Train tracks. Our feet match, stepping one slat to the next. Our hands swing in time, fingers laced together - so soft & solid - my hand curled against yours. Twighlight trails the setting sun and a thousand miles away my sister hurls herself into the highway as if it might save her. You, silent, support me as I support her. I could lean into you and not fall, but we walk instead. She calls back again. Her fiance's got another lover and she doesn't know if it's insanity or the bottle. Either option terrifies her. No answers yet. You squeeze my hand as I talk her off ledges. Her first call interrupted a discussion of your infidelities. I thought she'd be the one talking me off your ledge, a sudden four story drop, but she didn't hear me crying and she was already stripping asphalt in a craze to find home. You, being the resident expert on mental illness and addiction, took the vacant position of consultant and confidante. Helps that you're my best friend, your propensity to repeatedly risk breaking my heart aside. Maybe you will someday. I might run out of highway and find my heart hurling at 70 miles an hour toward a brick wall. Would you clean up the mess? I'm not sure you would. I guess that's why I'm heading for the backroads. Bus stops and waiting stations feel safer. Still, then I might be left behind without transport. A siren interrupts that thought and we look behind us into the blaring headlights of an oncoming train. We jump off the tracks, screaming and laughing into the rusted flash of roaring metal. I jump & stomp & squeal. I get it all out, made invisible by this thunderous body of steel crashing by, cradled by the rushing air thick with noise. My sister on the other end of the line wondering what the hell happened. I have to explain. She wonders why I'm with you, whether she says it or not. She wonders if she's headed for the same brick wall. She can't believe it. We say goodbye so I can call Mom for Mother's Day.
Then it's you and me again, walking past the power plant hand in hand. You lie me down on the street corner, under the flourescent street lamp, and read me a love letter. I'm supposed to feel lucky and I do. Your chest is always the best pillow and I feel you open to me in that way that melts my resistance. It may come back. Regardless, we know we're headed for a parting, so we love while we can. You love me. I love you while I can. While I can.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Thoughts of long ago
It's up. The image. The archetype. Something I read caught an edge & it's tipping over the embankment. I feel the gravity of it. I watch it fall, endless weight. No bottom. He couldn't love sex, but he had to have it nevertheless. I used the wolf of red riding hood to describe him to myself when I finally got it. He used the weight of my body to crush his self-loathing. It didn't work. I dematerialized at the crucial moment and he was left with only shame & rage. I had no framework for his way of seeing except misogyny. It took longer to see addiction. It took longer to admit that I felt used. Where did I get such perserverent optimism? Such naivete? Only a history of abuse could explain why I stayed through the upheaval, but I couldn't pin that history. The one link that took me by the scruff was my grandmother who was quickly losing her mind in a mess of abusive delusions. Or was it all just coming back to haunt? Why is it that I desire to understand human suffering so deeply? I built a model concentration camp for 4th grade history day. No doubt the judge found the cottonball smoke billowing from a foam-core board gas chamber just a little unsettling. No doubt they found the pipecleaner firing squad downright distasteful. Was this an 8-year old's strategy for dealing with German guilt? But, somehow I remember feeling the atrociousness of it all alongside survival, redemption, faith in God against all odds. Was I looking for a real-life adult replay? Can I survive against the odds? That wasn't my question going into it, but I certainly learned I could by the time all was said and done, denied & reclaimed.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
...it's been a long time... (aka 'those damn candles')
I took you so seriously,
that letter you wrote to me.
Your voice rose from a decade of times gone by
and my entire romantic history seeped from the raw pages
& soaked me in the nostalgic scent of old sweat & tears & breezes:
his fingers, her hair, his chest as I awoke embraced,
his anger as I fell asleep with my back turned.
Did your spite confirm all the digs from lovers past
I never wanted to believe?
Could you truly see my worst parts through
those years and miles?
And always you were one I trusted amidst
your 'delusions,' & sidestepping & understated profundity.
