piercing glint off your dilated pupils tells me all I need to know: I'm Yours. Own me. Fix my neck with a collar made of hickeys. Pierce my tongue with a tag bearing your number.
I am your junkyard dog and you can beat me when I get out of line. I'll guard your spare tire empire and razor wire crow's nest on blistered paws and a limping gait. I promise not to bite your hands as long as you keep feeding me, fattening me up with sweet words that tickle my cerebrum like:
"You mark up so pretty for me."
"Harder."
"Scream for me, bitch."
Other people might recoil at your fierce nothings growled sweetly in my ears, but I understand the language you speak. Call me a cunt and I'll swoon all lovestruck. Wrap me in barbed wire and I'll write you love poems with the blood off my skin. I'd rather have you swallow me whole than give me a diamonds and posies. Leave me with marks I can display like branded cattle. Give me scars for souvenirs to attest to my nights spent in the knife thrower's tent.
One night spent in your arms and I stumble away, with the taste of blood embedded in my teeth. I move slowly for my backside burns still where you struck me with your fish tail hands. Pupils shrink to pencil point flecks when I realize these marks won't last. The most brutal words you gave me last night ring in my ears like tinnitus: "I love you, I want you, forever."
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Forty Two 03.26.10
I am sitting in a small crowd watching Queer Open Mic night in San Francisco. With legs splayed comfortably, I sit on a folding metal chair and my right leg is bobbing up and down like a vibrator with ADHD. My hands are feeling a little slick, and it is making snapping at the other poets I see perform before me muffled and unsatisfying. It comes out like more of a soft pop and less of the loud crack I want it to be, punctuating the moments I feel their words the most. My heart is hammering inside my chest, hiccuping at my sternum and bouncing back off of it like a pin ball machine on tilt. I keep trying to breath deeply, I push my shoulders down and inhale into my core, feeling my body still as I exhale slowly and soundlessly.
I'm counting down the performances, because when they call Number 7, Morpheus, to the stage I will make my debut as a slam poet. I've been coming to these slams and open mics for almost 2 months now, I've been getting more and more hungry for the taste of the spotlight, for my chance to embrace my inner poet and let it loose upon the audience. I have been practicing and working so hard for this moment, writing non stop, honing my skills at editing, learning my voice and style, and then running those pieces through until my voice is raw and broken. The only obstacle now that stands in my way is my anxiety, my crippling stage fright that I want so badly to shed. I am trying to invoke the calm before the storm, it comes in short staccato pockets of peace, but nothing I can really hang onto for long.
Then I remember your words, they come sweetly drifting into my mind and I wish you were here to see me, to hear me, to know that every word I speak is about you. I remember you said that I should turn the nervousness into excitement and that I am a prophet meant to spread beauty, truth, and love. My face eases into a wistful smile and I feel my heart swell with pride. You should be here right now, bookending me with my devoted slam coach Lee, but you are elsewhere watching movies with your friends, or laughing so hard you shake, or maybe off in a bar somewhere. I wonder if you are thinking about me right now. I wonder if you are wishing you had come to see this, the way I am wishing you were here.
As the last performer finishes his song and looks up from his guitar he mentions with amazement that there are a whole lot more people there now then when we started. I crane my neck from my seat in the second row to see, that much to my amazement there are people standing in the back, crammed into the doorway like a school of herring shoved into a 5 gallon fish tank. I start to tremor a bit having seen this, but serendipity blesses me once again. The MCs call the feature poet, one of my FAVORITE of the slam poets I have seen thus far to the stage. My eyes shoot open with disbelief at my luck. Sam Sax, enters the room wearing a cherry yellow sweater and painted nylon yellow butterfly wings across his back. He walks smiling to the stage, his sideways cap and slow shuffle swagger displaying all his confidence. Dusty Rose, another poet I have come to know and appreciate, enters with him and takes a seat at the foot of the performance area. My eyes shine. Sam Sax goes up before my performance and suddenly I am FILLED to overflowing with excitement. I couldn't have planned this better if I had tried.
I am beaming in my seat as his rhythm and style carry me away, and I remember, I am one of his troupe. I AM a slam poet, and for him to grace the stage before me with his words and power is to literally litter some of his magic like fairy dust on the ground my feet will soon grace. One happy thought and I might just fucking fly. I feel my heart grow less startled with each piece, my body filled now with a jittery kind of excitement. My moment is about to break over me like a waterfall made of champagne and I grin lost in the moment and the imagery he evokes. I snap until my callus smarts and I punctuate the rhythm he sets with his flow by the sway of my body. He is electric. In my grandest dreams, I see myself ascending to the upper echelons of poets like Sam Sax, Jenn Genius, Kim Johnson, and Dusty Rose. He performs his last poem and I feel the aniexty tremor just below the surface of my skin. But I am on cloud nine after having heard what great poetry is comprised of and I shrug off the nervous energy. I want to hold onto this moment as long as I possibly can.
The MCs jump up to the front and prompt the audience to cheer for Sam Sax. It doesn't take much because the crowd loves him, and rightfully so. His poetry is a mix of rhythm, flair, and haunting beauty. He evokes so much with just a few simple words and the character he dons for his performances is one I never tire of. The crowd cheers him twice and I whistle emphatically. Then they still and Sarah calls "Morpheus" to the stage. I rise, feeling my body coil like a spring and I walk to the stage.
For the last three weeks straight I have seen countless poets struggle with the microphones. Knowing the stage fright I was going to have to combat already, I have been making mental notes on the inner workings of each kind of mic stand, so that when the time comes, it will be easy and fluid for me to adjust. I walk up to the stage, and slide my fist around the coupler like a wrench on a leaky faucet. It gives way, and I slide the mic down to a comfortable height. Twist of my wrist and the mic is in place. I lean into it and say casually, "sorry, I'm short." It's an endearing opening line and I smile at the crowd.
