I fall in love with the touch. Whomsoever has the talent of hands can touch me most.
I wake up kissing. Before I know what city I'm waking up in, he is kissing me. During the transition from dreaming to puffy-eyed coherence, when subconscious is forefront and I am most impressionable, whatever happens during this magickal morning moment is imprinted, for at least the entire day, most certainly longer. Imprint passion. Imprint choice. Imprint presence with this kiss.
Love is not a noun - a state to procure, pronounce, or possess. Love is an action, and takes practice to perfect. It moves like my pelvis when the bass hits the brown note. It sounds like the fan moving air all hot nite. It looks like sweat on California skin. It tastes like avocados. Feed me Love.
He is my Lover because he Loves me like a verb, like an action that only exists while it is happening. And that makes me the Loved, being touched, kissed and danced with. Drunk on avocados, lying naked in front of the fan all hot nite.
Hollywood, CA
All Hot Nite
All Hot Nite
July 24, 2005
Land Between The Lakes, KY
trippin' in a tent
trippin' in a tent
July 19, 2005
Massive thunder growls and bounces down the hill. Thick woods forest dances dense dervish whirling wheeling throwing thunder bouncing down down down the hill.
When the rain hits it soaks and my unpolished toenails find mud puddles fit for fishin'. I hear a friend's laugh, so identifiable. I see a red metal art structure out my tent window. Somewhere dogs bark and a female's voice lifts up. I hear there is a small cemetery just up the up the up the hill.
What if no one ever dances with you because they are busy watching you making you the instaperformer instead of a part of the group. Feels weird and good and isolating sometimes.
Is this a party in the woods? A pre-Burn with poison ivy, muddy shins, chains and harnesses, exploding things and four portapotties, though I prefer the ground. Ground seems to prefer me, too.
With him reading laying there next to me. Touching me, the skin on the sides of our bodies the whole length against each other. I am typing on a computer in the middle of deep Kentucky's Land Between the Lakes National Park. There are three pyres of cut wood, ready for propane and a match, getting saturated by humidity and burst of rain. I especially like the thunder.
When the rain hits it soaks and my unpolished toenails find mud puddles fit for fishin'. I hear a friend's laugh, so identifiable. I see a red metal art structure out my tent window. Somewhere dogs bark and a female's voice lifts up. I hear there is a small cemetery just up the up the up the hill.
What if no one ever dances with you because they are busy watching you making you the instaperformer instead of a part of the group. Feels weird and good and isolating sometimes.
Is this a party in the woods? A pre-Burn with poison ivy, muddy shins, chains and harnesses, exploding things and four portapotties, though I prefer the ground. Ground seems to prefer me, too.
With him reading laying there next to me. Touching me, the skin on the sides of our bodies the whole length against each other. I am typing on a computer in the middle of deep Kentucky's Land Between the Lakes National Park. There are three pyres of cut wood, ready for propane and a match, getting saturated by humidity and burst of rain. I especially like the thunder.
Manhattan, NY
Behind The Veil
Behind The Veil
July 07, 2005
It is obscene. Or divine.
I do not know which.
The way his mouth consults the oracle. Searching for truth. Or validation. Or invisibility.
I do not know which.
Disappear in me. Love my slippery. Come on, loose yourSelf in me.
I can receive you forever and I so savour the way you give.
Be specific.
I am sensitive.
I can feel what it is you are thinking.
So loose yourSelf in me. Your entire face is whet.
Behind the veil, behind the veil, behind the veil.
I do not know which.
The way his mouth consults the oracle. Searching for truth. Or validation. Or invisibility.
I do not know which.
Disappear in me. Love my slippery. Come on, loose yourSelf in me.
I can receive you forever and I so savour the way you give.
Be specific.
I am sensitive.
I can feel what it is you are thinking.
So loose yourSelf in me. Your entire face is whet.
Behind the veil, behind the veil, behind the veil.
Johnstown, PA
Pure and Potent
Pure and Potent
July 04, 2005
I wander. With no aim for no where. I wander especially deep because each bend in the path, the crest of every hill, the lure of Not Knowing is the prospect of Finding Out. And I do so love to Not Know and Find Out.
When I hold still, when I stay put follow rules stick to the plan, there is too much repetition. My mind forgets to pay attention to what is interesting to what is now. So I wander. I wander large.
It is dawn from the wrong side of day. And wonderlust wanderlust has lured me out before this thick fog can rise. I push forward into somethingnot - I can see only twenty feet away. I must step again to force vision through and reveal the next mystery.
But wandering in the fog is a wine glass teetering off the shelf. You reach, but it dances down in awkward fluidity off the tips of your fingers. Fred and Ginger until the floor breaks our fall and exposes us for the shattered mess we are.
You think you are forging new frontiers wandering the fog, but don't look behind, it is closing in surround you.
Dawn and fog and lack of sleep until the visions the voices the layers come. Until you, my Blurred Lover, appear as a somewhat shape. Moving towards - a ghost, an apparition, a dream.
Without questioning this experience I walk straight to you (questioning is the enemy of dreams come true). And an echo sounds from my foggy center. A voice thick with unquestioned mystery, "You can't screw this up." Not a monition, but an assertion. Pure and potent, this love, like the fog tempting me deeper. I can wander forever, but I'm always in the middle of it.
My gypsy wonderlust even, can not screw this up.
When I hold still, when I stay put follow rules stick to the plan, there is too much repetition. My mind forgets to pay attention to what is interesting to what is now. So I wander. I wander large.
It is dawn from the wrong side of day. And wonderlust wanderlust has lured me out before this thick fog can rise. I push forward into somethingnot - I can see only twenty feet away. I must step again to force vision through and reveal the next mystery.
But wandering in the fog is a wine glass teetering off the shelf. You reach, but it dances down in awkward fluidity off the tips of your fingers. Fred and Ginger until the floor breaks our fall and exposes us for the shattered mess we are.
You think you are forging new frontiers wandering the fog, but don't look behind, it is closing in surround you.
Dawn and fog and lack of sleep until the visions the voices the layers come. Until you, my Blurred Lover, appear as a somewhat shape. Moving towards - a ghost, an apparition, a dream.
Without questioning this experience I walk straight to you (questioning is the enemy of dreams come true). And an echo sounds from my foggy center. A voice thick with unquestioned mystery, "You can't screw this up." Not a monition, but an assertion. Pure and potent, this love, like the fog tempting me deeper. I can wander forever, but I'm always in the middle of it.
My gypsy wonderlust even, can not screw this up.