So your letter paused my being,
my whole life soaked through one moment, my breath hovered,
my eyes still, piercing the centerpoint of each love,
wondering.
This is what trust can do.
I don't allow it much anymore.
After all these years, after all the re-keying of my locks,
you reserved a secret passageway,
some door long forgotten,
left open all this time.
So you can imagine when you said the letter wasn't to me,
that it was meant for a recent lover during the bitter torrents of a breakup,
what had already blown through that open gateway.
And you can imagine the beautiful shock of hearing and believing
when you whispered through those open shutters,
"I love you. Your life is tremendous."
that letter you wrote to me.
Your voice rose from a decade of times gone by
and my entire romantic history seeped from the raw pages
& soaked me in the nostalgic scent of old sweat & tears & breezes:
his fingers, her hair, his chest as I awoke embraced,
his anger as I fell asleep with my back turned.
Did your spite confirm all the digs from lovers past
I never wanted to believe?
Could you truly see my worst parts through
those years and miles?
And always you were one I trusted amidst
your 'delusions,' & sidestepping & understated profundity.
So your letter paused my being,
my whole life soaked through one moment, my breath hovered,
my eyes still, piercing the centerpoint of each love,
wondering.
This is what trust can do.
I don't allow it much anymore.
After all these years, after all the re-keying of my locks,
you reserved a secret passageway,
some door long forgotten,
left open all this time.
So you can imagine when you said the letter wasn't to me,
that it was meant for a recent lover during the bitter torrents of a breakup,
what had already blown through that open gateway.
And you can imagine the beautiful shock of hearing and believing
when you whispered through those open shutters,
"I love you. Your life is tremendous."
We Both had to Laugh
You stood in that doorway so angry, helplessly angry it seemed. We both had to laugh. The subtle curl of your lips gave me permission to transition stunned bewilderment into incredulous laughter. Like the little boy who wants to shame his mother, the one woman who will always be there. That seductive curiosity: can you control her? But the bigger question is: can you forgive her? Can you forgive the transgressions of your youth she couldn't control? And what about the ones she could? Ahh...so we see why when you lie by the riverside her darkened face rises from your dreams. And how I wish her face didn't turn into mine. Should I forgive you? Should I overlook this danger I'm never likely to escape? Your face rises from my dreams and I feel your hands slip about my waist. It's not enough to be held. Sometimes it's enough to be held.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Fire & Ice
I want to remember… Whenever change sweeps through like a gust through piles of fallen leaves, when love ripens into loss, I fear forgetting. In the same heartbeat – as I turn to walk away – I wonder if I’ve sentenced myself to the terminal ache of missing. It’s not that I won’t claim my spring; I enjoy that part. But at some point, all the seasons blend together, and one is never untouched by the others. It brings new meaning to the liquid ambar leaves scattered about the base of my installation, which opened in the bright green of spring.
He was the kind of lover who could carry my heart of winter straight into the heat of summer without batting an eye. And I gazed, wide-eyed, as he covered me with his beautiful body like a blanket to cut my chill. (”So long to this cold, cold part of the world.”) And sometimes I would let myself melt into him like wavelets on the horizon, lingering in his syrupy sky, a subtle pulse of summer’s fury. Other times, I felt so clearly the boundary of my cool skin, the calm winter of my mind, silent, admiring the deep stretch of his red heart. We would dance like fire and ice, each to his own, each enjoying the solidarity of his season (yes, at times I was as a man with him). I relished in white for 40 days and 40 nights. And perhaps for a fortnight or two, I would invite him to hibernate in the snowy depths. I felt so at home there, he spread beside me like a summer feast among sleeping bears. And I think he enjoyed the freedom of being unconsumed.
Icarus’ envy, he could spread his wings and fly toward the sun without melting. I grew to love his ride on my cool breeze. I wanted to take him to the ocean, where the sun sets on the water, where 70 degree days marry summer and winter, where we tousle in rolling waves, and for a moment, let the rest fall away: just laugh, hold hands, shed the seasons for a salty glow all our own. But we got caught in the undertow before we ever reached the coast. Blazing woods took us on a detour and then sleet froze the road before we made it over the pass. I suppose we were meant to simply hold each other’s season for a time and admire with separate skin. I’ll dream of those hot winter nights for many autumn moons.