I stand straight and move the mic back from me a bit to the left explaining, "I'm going to back up from the mic, 'cause this is gonna get loud." People in the crowd are waiting with curious expressions as I continue to play with them. "Ok, how many of you out there know what the word Unctuous means?" I have been playing this moment over and over in my head to prepare before this night. But each time I never anticipated what would happen in this moment. I sound confident, even though inside I am shakey and unsure, the crowd does not look so imposing from here, but their attention has me balanced on the edge of a straight razor called tension. Hands bolt up all over the crowd and I find myself saying "Great, yell it out!" Answers come from around the room and I nodd, they are with me now, I can see them starting to engage.
The moment is all but mine, and I savor this, this is the last moment I will really be myself before the piece takes hold. "Right, so it's like greasy, it's like oily, it's like slick, it's SO WET. So that's the title of this piece. Unctuous." I look down at the paper in my left hand and take a breath. Then I begin. The piece roars out of me, its beginning loud, but not angry. It carries a forceful tone of confrontation, and I punctuate it with the nuances in my voice that I have been practicing now for a week. My left hand holds the piece like a teleprompter. I glance down at it from time to time to read what is written. But I stun myself, because I find I am acting out the piece with my body, my right hand gesticulating at just the right moments, and my face wearing every word like a costume. I look up at the crowd, engaging them more than I ever thought I would. Their faces tell me everything.
The sounds of cat calls, low whistles, gasps, and slack jaws fill the air as I summon the best of my piece. The crowd reacting is something I have only dreamed of. I smile wickedly to myself on the inside as I watch them squirm in their seats. Eyes fly open and disbelieving grins spread across their faces. I am in heaven. It is well through the piece when I glance down at my paper to look for the next line and I realize, my left hand is shaking. The paper stutters like a leaf caught in a breeze and I trip over a line, breaking it in half, but still managing to save it. The line slips out of my mouth like a fish through water and its smooth seductive delivery has Dusty Rose shouting out "Whhhaaaaaa-T?!" I wink at her, elated that she felt connected to the piece in this moment with me. The next line, earns an exuberant "SHIT!" from someone off stage left. I am on fire as I bring the piece to a close.
Near the end of the poem at a particularly poignant line, something falls over in the bookstore and a loud bang emanates. Ordinarily I might be frightened by this and freeze up, but I find its timing perfect and I point to the sound as if to say, "that is the sound!" After that, the poem ends softly and subtly. I sway closer to the microphone for its delivery because I want them to hear what is in my voice: longing and bittersweet nostalgia. After the line is delivered, I fold the piece over on itself and the air is thick with silence. I lean into the mic and returning to myself say a quiet but simple "Thanks," while my head does a little bob of a bow and I smirk smile to those around me. I walk back to my seat, but it feels more like floating and flop down into the chair.
The crowd goes wild with cheers and clapping. I am beaming from ear to ear, as Lee my trusted friend and slam coach squeezes me tightly in a bear hug. The female MC gets up to the mic to announce the next performer, fanning herself with her clipboard. "WOW! wow! I am totally overwhelmed, I need a minute! Wow, that was great! Thank you!" She smiles with an almost pained expression gracing her face, staring straight at me. I grin like a Chesire cat and nod. The male MC jumps from his seat, twisting in the air as he does so to find me, not knowing I am sitting kitty corner to his rear. He spots me, leans over pointing to me and screams over the audience, "YOU! You were AWESOME! You ROCK! THANK YOU!" And I laugh in disbelief at how exhilarating this moment has become. I say back "Oh Thank YOU!" and then crowd quiets down.
Some of my friends came to watch for support and they lean over the aisle to heckle me about pumping gas, a reference to a line in the poem where I pantomimed fucking a gas pump nozzle, and I smirk in spite of myself. I am still shaking, but I feel like I could run 40 miles and not even be winded. The rest of the night went something like a naughty poetry slam. The man up after me does a piece about being a Literary Masturbater, a piece he was inspired to pen after coming home from a poetry slam one night and being turned on. There are a few sporadic pieces and then Dusty Rose gets up and reads her poem about learning to feel ashamed of what your body does in a moment of passion, spurring her to swallow "thunderstorms and galaxies" from then on to spare others the shame. I am in heaven. I am loving every minute of this and riding high on the rush that all my hard work has paid off. I can finally call myself, a slam poet.
I glow with excitement and realize, you were there with me the whole time. As I read the piece, it was like an invocation to your heart. I wore the passion you stir within me like skin and through it they all saw how we mix like hard liquor and parched tongues. I would say that I miss you in this moment, but it wouldn't be true. I was missing your absence, but your spirit was with me and I felt it beam with pride and disbelief. I felt it impress its love and ardor all around me like a straight jacket around my heart. After the show was over, I went up and introduced myself to Sam Sax. He was the nicest, sweetest guy I could ever hope to meet. Unlike his stage persona which he wears like a costume. I introduced myself to Dusty Rose as well and was surprised to see she seemed suddenly nervous and awkward. She told me she loved my piece and my head swam. When I revealed to her it was my first time reading she jumped back in surprise. I had to explain, this was the first time I ever performed in front of anyone and she was so encouraging it felt like they were embracing me as one of them.
When I walked from the room to catch a smoke outside, I was still purring like a jungle cat in heat. I glanced to my right and I saw to my amazement, Jenn Genius, talking with a small group of other people. She recognized me and nod waved in her usual supine manner, like a large cat would wave at stupid drooling dog with its tail. I waved back, eyes twinkling and shot for the front door. Outside, Lee and I jumped around like idiots in our excitement and I chain smoked to quell my shaky hands. People walking by from inside sent me sweet little nods with nervous eyes, or they would stop and thank me for reading my piece. Suddenly, I knew what it felt like to be one of the slam poets I always shuffle up to after shows. They were just ordinary people, who have groomed extraordinary talents with skill. They weren't monoliths I should be afraid to approach. And in fact, there was every reason to, to tell them how their piece spoke to me, how much I enjoyed it. How alive it makes me feel to feel their words.
