How hard the muscle, so soft and smooth the skin, so incisively clever intuitive, you are an athlete full of force and grace of mind and body. We sports trivialize and compete at who is harder, meaner, louder, sexier, smarter, and slyer. You reign supreme in common sense and creativity, order and sensitivity. I am leftover hippy revamped for today’s technology, loose and logged in. I don’t recreate with mind altering substances but I can float on ideas and imagery all the same. My fantasy life is rich, redolent undulating waves of mossy strip mall cleavages and triangulating leers and jeers of the popcorn parade, food for shower O pops. You are all strategy and plays while I am the measured field gain, your traversing prints enmuddied in my thighs, my neck and belly. You embody my thoughts with love in the unconventionally traditional setting, new passion colors washing out, layering upon the old patterned prints. You are never-before and stability too etched in ether, anchored air. Come hold my hand in your powerfully gentle grip a little while longer, silken sweat gluing our palms sealed open.
Looking through your lenses, I understand more of what a lover and friend can teach me. Truth is utile and optional. Relativism with a few random absolutes is one kind of philosophical disposition. In you, Love fills up space that would ordinarily be occupied by self, but you make it work, ever observing the landscapes, the news, the ideas and the bodies that drift in and out of your sight–a sharp-sighted information eater. The stars guide you, fodder for your scripted imagination, and bathe you in romantic light. You were my moon. But I too can look the other way, acutely envision my fantasies as reality. What floats about the surface–stuff–are so many words elegantly phrased and delivered, but honest action is all that you are. You serve, you pamper and please while imagining that there is no other that could possibly exist in the moment, a gifted actor, a reality maker. You pick up the pieces, are savior. You gave me so many tasty morsels, bits of what stays with me ever more–a gesture, a joke, an insight, a practice, an idea, a line, or a catchphrase. You opened mind doors, stoked my intellectual fires, elicited my sexual imagination, and slayed me with tag lines: there is an essential but painful pleasure in seeing myself being seen by the other, and I am but one of Shakespeare’s poor players among a boisterously ignorant audience. Always that layer of my heart-soul silently keeps.
A painter of sorts, you spend your days in a box, looking out the windowed cracks for someone to call. You know your name. Who else can see your colors? I have heard your reds, felt your yellows, and smoked your purples, just a few. You wave your mind, change your hands, flap your legs and all stop and wonder at your meaning but listen to your message, the canvas bleeding your worries, your anger, your love and hate. You hook me in with a gentle song, a soothing sacrifice of attention and vibration. The clouds clear a path for your art, but the sky suckles your life’s work, not your painting nor your song. For the ether contains your greatest achievement yet to arrive.
Go ahead and grab me; swing me by the arms and make me face my fears, my dread of being noticed, of being perceived as less than perfect, of being found attractive. Teach me about my body and its yet to me hidden treasures. Give me the gift of ecstasy manufactured adeptly. Now I know how to mine, how to refine, and procure the gem of ultimate pleasure. You are a skilled miner, technically astute, a critical contributor to my education, my understanding that pleasure can be produced indiscriminately, which is one aspect of love and desire, satisfying my practical yet passionate nature.
Your tune is old and familiar, as old as human, comforting and fatiguing. You exchange in love, commerce in time. A world of sound and sometimes sorrow, brightly colored rooms and sometimes blackness, your musician’s heart and home are open, your mind inviting, your mood reportedly shifting. Your song, lustfully romantic, is too familiar; it stirs the cauldroned stew of guarded moments and defense mechanisms, over-brimming the pot’s sterile concoction. Strung tight, the strings struggle to free their song, the one about the loves lost, dulled feelings and despairing anger. Many familied yourself, your sole sun centers your world, keeps the anger reigned and the songs unraveling: the one about reluctant parents, abandoning parents, maniacal mothers, furious fathers, sons of savage mothers, forsaken ballad of wish and wood-filled cabins. The gentle soul wanders in the circumscribed perimeter of hearth and home, waiting for the right riff, the bass line, the righthand rhythm, while the sunlight spends itself into the starred and scarred grey skyline. What ghosts haunt the tune? The vortex whirls, spinning the fear and regret feverishly into pinpoint perspective. Love is medicine.
A sketched out sea colors
the canvas auburn and indigo waves
Digital smears of cyber brush
and stroke, feathered illusion
of depth and space
texture and sense
I smell the ocean but feel no breeze
you do not move me
in a virtual world, yes
in the plane breathed warmly, no
nearly lifted from the screen
lying flat across atoms and time
no light, no touch, no sight
She at Risk
The sky and the sea run parallel
but free of attachments,
committed only to movement and time.
While the sea moves in currents
as the day and nighttime stimuli
take her–as does the sky–
she buoys those upon her up
or swallows them down,
supporting or drowning,
life-giving or taking;
he hangs his companions there–
free and suspended–
with little to no support.
A risky visit to his domain
will surely lead to lost lives
without self-supporting devices
but the ride will be once-in-a-lifetime.
My brother, friend, partner and soul, you have a supple mind of teflon passion and heat. Sex connects you to a yet undiscovered core. Having abandoned love and intimacy before you knew you had, longing compels you, impels your every action in its abyss. Who broke you? Your parents who left you behind? Your brother, who found you a threat, healthy and happy? Society, who condemned your desires, a man born out of the proper time? A life of privilege brings none, not ever. The gleam of the blue in your eyes belie the sparkle of hope, of invention and creative genius, muted to the grey, also in your eyes, due to fear, self-doubt, filling the hollow that howls echoed desire, fear of aging and missing out, fear of moving, changing, for losing something reliable, something undefined, undiscerned and untrue. Stymied by mistrust of yourself yet too trusting of others, you have never known your own worth. The shredded skin of your fingers, perpetual gratings of your nails moving like metronomes to soothe the ache and sync the anxiety. Ease of style and comfort with the unconventional is your lure–from the outside–but your constant compassion and soft, syncopated song, artful, eclectic sound, music of your making is your essence. Anger coats you; despair governs steadily like a politician, to fill the gaps, find the excuses, even as it is you. You look like the yogi master but are not in that peaceful possession of equanimity and ease. Your body is your armor.
A man of soft voice and heart but hard, angry muscle and drive fills my days. He is strong and weak, bent and upright, thin and full of fantasy flights of dreams and visions, me and him, a house, a life, a bed. His hair is dark, peppered grey, and receding, falling from his forehead to feet, carpeting his body like a coat. Persistent and patient, he with stuttering voice, whispery, shattered and deep, a boy-man of broken childhood, keeps close from afar, runs to me in the gaps, and sprays urgency over me; he is like a vibratory hummingbird at my ear, the wing flutter always flapping near, perceived unseen. He has too much time to think of me and a future. I lean left and right. We share loneliness and time wasted, a lifetime of near misses, music and art, politics, people watching and the idleness of directionless desire and aims. Transitions are either near approach to the top of the Ferris wheel or just over the top slide to the bottom again. They test sure footing, roots, grounding, toppling over with the weight of uncertainty or standing tree firm to the skies while the bark is bitten, flaked off. I am a sleeping sandwich, breaded to face the holy heavens equally to the wormed earth. Can you wake me, man of manic mind and heart?