I remember the moment
Clear as shattering glass
when you let drop my heart’s hand
And yours slinked back into its hovel
Guarded by toothily grinning, razor edged
fingertips.

Beckoning seductively – promising the
Ultimate, delicate, delectable
Patience if I would gently stroke the
Soft outstretched palm, lick the lips
guarding those jaws, offering the all
the everything.

The fox said to love a thing is to tame it.
But dog knew better…
To love a thing that believes in such a
Power as taming…
Is to dwarf one’s own heart.

 

As the rising ends and the setting comes
And the bolster of the city begins to slowly shift
To quiet
To relief
To loneliness
Excitement
A moment paused
My breath held…

Sister light sits on our bed
Wringing her hands
Her body swaying to a slow pulse
Her hair, falling like willows, framing her face.
Silent breathing.
Silent shudders.
Her fingers twirling, shaking like paper.

Sister dark stands, hand on hip
Weight shifted, knee bent
Grinning toothily down on our bed
Her head cocked, crooked like bent steel.
Deep breathing.
Deep moans.
Her smile smooth, dancing like jackals.

They fall together and wrestle on our blankets
Pillows falling to the floor
Feathers flying
Breathless sighs and heavy pants linger long after.

They stare at each other, muted, neutral, neither defeated
Neither glorious.
Sister light weeps.
Silent tears streaking her cheeks like slugs.
Sister dark laughs.
Guttural sounds filling the empty air like drums.

My sisters. My natures. Myself, in battle that never ends.
War that never resolves.
No treaties. No barters or silent handshakes.

The decent ends, hot darkness filing in between the pillars of concrete.
Sister light fades, her flickering body glistening like gossamer strands.
Her translucent tears still dripping – making our bed sweat.
Sister dark stands alone, tilts her head once
And we walk out the door.

At the sigh(t) of hands 
slipping in hands I get woozy.
I sit and listen to streets
Streaked with wet gravel.
Words bounce against the pavement 
Up against the concrete
Jump through my window and fall in my lap.
I get woozy.

I’ve put silk across my skin…black, old, 
perfect-drape-across hips.
I smell wet leaves under soft cotton
And remember him(s)
tight and taunt pressed strong against my back
My back warm against his press.
I get woozy.

I slip silk off my skin…crisp, new,
 not-quite-right in the fit.
I wonder if there’s fruit in his looms
And I gazed on him tight and taunt
Pressed and lost against my back
My back arched away from his press
I get woozy
High on sweet nothings.

Like candy dripping hi-glow yellow sticky sugar streaked
Wet, moist against lips, oozing between fingers 
Like second skin
Peeling apart

The glucose, fructose fills my blood
My brain
Melts in my water and sends me flying
Toward him

My belly jumps and gurgles then lurches
Filled with empty calories 
I beg for more
Pleading for a bite
Aching for a taste
Just a small taste
Just a tiny nibble?
Just a quick lick?
Just a little bit is all I need…

Of those sweet 
nothings. Oh yeah I get woozy.

Sometimes you can only plead
insanity.

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.


if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

 

 

 

I had a meadow once. I think.
There I walked with my father’s loving hand
Reaching to gently say hi atop each flower.

I got married there. I think.
And as I walked toward my soon to be husband
His eyes reached and touched to say you’ll always be mine.

There was a bench there. I think.
Where I sat in my lace dress on cool hard marble, it held me
Then said go, go, go now to your future embraced by love all ways.

We planted the daffodils there. I think
My grandmother – her hands showed me how dirt feeds
While I balanced glasses of iced tea on a tray decorated with smiles.

Snowdrops grew there. I think.
The most dependable flower. Every February they showed their delicate reminder that spring would come.
While I watched in amazement wondering how they broke through ice.

Someone made it for me. I think
Oh how amazing to hear a meadow would be planted just for you
Oh how I listened in delight and couldn’t wait to see it grow.

It’s there if I go rightly. I think.
And all the bees and birds, butterflies and milkweed
Will sing in delight “Ah! There she is! We were waiting to dance.”