After the show we were invited to eat burgers with the MCs and anyone that wanted to join. We went with and people around the table complimented me on the strength of my piece. I modestly accepted their thanks, and someone asked me how long I have been doing this. Again, no one believed it was my first time. Another person asked us if I had more poetry. They asked me to read more in the burger joint, but the only other piece I had on me was Carrion. I was not about to read Carrion at a burger joint, it's too loud and I might scare someone invoking the big bad wolf in public. I told them to come to the Starry Plough next week. Because after that moment on stage when the crowd started clapping, I knew I had embraced my inner poet and my writer's heart. And I knew I was never going to look back. This was only the beginning and I felt alive, so alive, like my life really started in that moment. I couldn't wait until next Wednesday to slam at the competition for the first time. I couldn't wait for the rest of my life. And I couldn't wait, to share it all with you. I am hoping you'll come and see me perform sometime. I am hoping you'll be sitting there and I'll watch your eyes light up with sparkles like miniature displays of Christmas tree lights and fireworks mating on the backs of fireflies as I shine for you and all to see.
I'm counting down the performances, because when they call Number 7, Morpheus, to the stage I will make my debut as a slam poet. I've been coming to these slams and open mics for almost 2 months now, I've been getting more and more hungry for the taste of the spotlight, for my chance to embrace my inner poet and let it loose upon the audience. I have been practicing and working so hard for this moment, writing non stop, honing my skills at editing, learning my voice and style, and then running those pieces through until my voice is raw and broken. The only obstacle now that stands in my way is my anxiety, my crippling stage fright that I want so badly to shed. I am trying to invoke the calm before the storm, it comes in short staccato pockets of peace, but nothing I can really hang onto for long.
Then I remember your words, they come sweetly drifting into my mind and I wish you were here to see me, to hear me, to know that every word I speak is about you. I remember you said that I should turn the nervousness into excitement and that I am a prophet meant to spread beauty, truth, and love. My face eases into a wistful smile and I feel my heart swell with pride. You should be here right now, bookending me with my devoted slam coach Lee, but you are elsewhere watching movies with your friends, or laughing so hard you shake, or maybe off in a bar somewhere. I wonder if you are thinking about me right now. I wonder if you are wishing you had come to see this, the way I am wishing you were here.
As the last performer finishes his song and looks up from his guitar he mentions with amazement that there are a whole lot more people there now then when we started. I crane my neck from my seat in the second row to see, that much to my amazement there are people standing in the back, crammed into the doorway like a school of herring shoved into a 5 gallon fish tank. I start to tremor a bit having seen this, but serendipity blesses me once again. The MCs call the feature poet, one of my FAVORITE of the slam poets I have seen thus far to the stage. My eyes shoot open with disbelief at my luck. Sam Sax, enters the room wearing a cherry yellow sweater and painted nylon yellow butterfly wings across his back. He walks smiling to the stage, his sideways cap and slow shuffle swagger displaying all his confidence. Dusty Rose, another poet I have come to know and appreciate, enters with him and takes a seat at the foot of the performance area. My eyes shine. Sam Sax goes up before my performance and suddenly I am FILLED to overflowing with excitement. I couldn't have planned this better if I had tried.
I am beaming in my seat as his rhythm and style carry me away, and I remember, I am one of his troupe. I AM a slam poet, and for him to grace the stage before me with his words and power is to literally litter some of his magic like fairy dust on the ground my feet will soon grace. One happy thought and I might just fucking fly. I feel my heart grow less startled with each piece, my body filled now with a jittery kind of excitement. My moment is about to break over me like a waterfall made of champagne and I grin lost in the moment and the imagery he evokes. I snap until my callus smarts and I punctuate the rhythm he sets with his flow by the sway of my body. He is electric. In my grandest dreams, I see myself ascending to the upper echelons of poets like Sam Sax, Jenn Genius, Kim Johnson, and Dusty Rose. He performs his last poem and I feel the aniexty tremor just below the surface of my skin. But I am on cloud nine after having heard what great poetry is comprised of and I shrug off the nervous energy. I want to hold onto this moment as long as I possibly can.
The MCs jump up to the front and prompt the audience to cheer for Sam Sax. It doesn't take much because the crowd loves him, and rightfully so. His poetry is a mix of rhythm, flair, and haunting beauty. He evokes so much with just a few simple words and the character he dons for his performances is one I never tire of. The crowd cheers him twice and I whistle emphatically. Then they still and Sarah calls "Morpheus" to the stage. I rise, feeling my body coil like a spring and I walk to the stage.
For the last three weeks straight I have seen countless poets struggle with the microphones. Knowing the stage fright I was going to have to combat already, I have been making mental notes on the inner workings of each kind of mic stand, so that when the time comes, it will be easy and fluid for me to adjust. I walk up to the stage, and slide my fist around the coupler like a wrench on a leaky faucet. It gives way, and I slide the mic down to a comfortable height. Twist of my wrist and the mic is in place. I lean into it and say casually, "sorry, I'm short." It's an endearing opening line and I smile at the crowd.
I stand straight and move the mic back from me a bit to the left explaining, "I'm going to back up from the mic, 'cause this is gonna get loud." People in the crowd are waiting with curious expressions as I continue to play with them. "Ok, how many of you out there know what the word Unctuous means?" I have been playing this moment over and over in my head to prepare before this night. But each time I never anticipated what would happen in this moment. I sound confident, even though inside I am shakey and unsure, the crowd does not look so imposing from here, but their attention has me balanced on the edge of a straight razor called tension. Hands bolt up all over the crowd and I find myself saying "Great, yell it out!" Answers come from around the room and I nodd, they are with me now, I can see them starting to engage.
The moment is all but mine, and I savor this, this is the last moment I will really be myself before the piece takes hold. "Right, so it's like greasy, it's like oily, it's like slick, it's SO WET. So that's the title of this piece. Unctuous." I look down at the paper in my left hand and take a breath. Then I begin. The piece roars out of me, its beginning loud, but not angry. It carries a forceful tone of confrontation, and I punctuate it with the nuances in my voice that I have been practicing now for a week. My left hand holds the piece like a teleprompter. I glance down at it from time to time to read what is written. But I stun myself, because I find I am acting out the piece with my body, my right hand gesticulating at just the right moments, and my face wearing every word like a costume. I look up at the crowd, engaging them more than I ever thought I would. Their faces tell me everything.
