Washington DC was like putting on that blue turtleneck for the very first time. The one I found in Philly for five dollars at the army surplus store. The one with rough texture stretching so nicely firmly across my torso when pulled snuggly down, reaching almost to the middle of my thighs. In June or in San Diego (and aren’t they the same thing? - like September and San Francisco or late August and Las Vegas) that blue turtleneck would have surely become a dress to me. But certainly not in DC.

So cold the snow protested, refusing to fall. So dry my lips shriveled like salty nightcralwers. My eyes teared in pain, and for the moisture in my lungs’ sake, I tried not to breathe at all. That blue turtleneck won the primary suddenly.

On the bitter sidewalk I strutted swaggered sashayed sauntered, proud pony pranced, and looked every hurried-government-working-passer-by flirtatiously in the eye, as often one does when they decide the exact turtleneck they are wearing has officially become their favorite, and mostly - they think they look cute.

But cute perhaps I was not at 11a.m., three hours before I usually rise – in the morning, the world feels as if its inflicting itself upon me, and under covers I try to stay until the bully goes away. “Place your jacket on the belt and step through the detector”; I consented only for my turtleneck’s display. I could not disguise I was sleep deprived and quite unimpressed at such an hour by these straight line, up tight, pleated pants spectacles of power. Who said I had a problem with authority?

But to conform, we ten STOMPers who had risen by alarm tried, oh, sincerely how tried we. For our first time in DC, to have an arranged private viewing of our Nation’s Capitol was an honor even overwhelmed in sleep.

So into the Senator’s office we toppled and made a pile of our coats in the corner, personally escorted by a down-to-earth intern through the elaborate marble corridors. Under ceilings precisely painted with censored scenes of our country’s legacy, through legislature's chambers where votes are cast on same-sex marriage and the right to privacy. And gradually it seemed to me that the countless towering bronze statues of our country’s forefathers doing their best I-Discovered-Civilization-and-All-Things-Peanut-Butter-and-Jelly vogue were becoming progressively more absurd in pomposity. So that eventually in the greatest of halls, built so whispers would do just fine, I raised my chin, swelled my breast, dropped my pants and posed for a statue of my own. The security guard, you could say, paid for our taxi home.

Washington DC was like sporting that blue turtleneck all special day, making eyes at every stranger coming your way, then glancing in a mirror only too late – you’ve been inside out and backwards the whole damn time. How ‘bout a pose for your statue now, Little Miss Sunshine?

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Push in your face.
I push lips I push tongue up against your smell. Behind underneath inside...
Sometimes.
But it seems like all the time.

You're melting and I recall a dream from months ago about those wooden beads around your neck. How do you do it? Just the sight. Just the sight.
You could protect me, but I won't need it.
Not like that at least.
At least we found shelter that nite. At least it wasn't my real home.

I just want you to know you are free to leave whenever you wish, you may leave.
But you stay.

And it is skin with the memory, commanding me to breathe your will. I trust your will. Intentions pure health attentive. Generous and sick in your own way.
Healthy.

One thing I don't know is
One thing I may never know is
One thing I don't need to ever know is
One thing I don't even wonder about.

So instead
bring me a marching band to the balcony New Year's morning. Crack a whip bang my skull I lost consciousness the moment our eyes met and now I've got us all mixed up.

One thing
whose hand is that below my ribs?

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Life - it's the least we can do and the most we can ask for.

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I do not like being needed.

But I do so love appreciation.

I am a gift-giver, not a caregiver.

My friend Heidi, sensuality herself, dreams that she and I are sitting in a bar. This bar is built around a voluptuous pomegranate tree. The juices from the hanging fruit drip into our glasses while she and I sloppy sip the thick, red nectar like martinis.

Alex, my ray-of-light little bro, dreams that my pomegranate explodes unleashing swarms of tiny spiders.

In an email, Jennifer, intuition’s personal masseuse, writes that she “thinks of me every day and has found a new passion for the pomegranate,” while Patrick, my artistic soul mate, gifts me at the turning of the year with his physical presence and a pungent pomegranate candle.

I have now one of the suspicious swollen fruit balanced plumply upon my belly.

I began to bleed today, lightly, for the first time in four months.

I dreamt about my grandma for the fourth time this week. She died in summer, those forever June evenings.

There’s a difference between writing about bleeding and bleeding. There’s a difference between loving and being loved. There’s a difference between giving because it is the role you take upon yourself, and giving because you wish to please another.

There is no difference between you and me.

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