He was the kind of lover who could carry my heart of winter straight into the heat of summer without batting an eye. And I gazed, wide-eyed, as he covered me with his beautiful body like a blanket to cut my chill. (”So long to this cold, cold part of the world.”) And sometimes I would let myself melt into him like wavelets on the horizon, lingering in his syrupy sky, a subtle pulse of summer’s fury. Other times, I felt so clearly the boundary of my cool skin, the calm winter of my mind, silent, admiring the deep stretch of his red heart. We would dance like fire and ice, each to his own, each enjoying the solidarity of his season (yes, at times I was as a man with him). I relished in white for 40 days and 40 nights. And perhaps for a fortnight or two, I would invite him to hibernate in the snowy depths. I felt so at home there, he spread beside me like a summer feast among sleeping bears. And I think he enjoyed the freedom of being unconsumed.
Icarus’ envy, he could spread his wings and fly toward the sun without melting. I grew to love his ride on my cool breeze. I wanted to take him to the ocean, where the sun sets on the water, where 70 degree days marry summer and winter, where we tousle in rolling waves, and for a moment, let the rest fall away: just laugh, hold hands, shed the seasons for a salty glow all our own. But we got caught in the undertow before we ever reached the coast. Blazing woods took us on a detour and then sleet froze the road before we made it over the pass. I suppose we were meant to simply hold each other’s season for a time and admire with separate skin. I’ll dream of those hot winter nights for many autumn moons.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Why fear vacuity?
Napping in the park. Sunshine syrup when I open my eyes. Greens & grasses seem unreal, melting together with the bird calls & swishing trees.
Can I rest my mind? My body sinks into clover and my lids grow heavy. Can I let go of becoming for a moment and just be? Why should I let a moment of rest confirm my torpidity? A sabbath puts the insatiable quest of younger years to sleep and rebuilds potential energy. So much of my life is kinesthetic, why fear vacuity?
Can I rest my mind? My body sinks into clover and my lids grow heavy. Can I let go of becoming for a moment and just be? Why should I let a moment of rest confirm my torpidity? A sabbath puts the insatiable quest of younger years to sleep and rebuilds potential energy. So much of my life is kinesthetic, why fear vacuity?
Monday, November 15, 2004
Fascination Street
The weight of my foot swung over the trolley track as the coffee shop music grew dim behind us. A gasp. Something eclipsed the ordinary view of one foot after another: a rattlesnake curled in the curve of asphalt & metal. So still…Limp…Dead. I squatted for closer examination, headlights swishing by, entrails leaking like yellow custard. All else intact. Head hidden. I reached out for the baby rattle. She screamed. I shrieked, surprised by my own voice, quickly calm again. Then charged & solid, some sensation of a wrong that must be righted, I picked up the rotting flesh between my fingers – head unfurled, dangling and torn – and took it to the base of a sidewalk mesquite. It crumpled into the dirt & I sniffed Death on my fingertips. Coffee-drinkers at the sidewalk tables took notice after the scream and followed me with slow-moving eyes as I went back in to wash my hands. A day later & I can still smell them.
A friend who barely knows me called. In the streets, he stumbled upon broken necklaces, “jewels” he called them: beads, crosses, smashed pearls. Recovering treasure close to home. The beauty of brokenness found & gathered. He didn’t need the king’s horses or men.
I told him of the snake. He replied with surprising confidence, “Sounds like you’re putting a relationship to rest. A good thing. Probably a man. They’re often snakes.” “Yes,” I said, “And I picked it up in all its stench & put it in a better place, a more friendly funeral pyre.” “Yah, a good thing.” Then, without knowing what he was saying, “His venom can’t touch you anymore.” And all of a sudden, my breath had more space to move. The mountains are shifting.