The sounds of cat calls, low whistles, gasps, and slack jaws fill the air as I summon the best of my piece. The crowd reacting is something I have only dreamed of. I smile wickedly to myself on the inside as I watch them squirm in their seats. Eyes fly open and disbelieving grins spread across their faces. I am in heaven. It is well through the piece when I glance down at my paper to look for the next line and I realize, my left hand is shaking. The paper stutters like a leaf caught in a breeze and I trip over a line, breaking it in half, but still managing to save it. The line slips out of my mouth like a fish through water and its smooth seductive delivery has Dusty Rose shouting out "Whhhaaaaaa-T?!" I wink at her, elated that she felt connected to the piece in this moment with me. The next line, earns an exuberant "SHIT!" from someone off stage left. I am on fire as I bring the piece to a close.
Near the end of the poem at a particularly poignant line, something falls over in the bookstore and a loud bang emanates. Ordinarily I might be frightened by this and freeze up, but I find its timing perfect and I point to the sound as if to say, "that is the sound!" After that, the poem ends softly and subtly. I sway closer to the microphone for its delivery because I want them to hear what is in my voice: longing and bittersweet nostalgia. After the line is delivered, I fold the piece over on itself and the air is thick with silence. I lean into the mic and returning to myself say a quiet but simple "Thanks," while my head does a little bob of a bow and I smirk smile to those around me. I walk back to my seat, but it feels more like floating and flop down into the chair.
The crowd goes wild with cheers and clapping. I am beaming from ear to ear, as Lee my trusted friend and slam coach squeezes me tightly in a bear hug. The female MC gets up to the mic to announce the next performer, fanning herself with her clipboard. "WOW! wow! I am totally overwhelmed, I need a minute! Wow, that was great! Thank you!" She smiles with an almost pained expression gracing her face, staring straight at me. I grin like a Chesire cat and nod. The male MC jumps from his seat, twisting in the air as he does so to find me, not knowing I am sitting kitty corner to his rear. He spots me, leans over pointing to me and screams over the audience, "YOU! You were AWESOME! You ROCK! THANK YOU!" And I laugh in disbelief at how exhilarating this moment has become. I say back "Oh Thank YOU!" and then crowd quiets down.
Some of my friends came to watch for support and they lean over the aisle to heckle me about pumping gas, a reference to a line in the poem where I pantomimed fucking a gas pump nozzle, and I smirk in spite of myself. I am still shaking, but I feel like I could run 40 miles and not even be winded. The rest of the night went something like a naughty poetry slam. The man up after me does a piece about being a Literary Masturbater, a piece he was inspired to pen after coming home from a poetry slam one night and being turned on. There are a few sporadic pieces and then Dusty Rose gets up and reads her poem about learning to feel ashamed of what your body does in a moment of passion, spurring her to swallow "thunderstorms and galaxies" from then on to spare others the shame. I am in heaven. I am loving every minute of this and riding high on the rush that all my hard work has paid off. I can finally call myself, a slam poet.
I glow with excitement and realize, you were there with me the whole time. As I read the piece, it was like an invocation to your heart. I wore the passion you stir within me like skin and through it they all saw how we mix like hard liquor and parched tongues. I would say that I miss you in this moment, but it wouldn't be true. I was missing your absence, but your spirit was with me and I felt it beam with pride and disbelief. I felt it impress its love and ardor all around me like a straight jacket around my heart. After the show was over, I went up and introduced myself to Sam Sax. He was the nicest, sweetest guy I could ever hope to meet. Unlike his stage persona which he wears like a costume. I introduced myself to Dusty Rose as well and was surprised to see she seemed suddenly nervous and awkward. She told me she loved my piece and my head swam. When I revealed to her it was my first time reading she jumped back in surprise. I had to explain, this was the first time I ever performed in front of anyone and she was so encouraging it felt like they were embracing me as one of them.
When I walked from the room to catch a smoke outside, I was still purring like a jungle cat in heat. I glanced to my right and I saw to my amazement, Jenn Genius, talking with a small group of other people. She recognized me and nod waved in her usual supine manner, like a large cat would wave at stupid drooling dog with its tail. I waved back, eyes twinkling and shot for the front door. Outside, Lee and I jumped around like idiots in our excitement and I chain smoked to quell my shaky hands. People walking by from inside sent me sweet little nods with nervous eyes, or they would stop and thank me for reading my piece. Suddenly, I knew what it felt like to be one of the slam poets I always shuffle up to after shows. They were just ordinary people, who have groomed extraordinary talents with skill. They weren't monoliths I should be afraid to approach. And in fact, there was every reason to, to tell them how their piece spoke to me, how much I enjoyed it. How alive it makes me feel to feel their words.
After the show we were invited to eat burgers with the MCs and anyone that wanted to join. We went with and people around the table complimented me on the strength of my piece. I modestly accepted their thanks, and someone asked me how long I have been doing this. Again, no one believed it was my first time. Another person asked us if I had more poetry. They asked me to read more in the burger joint, but the only other piece I had on me was Carrion. I was not about to read Carrion at a burger joint, it's too loud and I might scare someone invoking the big bad wolf in public. I told them to come to the Starry Plough next week. Because after that moment on stage when the crowd started clapping, I knew I had embraced my inner poet and my writer's heart. And I knew I was never going to look back. This was only the beginning and I felt alive, so alive, like my life really started in that moment. I couldn't wait until next Wednesday to slam at the competition for the first time. I couldn't wait for the rest of my life. And I couldn't wait, to share it all with you. I am hoping you'll come and see me perform sometime. I am hoping you'll be sitting there and I'll watch your eyes light up with sparkles like miniature displays of Christmas tree lights and fireworks mating on the backs of fireflies as I shine for you and all to see.
Forty Three 03.27.10 Subpoena to the Court of the Starry Plow
02.25.10
Right now,I am at a place called the Starry Plow and you would be in love with this place. The walls are filled to the rafters with a busy cram of colorful political posters, odd bar room kitsch,and a rusted plow hangs from the ceiling adorned with twinkle lights.
