long, slow deep kissing

There always has been a strange cultural divide with certain kind of women my entire life. There was the case of Kelly, a tall-leggy just flat out hot blonde whose goal was to make $26,000 a year and she figured she had it all planned. That may have been 1985, as far as I can recall.

la-dolce-vita-still-1

And artists. Artists are wild. They are individualistic typically. Highly intelligent. Very introverted usually. Autonomous. Not great communicators. Theirs and their alone “family” networks of others like themselves borders on the hip, chic, exclusive and well, not very open to the rest of us. Women artists I have known were largely bisexual and fucked up about it. We were young.

The woman I know now, is acclaimed and well known, on exhibit throughout the Southern US region and doubly famous, respected for her work. She’s a tough cookie and hard to follow with any other woman and I regret at the soul level having run out of her already, or maybe it was the other way around. I adore her loveliness and her body makes me dream of the forevers I was told were there and had never before ever laid palms and hands and fingers and mouth on.

The one who got away is embedded in my memory and painful to allow out and to float down the river and into white water, famously wild and divergent maybe of all intention, all wants, all needs, any expectation, any Love that there may have been.

Long, langorous hot Atlanta Fall nights (Indian Summer and Yellow Moons) met for long, deep slow kissing during any film festival spent in her bed forgetting time and all memories other than this one now. She was lovely and my lousy picker picked her winding legs, small ass, long lean muscled arms and with all tangly limbs in the night, mouths and throats howling, howling.

As impossible as it may seem, to move forward and mindful prayer and loving intentions may help the blessed alone. Bless me, bless me. God bless this bruised heart.

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The Shootings

Last year’s Orlando shootings followed by the November National 2016 Elections were tantamount to the events that informed my going underground and to a better footing of safety in a dangerous terroristic world changing, shifting, abandoning, losing me.

The Depression ensued and it was terrible.

Winter came and left.

Spring came and left.

Summer was a wash.

Tonight’s Halloween and my forever lover and I will meet beneath the silvery islip of Luna tonight, hence.

I’m returning to Orlando the 1st week of December to meet with my Shaman for cleansing and visioning.

I didn’t believe I could go into the city again.

I didn’t believe I could go away like I did and like how I have been doing.

Hiding from the Trump Administration and seeing the world prepare for implosion is something now akin to a cigarette with 4 AM hot coffee. They are together, one and for always it seems now. He’s the shit under shoe that won’t wash away. He’s stink.

My world is changing again.

You must not ever stop being whimsical.

And you must not, ever, give anyone else the responsibility for your life.

Mary Oliver, Upstream (2016).

piano solo

“Give me the simple life…”

I must learn how to live again.

My surroundings meld to gray. Ignore the brilliance of the oranges, the reds, purple, tallowed yellows. They do not exist any longer. May my visual acuity turn bland.

Let my energy focus on turning off life force. I must not linger, too long, over music, my love, my Beloved. They cannot breathe where they used to prevent rain.

The rain outside seeping in and whimpering now where it used to be full-on blue rain no longer. No longer. The sumptuousness of the wet and her smell of the rain no longer exists.

Since the moment of bliss, the thrilling kiss, heaven has shut her door on me for romance on the menu. There is no longer the slide slide slide pushiness of sex to wound through afternoons. That part of me is dead.

Day in. Day out.

Gershwin’s horns and the strings meeting at crescendo mean nothing to me anymore.

It came out of my mouth quickly and without thinking yesterday and it was the opening of a door, “Mary is dead…” and my friend and I both were frozen, grimacing and nodding.

I will promise you nothing and promise myself everything for now on.

The next three months are an end of a season.

I will, I must make the lap to Christmas Eve. Marker

Hello to a death march of trudgery, of plannedness, for wellness to persevere, to a life where nothing at all else marks me, ever again. Never again. Never again. She has killed me already many deaths daily, night sweating into obliviousness, holding on for footing.

The pain and the harm experienced is grievous. Were I to hold unlimited capital, I would correct the crime breaking another’s Beloved heart, but I instead do not.

That I lack a tribe, a community, a family, a prompter, I task, now.

 

 

Sunday Morning Lover

a sunday kind of love (don’t ever go)

 

can’t lie (waiting just to love you)

if i say that i love her (the look of love is in your eyes)

and when i kiss her good morning (the look of love is on your face)

seal it with a kiss (a look your smile can’t disguise)

well we are yes we are (feel my arms around you)

 

somebody to kiss happy new year with (more than words could ever say)

christmas morning (it takes my breath away)

thursday thanksgiving (a look the time can’t erase)

black thursday power day (let’s take a seal a lovers vow)

a true blue best friend (seal it with a kiss)

her hands

yosemite30 days hath september

april, june and november

from what summer did we have, now winter

did it any of it ever take place

any of it

i wonder
it was a dream
perfect realism
i was awake but briefly
belabored breathing
climbing to the top

was it real
was it real
was it real

i have some proof

rocks to hold in my hand

branches of trees touched, in my hand

sand from mexico in a honey jar

in my hand drip drip drip

were it not for the leftover solstice hat

it slumbers, it holds no shape now

far away from mine

remember hers

in them i am

 

 

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