Fascination or fortitude? Internal strength or external seduction? Ability to transform or inability to let sleeping snakes lie? It’s not either/or anymore. The sentence breaks the rule and starts with “And.” It’s simply alive.
All this is to say: we live-dream-weave our biomythography. Let it be honest & true.
A friend who barely knows me called. In the streets, he stumbled upon broken necklaces, “jewels” he called them: beads, crosses, smashed pearls. Recovering treasure close to home. The beauty of brokenness found & gathered. He didn’t need the king’s horses or men.
I told him of the snake. He replied with surprising confidence, “Sounds like you’re putting a relationship to rest. A good thing. Probably a man. They’re often snakes.” “Yes,” I said, “And I picked it up in all its stench & put it in a better place, a more friendly funeral pyre.” “Yah, a good thing.” Then, without knowing what he was saying, “His venom can’t touch you anymore.” And all of a sudden, my breath had more space to move. The mountains are shifting.
Fascination or fortitude? Internal strength or external seduction? Ability to transform or inability to let sleeping snakes lie? It’s not either/or anymore. The sentence breaks the rule and starts with “And.” It’s simply alive.
All this is to say: we live-dream-weave our biomythography. Let it be honest & true.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Prickly Pear Fallout
Any addiction to sadness alludes me now, thankfully. The Northwest feels enmeshed, heartful, saturated. Even in the city, you know your bedroom lies in the lull between two forested hills, cradled by moss & fern.
In this dusty desert expanse, I lie on the bed & the entire universe drops off the edge of this room, like a distant memory of nuclear fallout. Survival, extremes, emptiness. Ghost towns of gas-masked experimenters. Sun-leathered beatniks with dirty feet. 40 days, 40 nights.
Yet the prickly pear gives fruit, magenta nectar fluorescent in the sunlight, brighter than any heartblood. And we drink it, a child's treasure, a promise of the rough diamond's rainbow. It is not a plump fruit, but a clarified splash. Might it touch these thirsty veins? A sweet kiss on my pulse? Maybe. But desert nectar distills our better parts from the less desirable so that we might observe from a distance. Not a cradling, but still a gift.
In this dusty desert expanse, I lie on the bed & the entire universe drops off the edge of this room, like a distant memory of nuclear fallout. Survival, extremes, emptiness. Ghost towns of gas-masked experimenters. Sun-leathered beatniks with dirty feet. 40 days, 40 nights.
Yet the prickly pear gives fruit, magenta nectar fluorescent in the sunlight, brighter than any heartblood. And we drink it, a child's treasure, a promise of the rough diamond's rainbow. It is not a plump fruit, but a clarified splash. Might it touch these thirsty veins? A sweet kiss on my pulse? Maybe. But desert nectar distills our better parts from the less desirable so that we might observe from a distance. Not a cradling, but still a gift.
Sunday, September 05, 2004
Ladybugs and Laptops
Subtle delight in this scene of the play. On-stage. Off-stage. Curtain closes on the silent fields of mud paths walked by meditators & plantains traversed by ladybugs; the dear, the fawn, the lavender sky lingering above fir trees as the Dhamma hall rises from the tall grass. The unceasing stage of the body plays out the hours, breath by breath, thought by sensation.
Curtain opens. And now, light streams into the shadows of this Portland coffeeshop. The walls: burnt sienna & mustard. A vintage easychair. Paintings of the Oregon coast. Props of a familiar set. Quiet tapping of laptops... Music for the first time in days. The steaming hiss of the esspresso machine, this whirling hush of passing cars. And yet, the sound of my body hums through it all with the subtle, passing sensation of being awakened and soft like a baby bird.
Curtain opens. And now, light streams into the shadows of this Portland coffeeshop. The walls: burnt sienna & mustard. A vintage easychair. Paintings of the Oregon coast. Props of a familiar set. Quiet tapping of laptops... Music for the first time in days. The steaming hiss of the esspresso machine, this whirling hush of passing cars. And yet, the sound of my body hums through it all with the subtle, passing sensation of being awakened and soft like a baby bird.