The smell of beer and malt vinegar fills my nose and as I look with appreciation at the Che Guevara flag suspended from the ceiling the beautifully strangled sounds of Jimmie Hendrix's guitar creeps into my ears. Instantly I am smiling. Beaming from EAR to EAR like a Cheshire cat. You are with me now, always with me.
And in this moment I am SO elated, I can't even think to remember that after 2 years together, you left me; you haven't spoken to me in 9 days; that I haven't seen your face in nearly 2 weeks time.
The "Characters" in this bar are certainly of the caliber you would dream up for one of your short stories. And so I feel as though I have been written into one of them. Huddled around our tables in loud animated groups, or milling around the bar scoping the scene, waiting for friends to arrive. We are all so achingly real, so beautiful in that instant of startling naked realism. It's that kind of quality you so easily evoke with your words and I am left dumbstruck by comparison.
My heart should be breaking into a thousand splintered pieces made of diamonds and steel wool. I should be crying, sobbing at home alone. I should be miserable that we are not together.
But tonight I am filled with the babbling frenzy of sound floating about this room
I am fluttering above it all in the folds of the Irish and Scottish flags which hang above me. Ironically they split me down the middle, just like my heritage. I am remembering Ireland and La Boca Argentina in the instant because I SWEAR I can hear someone speaking with an Irish accent nearby.
I am marveling at the thick stylized wooden columns holding up the ceiling to this place above us. Their bronze and mustard tones smiling all around. Even the bricks are warm and winking at me from between slanted pieces of cherry stained pine mounted to the wall. All along the Watchtower gives way to a fuzzy spot of radio babble, the violent exit solo echos in my ears and I reach for my notebook and pen with frenzied hands.
I have to tell you all about this because you should be here with me, smiling, talking to everyone while our feet stick idly to the worn concrete floor which shows all the colors it has every been in the spots most shuffled across. The smell of pizza, burger grease, and stale cigarette smoke climbs into my senses, it is adding texture and reality to this place that feels like I pulled it out of one of my fantasies. A skinny man wearing a plaid shirt, baggy drab pants, and a black fedora over his loosely curling length of dark hair is holding a baby in his arms at the bar.
He is talking with the bartender about his pizza and the little girl is smiling and wriggling in her pink pajamas like a guppy. His voice is the kind I expects belongs to a man who listens to acid jazz rock, grunge, and music that most do not appreciate. You would be fast friends with this man. Over someone's high pitched cackle Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band comes on. The insistent cymbals mirror my excited heart beat. This is too rich. WHERE ARE YOU?!! You should be here with me. We should be worrying and fussing over which piece we should each read tonight. You should have your pen racing across the page with me. YOU SHOULD BE HERE! I pray you'll let me take you here someday with me. Because surely I have found my new home for every Wednesday night henceforth.
The James Connolly quote on the far wall across the bar from me is winking at me. Just then "Don't You Forget About Me" plays and I laugh out loud. WHAT IS THIS PLACE? It is any wonder that in the midst of a day like this so filled with serendipity and your presence I seem half crazed? I am exalted, this is more like myself than I have felt in weeks, months, I don't even know when. They are asking for people to sign up for Slam readings tonight. They are drawing numbers from a small rusted tin box. I am not amongst them tonight, but soon I will be. They are writing down their names for the MC on a clipboard and some are exchanging hugs, some nervous glances, some confident aloof smiles. The cherry sign that reads "Berkeley Slam" in bright colors akin to some cheer squad sign hangs in front of a green curtain at the back of the platform.
The stage is low and small, just enough room for a band and nothing much more. The lights above cast a rosy blanket of light upon the waiting stage. Soon it will be dark and the only space of light will be that stage. Soon the crowded sounds of beer glasses, music, spoons, Mrs.Robinson on the radio, and people chattering as they fill up the bar will hush; then cease. Soon, the only sound will be the voice of the poet on stage, slamming our ears with sound. Fleet wood Mac's Thunder only happens when it's raining comes on the radio and I stare longingly at the stage. Some Wednesday I'll be up there I promise myself. I'm tired of hiding, being nervous, who cares if I fuck up?
At least I'll know I did something for once, participated, made my mark, instead of sitting by and recording everyone else around me. Let the tongue tied trip ups come, let them all laugh at me when I stumble or hiccup. Soon it will pass, because I won't be a doe eyed novice for long. I'll get seasoned, find my flow and slam every hump day I can to hell and gone. I am at a place called the Starry Plow, a bar you would love, and I'm calling you out.
Fuck this drama between us, let me bring you here. You just have to see this place.
Right now,I am at a place called the Starry Plow and you would be in love with this place. The walls are filled to the rafters with a busy cram of colorful political posters, odd bar room kitsch,and a rusted plow hangs from the ceiling adorned with twinkle lights.
The smell of beer and malt vinegar fills my nose and as I look with appreciation at the Che Guevara flag suspended from the ceiling the beautifully strangled sounds of Jimmie Hendrix's guitar creeps into my ears. Instantly I am smiling. Beaming from EAR to EAR like a Cheshire cat. You are with me now, always with me.
And in this moment I am SO elated, I can't even think to remember that after 2 years together, you left me; you haven't spoken to me in 9 days; that I haven't seen your face in nearly 2 weeks time.
The "Characters" in this bar are certainly of the caliber you would dream up for one of your short stories. And so I feel as though I have been written into one of them. Huddled around our tables in loud animated groups, or milling around the bar scoping the scene, waiting for friends to arrive. We are all so achingly real, so beautiful in that instant of startling naked realism. It's that kind of quality you so easily evoke with your words and I am left dumbstruck by comparison.
My heart should be breaking into a thousand splintered pieces made of diamonds and steel wool. I should be crying, sobbing at home alone. I should be miserable that we are not together.
But tonight I am filled with the babbling frenzy of sound floating about this room
I am fluttering above it all in the folds of the Irish and Scottish flags which hang above me. Ironically they split me down the middle, just like my heritage. I am remembering Ireland and La Boca Argentina in the instant because I SWEAR I can hear someone speaking with an Irish accent nearby.
I am marveling at the thick stylized wooden columns holding up the ceiling to this place above us. Their bronze and mustard tones smiling all around. Even the bricks are warm and winking at me from between slanted pieces of cherry stained pine mounted to the wall. All along the Watchtower gives way to a fuzzy spot of radio babble, the violent exit solo echos in my ears and I reach for my notebook and pen with frenzied hands.
I have to tell you all about this because you should be here with me, smiling, talking to everyone while our feet stick idly to the worn concrete floor which shows all the colors it has every been in the spots most shuffled across. The smell of pizza, burger grease, and stale cigarette smoke climbs into my senses, it is adding texture and reality to this place that feels like I pulled it out of one of my fantasies. A skinny man wearing a plaid shirt, baggy drab pants, and a black fedora over his loosely curling length of dark hair is holding a baby in his arms at the bar.
He is talking with the bartender about his pizza and the little girl is smiling and wriggling in her pink pajamas like a guppy. His voice is the kind I expects belongs to a man who listens to acid jazz rock, grunge, and music that most do not appreciate. You would be fast friends with this man. Over someone's high pitched cackle Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band comes on. The insistent cymbals mirror my excited heart beat. This is too rich. WHERE ARE YOU?!! You should be here with me. We should be worrying and fussing over which piece we should each read tonight. You should have your pen racing across the page with me. YOU SHOULD BE HERE! I pray you'll let me take you here someday with me. Because surely I have found my new home for every Wednesday night henceforth.
The James Connolly quote on the far wall across the bar from me is winking at me. Just then "Don't You Forget About Me" plays and I laugh out loud. WHAT IS THIS PLACE? It is any wonder that in the midst of a day like this so filled with serendipity and your presence I seem half crazed? I am exalted, this is more like myself than I have felt in weeks, months, I don't even know when. They are asking for people to sign up for Slam readings tonight. They are drawing numbers from a small rusted tin box. I am not amongst them tonight, but soon I will be. They are writing down their names for the MC on a clipboard and some are exchanging hugs, some nervous glances, some confident aloof smiles. The cherry sign that reads "Berkeley Slam" in bright colors akin to some cheer squad sign hangs in front of a green curtain at the back of the platform.
The stage is low and small, just enough room for a band and nothing much more. The lights above cast a rosy blanket of light upon the waiting stage. Soon it will be dark and the only space of light will be that stage. Soon the crowded sounds of beer glasses, music, spoons, Mrs.Robinson on the radio, and people chattering as they fill up the bar will hush; then cease. Soon, the only sound will be the voice of the poet on stage, slamming our ears with sound. Fleet wood Mac's Thunder only happens when it's raining comes on the radio and I stare longingly at the stage. Some Wednesday I'll be up there I promise myself. I'm tired of hiding, being nervous, who cares if I fuck up?
At least I'll know I did something for once, participated, made my mark, instead of sitting by and recording everyone else around me. Let the tongue tied trip ups come, let them all laugh at me when I stumble or hiccup. Soon it will pass, because I won't be a doe eyed novice for long. I'll get seasoned, find my flow and slam every hump day I can to hell and gone. I am at a place called the Starry Plow, a bar you would love, and I'm calling you out.
Fuck this drama between us, let me bring you here. You just have to see this place.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Forty One And Half 03.25.10
I will be the spirit of torpid love for you. Because our trapeze artist toes are tingling with excitement, but this wire is new to us, I will not jostle the wire as we walk across from each end to each other. This is a balancing act. And I appreciate the gravity that could carry me down again to the straw strewn floor below us. Just now, there is no safety net. The only safety net below us is the distance that keeps our hearts blooming for each other with the promise of the future we might share together someday. But it is flimsy just now, and transparent. Giving the illusion that it does not exist. We are not ready yet, to jump and let the net appear.
And so I will be sure of supine foot, clinging my toes to this wire which is made of our heartstrings. I don't want you to lock up with tremors and slip away over the edge of the wire. I don't want you to fall until the net is ready to catch you. I understand, this progress, this practice for the final act in the three ring circus of our love must be enacted slowly. I understand that just now, we must use the balancing pole. We must find the center for ourselves and also with each other. We must steady ourselves before we approach the edge. Each foot must be placed upon the steel coil. Shifting our weight from the hind leg to the forefront and stilling ourselves in balance we will take each step forward. With purpose and confidence we will still belong to the world of gravity, but over time we will master it with grave and fluid movement.
We must not look into the void and be frightened by the height. We must realize there is no reason to fear now as we are only working the slack rope in our own quarters. Each time we talk, we will scale to the heights of the high wire and rehearse our aerial feats of equilibrium. And when we do see each other, these will be our finest performances. Wearing feathers and sparkling jewels we will not look away from the depths of each others eyes as we dance across the wire to each other. We will use our focus and devotion to the art form to elevate it to the greatest heights of lissomeness. I want you to know, I will not overwhelm you with my strength, I only wish to display my sincerity of heart without reserve that is not deserved. These are the acts that build that crimson web below us. So that on the night that we render that most fantastical circus act between our hearts, we will know we can finally jump and the net will catch us in a love that will hold us in health, security, and permanence.
I want you to know, I am working on my balance, strengthening my core every night. I am becoming more and more that pillar of unfailing integrity. I am burgeoning with unshakable fluid poise. When we practice again, you will barely feel the wire tremble underneath my feline toes. And if you should feel shaky feet, just still yourself and breath deeply. Look into my eyes and see, I know we are on this wire together, and I will not disturb your composure unnecessarily while we are perched on it. And you know, you can always descend to the safety of the solid ground and I will still clasp my hands to yours and bow, grateful for the practice you afforded me to build towards our most magnificent acts of lofty telephone wire ballet.