The Silent Body Awakens
10 Days of Noble Silence: complete silence of speech, of body, of place. Here are the first written words... The floodgates change like everything else. Perhaps wordless communication would be most lovely. The first handshake. The first embrace. The first eye contact. The piercing exactitude of living life without affirmation, knowing the only condemnation arises within. Feeling your mind's conversation with apparent reality manifest in the body's sensations.
A tingle in the pinky, a heaviness on the brow, a thick soup slurping across and through the limitless terrain of Body. Earthen weight sliding along sternocleidomastoid. The right hip is blank. Ah. There's the subtle blanket of cloth touching skin, the breath of cold on my forearm. My? Wait. Whose is this anyway? Then smashing into the laminal groove, a stabbing pain takes hold of my shoulder blade, right behind the pericardium, or what the Chinese call the "Heart Protector." My awareness searches for the epicenter of this heartquake, pulsing alongside the primal history of what we call "spine." Indeed, pain becomes broken into the unnamable. The magician's trick of pulse, heat, density shifts beneath my gaze & I can't pin the center. Why suffer my mind to something so ephemeral?
I move on, charting the chop of pulsing density into lighter waters. The tides of mind meet matter on a sparkly shore. And where is the Sun? Hanging fixed in the sky like the one in a child's drawing? Not to be found. I don't find the Earthbody's star, just the drownings of a spiral galaxy. Is it night or day? Rising heat makes wavelets of the atmosphere & then I realize it's moonlight on the water. I glance over as a bird takes flight from a treetop into morning sky. And then submerged again, nearing the ocean's floor, tremendous weight closing; but I can feel the subtle thinness of my skin, the flutter of bubbles float from my lips. So even as my flesh presses closer to bone, I know liquid light casts dusty rays near the surface. Not a smile, not a tear, yet I am bouyant. I could love from this place.
A tingle in the pinky, a heaviness on the brow, a thick soup slurping across and through the limitless terrain of Body. Earthen weight sliding along sternocleidomastoid. The right hip is blank. Ah. There's the subtle blanket of cloth touching skin, the breath of cold on my forearm. My? Wait. Whose is this anyway? Then smashing into the laminal groove, a stabbing pain takes hold of my shoulder blade, right behind the pericardium, or what the Chinese call the "Heart Protector." My awareness searches for the epicenter of this heartquake, pulsing alongside the primal history of what we call "spine." Indeed, pain becomes broken into the unnamable. The magician's trick of pulse, heat, density shifts beneath my gaze & I can't pin the center. Why suffer my mind to something so ephemeral?
I move on, charting the chop of pulsing density into lighter waters. The tides of mind meet matter on a sparkly shore. And where is the Sun? Hanging fixed in the sky like the one in a child's drawing? Not to be found. I don't find the Earthbody's star, just the drownings of a spiral galaxy. Is it night or day? Rising heat makes wavelets of the atmosphere & then I realize it's moonlight on the water. I glance over as a bird takes flight from a treetop into morning sky. And then submerged again, nearing the ocean's floor, tremendous weight closing; but I can feel the subtle thinness of my skin, the flutter of bubbles float from my lips. So even as my flesh presses closer to bone, I know liquid light casts dusty rays near the surface. Not a smile, not a tear, yet I am bouyant. I could love from this place.
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
A Discreet Cherry
Tomorrow is my first day off in fourteen days. A kind of delirium overtakes me. I could have spent hours picking out produce at Aqua Vita... spreading swiss chard, plump cherries, snow peas like fallen leaves curled together... After languid lingering and a ginger cookie, I decided to visit the Olive Tree. My mind needed to wander freely in its branches, without the distraction of my refrigerator & things left undone & the objects of a particular life. So I swung up her trunk & she graciously held me as pages turned & turned within me, like a book left out in the breeze. And the full moon sprayed silver from behind wisps of cloud.