And so I will be sure of supine foot, clinging my toes to this wire which is made of our heartstrings. I don't want you to lock up with tremors and slip away over the edge of the wire. I don't want you to fall until the net is ready to catch you. I understand, this progress, this practice for the final act in the three ring circus of our love must be enacted slowly. I understand that just now, we must use the balancing pole. We must find the center for ourselves and also with each other. We must steady ourselves before we approach the edge. Each foot must be placed upon the steel coil. Shifting our weight from the hind leg to the forefront and stilling ourselves in balance we will take each step forward. With purpose and confidence we will still belong to the world of gravity, but over time we will master it with grave and fluid movement.
We must not look into the void and be frightened by the height. We must realize there is no reason to fear now as we are only working the slack rope in our own quarters. Each time we talk, we will scale to the heights of the high wire and rehearse our aerial feats of equilibrium. And when we do see each other, these will be our finest performances. Wearing feathers and sparkling jewels we will not look away from the depths of each others eyes as we dance across the wire to each other. We will use our focus and devotion to the art form to elevate it to the greatest heights of lissomeness. I want you to know, I will not overwhelm you with my strength, I only wish to display my sincerity of heart without reserve that is not deserved. These are the acts that build that crimson web below us. So that on the night that we render that most fantastical circus act between our hearts, we will know we can finally jump and the net will catch us in a love that will hold us in health, security, and permanence.
I want you to know, I am working on my balance, strengthening my core every night. I am becoming more and more that pillar of unfailing integrity. I am burgeoning with unshakable fluid poise. When we practice again, you will barely feel the wire tremble underneath my feline toes. And if you should feel shaky feet, just still yourself and breath deeply. Look into my eyes and see, I know we are on this wire together, and I will not disturb your composure unnecessarily while we are perched on it. And you know, you can always descend to the safety of the solid ground and I will still clasp my hands to yours and bow, grateful for the practice you afforded me to build towards our most magnificent acts of lofty telephone wire ballet.
Forty One 03.25.10
Today I will break with my usual custom. Today, I write you two letters. The first is an unnecessary purge of emotion. You'll have to excuse it, for once again, I can't really keep much of anything from you in the end.
My heart wants to believe everything is right and running its course. It wants to be easy and sure the way I know it to be. It wants for calm moments of certainty and clarity because they allow me to view you as you are: breathtaking, resplendent, wondrous. But my brain, my brain is an organ of an entirely different nature. It is broken with doubt and shards of glass wedge themselves in deep, slicing through its meninges with an almost surgical precision. This is where the confusion sets in. I don't even want to pretend that I'm asking you to foster some inappropriate bond with me. I know better than to do that. I know better than to ask for more validation after what you gave me Sunday night.
I heard you, "It will take more time." I heard you repeat it like a mantra and I understood. But I also remember the way you said you would contact me, closer to this weekend. I keep thinking now, the memories of that night might be all I have to hold onto in the end. I keep trying to train myself not to revert back to old habits letting doubt stab deep and with it spreading panic like a wildfire across my heart. I keep trying to say to my brain: "Be still, you don't have to have all the answers now, be patient."
I keep hearing the tone of your voice in my head the way you spoke to me on Sunday night. I keep remembering the words you spoke with such conviction. I can see it now, the way you looked me straight in the eye unwavering, and told me your secret heartfelt truths you had kept hidden from me for so long. And I know deep down, although you are a fantastic actress, you have always been a shit liar. I know you wouldn't dare say those things to me unless you felt them and meant them. But I still keep falling over on my ass. I'm knocked completely off balance by the shock when I recollect how you persisted in bringing these little acts of intimacy we once engaged in so regularly to the surface: asking me to push your glasses up onto the bridge of your nose for you, caterpillar eater, cheek vampire, eating my nose, Anchor Man quotes, playing with my hair, and holding me so tightly to you in my arms. Don't mistake, I am not saying I have a single solitary regret, I couldn't ever. That night is like a beacon for me in a raging sea. So please don't take it back, I don't want these moments stolen from my grasp.
The fact you were invoking what I thought before that was a love between us that had grown stale and devoid of the promise of ever being rekindled was like a miracle before my doubting Thomas eyes. I keep recalling the way you told me, you wanted me to chase you. And then I keep thinking, what the fuck am I doing? I keep thinking every time I flirt with you and it goes unrequited I must have misheard you on Sunday. I keep trying to go back and play that night back in my mind over and over, looking for the clues where you were really saying "fuck off." Instead of "I want you to chase me." I keep thinking I must be the proverbial Fool in the tarot card if I was ever thinking that you would spare me a millisecond of your time after that night. You have grander projects that require your focus than to cater to me and my insecurity over my love for you. You have hammerhead sharks to fillet, and people that don't complicate your existence with their needy emotional baggage.
I'm just trying to find the right way to communicate with you. I've tried a few tricks up my sleeves, you liked the carrier pigeons. But you didn't care much for the smoke signals. When I send you raptors you note their plumage with your sparkling eyes. But my telegrams go unanswered, just the "stop" at the end of the message ringing back to me while this feeling squeezes around my throat. It's a riddle I am still trying to solve, what's too much, what's too little? How do I make you smile and welcome me back into your life again? I'm not rushing it, but I'm just looking for the next stepping stone to jump on to cross these troubled waters.
You assure me you'll put me in my place if I go too far, I have yet to see you pull back and unleash the sting of your backhand across my cheek. I have yet to see you recoil and leave me dangling on the end of a disconnected phone line. But there are moments where I swear I am like the Fox in Aesop's fables jumping for grapes and snapping my jaws at dead air. Silence. You give me pockets of silence and I feel them like turbulence. Other times, you send me multitudinous words, a cacophony of sound from your brain via text message. I wonder if this is just some silly game in the end. But the things you contact me for, they seem real. They seem like you are giving me the window into your life I wanted so badly before. And I am grateful like a follower who has found their messiah at least, I am grateful you let me in now at all. You come to me for mirth and support. You send me random snapshots of your day, as if to say "I want you here," and "over there."
But when I try to get closer, or move the picture into focus, you retreat. Am I being too coy? Is that it? Is my chase too subtle? Do you want more grand proclamations? Because I have no issue mustering earthquakes and volcanoes for you. They erupt, spouting my love for you at least a dozen times a day. I could send you thunderstorm bearing violet forking tongues that would scream from the heavens how much I adore you. I could upend any fool that stood in your way with the whipping winds of my hurricane love for you. But it's this thing...It's the acute awareness I have that you are a sexy independent capable woman. I would never thrust myself on you unless you gave me a green light to do it winking at me from your dimpled smile.
I am just going to have to trust in the organ that works for me best, the one that sought you out in the first place. The one that still keeps me tied to you despite the effects of the poor chemistry of my brain. I'm going to have to just trust, that what is in my heart is right. I'll send you my warmth and my passion, and I'll let your words grace my ears in whatever form they take. I'm going to just have to send you my sweetmeats piece by piece with my carrier pigeons and my raptors. I'll leave the smoke signals and the telegrams to be damned. I just hope soon you'll feel more comfortable to tie a silver ribbon of parchment to the feet of those dear birds of mine and send some messages that are clearer back. Not from your brain dear love, but your heart.
My heart wants to believe everything is right and running its course. It wants to be easy and sure the way I know it to be. It wants for calm moments of certainty and clarity because they allow me to view you as you are: breathtaking, resplendent, wondrous. But my brain, my brain is an organ of an entirely different nature. It is broken with doubt and shards of glass wedge themselves in deep, slicing through its meninges with an almost surgical precision. This is where the confusion sets in. I don't even want to pretend that I'm asking you to foster some inappropriate bond with me. I know better than to do that. I know better than to ask for more validation after what you gave me Sunday night.
I heard you, "It will take more time." I heard you repeat it like a mantra and I understood. But I also remember the way you said you would contact me, closer to this weekend. I keep thinking now, the memories of that night might be all I have to hold onto in the end. I keep trying to train myself not to revert back to old habits letting doubt stab deep and with it spreading panic like a wildfire across my heart. I keep trying to say to my brain: "Be still, you don't have to have all the answers now, be patient."
I keep hearing the tone of your voice in my head the way you spoke to me on Sunday night. I keep remembering the words you spoke with such conviction. I can see it now, the way you looked me straight in the eye unwavering, and told me your secret heartfelt truths you had kept hidden from me for so long. And I know deep down, although you are a fantastic actress, you have always been a shit liar. I know you wouldn't dare say those things to me unless you felt them and meant them. But I still keep falling over on my ass. I'm knocked completely off balance by the shock when I recollect how you persisted in bringing these little acts of intimacy we once engaged in so regularly to the surface: asking me to push your glasses up onto the bridge of your nose for you, caterpillar eater, cheek vampire, eating my nose, Anchor Man quotes, playing with my hair, and holding me so tightly to you in my arms. Don't mistake, I am not saying I have a single solitary regret, I couldn't ever. That night is like a beacon for me in a raging sea. So please don't take it back, I don't want these moments stolen from my grasp.
The fact you were invoking what I thought before that was a love between us that had grown stale and devoid of the promise of ever being rekindled was like a miracle before my doubting Thomas eyes. I keep recalling the way you told me, you wanted me to chase you. And then I keep thinking, what the fuck am I doing? I keep thinking every time I flirt with you and it goes unrequited I must have misheard you on Sunday. I keep trying to go back and play that night back in my mind over and over, looking for the clues where you were really saying "fuck off." Instead of "I want you to chase me." I keep thinking I must be the proverbial Fool in the tarot card if I was ever thinking that you would spare me a millisecond of your time after that night. You have grander projects that require your focus than to cater to me and my insecurity over my love for you. You have hammerhead sharks to fillet, and people that don't complicate your existence with their needy emotional baggage.
I'm just trying to find the right way to communicate with you. I've tried a few tricks up my sleeves, you liked the carrier pigeons. But you didn't care much for the smoke signals. When I send you raptors you note their plumage with your sparkling eyes. But my telegrams go unanswered, just the "stop" at the end of the message ringing back to me while this feeling squeezes around my throat. It's a riddle I am still trying to solve, what's too much, what's too little? How do I make you smile and welcome me back into your life again? I'm not rushing it, but I'm just looking for the next stepping stone to jump on to cross these troubled waters.
You assure me you'll put me in my place if I go too far, I have yet to see you pull back and unleash the sting of your backhand across my cheek. I have yet to see you recoil and leave me dangling on the end of a disconnected phone line. But there are moments where I swear I am like the Fox in Aesop's fables jumping for grapes and snapping my jaws at dead air. Silence. You give me pockets of silence and I feel them like turbulence. Other times, you send me multitudinous words, a cacophony of sound from your brain via text message. I wonder if this is just some silly game in the end. But the things you contact me for, they seem real. They seem like you are giving me the window into your life I wanted so badly before. And I am grateful like a follower who has found their messiah at least, I am grateful you let me in now at all. You come to me for mirth and support. You send me random snapshots of your day, as if to say "I want you here," and "over there."
But when I try to get closer, or move the picture into focus, you retreat. Am I being too coy? Is that it? Is my chase too subtle? Do you want more grand proclamations? Because I have no issue mustering earthquakes and volcanoes for you. They erupt, spouting my love for you at least a dozen times a day. I could send you thunderstorm bearing violet forking tongues that would scream from the heavens how much I adore you. I could upend any fool that stood in your way with the whipping winds of my hurricane love for you. But it's this thing...It's the acute awareness I have that you are a sexy independent capable woman. I would never thrust myself on you unless you gave me a green light to do it winking at me from your dimpled smile.
I am just going to have to trust in the organ that works for me best, the one that sought you out in the first place. The one that still keeps me tied to you despite the effects of the poor chemistry of my brain. I'm going to have to just trust, that what is in my heart is right. I'll send you my warmth and my passion, and I'll let your words grace my ears in whatever form they take. I'm going to just have to send you my sweetmeats piece by piece with my carrier pigeons and my raptors. I'll leave the smoke signals and the telegrams to be damned. I just hope soon you'll feel more comfortable to tie a silver ribbon of parchment to the feet of those dear birds of mine and send some messages that are clearer back. Not from your brain dear love, but your heart.
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