Scenes of our meeting drifted through my awareness: "I came to request that you retract your accusation." After a long silence, I said, "The alchemy that has transpired within me is beyond blame. I have no wish to rewrite anything." And ultimately, faces in hands, foreheads pressed together & silent, the moon blessed our well wishing.
Down from the tree and back to the fruit. Blood and cherry juice must be kindred spirits. The couch sucked me into a deluge of cherry flesh and slippery pits. One split open on my fingertip and I had to finish what I'd started, smearing cherryness all over my arms, watching the sugars glisten on my skin, juices dripping between fingers. A reminder of the possibilities hiding in each discreet moment.
Scenes of our meeting drifted through my awareness: "I came to request that you retract your accusation." After a long silence, I said, "The alchemy that has transpired within me is beyond blame. I have no wish to rewrite anything." And ultimately, faces in hands, foreheads pressed together & silent, the moon blessed our well wishing.
Down from the tree and back to the fruit. Blood and cherry juice must be kindred spirits. The couch sucked me into a deluge of cherry flesh and slippery pits. One split open on my fingertip and I had to finish what I'd started, smearing cherryness all over my arms, watching the sugars glisten on my skin, juices dripping between fingers. A reminder of the possibilities hiding in each discreet moment.
Monday, July 26, 2004
Birthday Morning...some time ago
Woke with her in my arms, her lashes flashing, chocolate swirling eyes. "You are the Charmed Ones," the woman said prophetically. She & I, always on the edge of rocking out destiny. Her hair falling, her skin softening on mine. My lips slip against her forehead. Still haven't opened my eyes, but I feel the morning light seeping into our pile of flesh & feathers.
Monday, July 19, 2004
Orange Peels
A piece of my breath is still jumping across river rocks. Some liquid spray of sunshine threatens to leap from my belly and escape these velvet curtains into the night.
We basked under the Sycamore trees. I didn't even notice the battlewounds of the boulder scramble. These thighs, these hands, they love the granite, every crevice and slick slant into water below. And his shoulders glistened & his feet gripped the edges. And the others laughed, voices tumbling down the canyon. Soon enough, we gathered under the rustling leaves & orange peels fell from the flesh. A dusty white moon in azure sky rewarded our efforts. The waterfall's mist mingled with my skin's sweat. And I felt glad.
We basked under the Sycamore trees. I didn't even notice the battlewounds of the boulder scramble. These thighs, these hands, they love the granite, every crevice and slick slant into water below. And his shoulders glistened & his feet gripped the edges. And the others laughed, voices tumbling down the canyon. Soon enough, we gathered under the rustling leaves & orange peels fell from the flesh. A dusty white moon in azure sky rewarded our efforts. The waterfall's mist mingled with my skin's sweat. And I felt glad.
Vagrant Angel
Lovely days. Making licorice and ginger tinctures, a little drumming, a lot of wrestling and more laughter than I can remember. He read me Mary Oliver poems & I admired the water filtration system on his van cooler. A drunken, wise Creole spirit - wandering from Bakersfield, CA - espoused the beauty of a good woman under the street lamp. His eyes wide & bloodshot, his smile brightly weathered & knowing, like a vagrant angel reminding the Everydayers of the sacred essentials. "If I had a woman like that, I'd follow her wherever she go. I'd make sure I be by her side, boy. Don't let a love like that slip you by." We laughed. What a romantic. My mind can't follow that path again yet, but I reveled in every second of his passion pulpit.
Rubble
An embrace,
rainbow prisms on every cell wall,
structures
alighting on bliss,
dissolving with a slight kiss on the palm,
tumbling into dust in sunshine;
the rubble glitters golden.
rainbow prisms on every cell wall,
structures
alighting on bliss,
dissolving with a slight kiss on the palm,
tumbling into dust in sunshine;
the rubble glitters golden.
Monday, July 12, 2004
Dust & Congas
Shall I enjoy the missing while I can still remember the tastes & smells & softness in the air between us? Will it fade? Will eight years of touch become a dust-covered epic in the attic of my mind? Can lives so-entwined unravel like that? They do. We have only the moment. Everything else is dead. Is that why I keep memories so close to my heart, why I visit them like old friends not to be left unattended for too long? The mind is so immense. So much lost in the corridors. Yet the heart can hardly tell waking from dreaming & these sensate memories of ripened affection and acceptance feel more real than a disjunct dinner conversation. Shall I be grateful that real love is close enough to mourn?
Have I always cried like this? At ease in my heart, some piece of Loss stirring. Soft light. My feet on the couch. Music. Black cat sleepily sinking into the wooden floor. The congas across the room know my joy will turn. They're not worried.
Have I always cried like this? At ease in my heart, some piece of Loss stirring. Soft light. My feet on the couch. Music. Black cat sleepily sinking into the wooden floor. The congas across the room know my joy will turn. They're not worried.
Olive Tree & Oleanders
Last night Matthew & I looked at pictures in the car under a street lamp. One year ago. Literally dancing in the rain (and later with the help of a garden hose). Clothes transparent, sticking to skin and thighs. Clumps of hair streaking faces. Dancing like dogs shaking off a swim; all captured in glossy. Those lovers gone now. On our way to see a period romance at Elcon Theater. I needed snapshots of someone else's glossies. "A sumptuous film" indeed. I'm always drawn to eyes so full and silent they need never speak. And I always wonder what they're saying. And what they're seeing in me. It's rare that I come across eyes like that, even in gelatin.
And so I couldn't sleep. Instead, I went to the Olive Tree. 2AM and hanging in the branches. Silent. Street lamp clicking on again, off again. Like you and I. And I told myself, "This is so rich here alone. Why give it away?" Just then a black cat crossed under. It didn't see me crouching, lounging up high. "Tsss." It stopped, looked at me startled and then bound up the trunk, ears & cheeks rubbing my legs, nuzzling my hands. We teased at each other a bit until he could tell I'd lost interest. He returned to the earth below. I was a little sad to see him go.
Then a 70s Bronco with huge tires and a lift pulled up at the edge of the park, engine roaring. Two women - stumbling and loud - clamored out. And like Maeve straddling the river, pulled down their pants between the Oleanders in a stream of laughter, profanity and piss. I could hear the puddles gushing, see the legs squatting. Me unnoticed, reclaiming the silence of deep space as they thundered off in deep bass.
And so I couldn't sleep. Instead, I went to the Olive Tree. 2AM and hanging in the branches. Silent. Street lamp clicking on again, off again. Like you and I. And I told myself, "This is so rich here alone. Why give it away?" Just then a black cat crossed under. It didn't see me crouching, lounging up high. "Tsss." It stopped, looked at me startled and then bound up the trunk, ears & cheeks rubbing my legs, nuzzling my hands. We teased at each other a bit until he could tell I'd lost interest. He returned to the earth below. I was a little sad to see him go.
Then a 70s Bronco with huge tires and a lift pulled up at the edge of the park, engine roaring. Two women - stumbling and loud - clamored out. And like Maeve straddling the river, pulled down their pants between the Oleanders in a stream of laughter, profanity and piss. I could hear the puddles gushing, see the legs squatting. Me unnoticed, reclaiming the silence of deep space as they thundered off in deep bass.
Strawberry Fingertips
The strawberry skins were a bit leathery. Too long in the fridge, but still sweet enough for a smoothie. My most recent addiction: blended fruit. Singular delicacies deconstructed, with a dash of cinnamon. Always served best in a wine glass; the one I bought for 50 cents at Value Village. As the last puddle of liquid blossom streams from the bottom, I encourage it into my goblet, sliding two fingers along the inside of the glass pitcher to the lip. Then lick my fingers. Everytime. Everytime I slide my fingertips along that last moment. And then rinse the pitcher clean, swishing the water to catch strawberry seeds. Those seeds love to linger. They don't know there will be a next time.
Friday, July 09, 2004
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