Her honey-bliss lips, newly bee-blessed, set real people free.
All who tasted described a low grade sympathy lighting dark,
dubiously melding wind and song, fear and safe homecoming.
And then we grew to us, no longer children speaking true lies.
Stories told tied us to the road, beat-boot trodden dusty paths
leading home to meet two strangers, once lovers kissed true.
Now flash-blue sparks sidelong, like ghosts slipping peek-bye.
Glass tags filter your image as pastel strip-thin pressed clouds
spied at vision’s corner, blowing kisses once given free people.
After meeting other friendly youths, I somehow found myself enticed and then enclosed by the friendly conversation about spirituality and God. They spoke of all Gods being one, and led me to a classroom where an older man, maybe in his 30s, taught a class of one, me, the evidence supporting the coming of Christ by an infallible timeline.
I sat for a good ten or fifteen minutes until the sudden thought struck through the morass of sweet, thick confusion my mind became, like drowning in syrup: “Holy shit, I think I am being indoctrinated.”
Then a panic swept over me. How was I to leave this uncomfortable scene without a complete bolting for the door. “Could I just get up and walk out while he spoke?” I did not think I could. These people were not rude, but clearly they were trying to enfold me.
I did manage finally to politely but insistently–and it took insistence–tell them I needed to leave. They were followers of Sun Myung Moon, leader of the Unification Church, informally his followers known as Moonies. One of my lonely teen claims to fame is having been kidnapped–almost–by the Moonies on my 17th birthday.
He was out of his mind stoned when he lured me into his bed after pounding drums at ear splitting decibels in his dark, stuffy room for way too long for anyone’s interest but his own or another drummer’s, not mine, and I don’t even know how good he played. It hurt, I bled, and it was over. He seemed proud and then disinterested. It didn’t last long–the act– nor the relationship and I felt like shit about the whole unlovely experience.
“I don’t understand. Why did you let yourself go there?”
I was 14, homeless in my heart, thoughtless and living some dream I doodled on a piece of paper during math class. I was dis-embodied, my life sidling the edge to the left and my body flanking the right. What does a 14 year old know about the rest of your life and sweet-tongued, scrupleless scumbags? I wanted to grow up and be in love.
Christine drifted away somehow. Our friendship was brief, maybe just 8th grade–and not all of it. But I remember regarding her with pleasure, feeling the oily warmth in deeply inhaling a thick smokey waft of spicy jasmine incense while listening to something folky on the stereo, putting me in that dreamy edge of sleep and fantasy. Christine distilled the essence of lavender and lovely.
I was tentative with her, wanting to be her friend too much, not for my loneliness so much as the urge to be near her, in her presence. The incandescent beauty marked by imperfection and perfection in angles; perfect white squares for teeth and the violet of her eyes were like the sheen of sweat on the lean definition, muscles of a lover’s back, sleek liquid–inviting. She made me feel pelvic warmth without sexuality.
My induction in sexual knowledge was yet to come though the advancement toward it was steaming with chance, sensation, hint, samplings, and, by the end of my days as Christine’s friend, shrapnel. Remnants of longing stayed with me, accumulating in my chest, and by 14, I was full blossom cloistered in my own dreams and sadness.
I wrote, read, sang and listened to music. Those were the black and gray years, darkened rooms, smoke, incense and fusion rock, endless albums of continuous synthesized pianos and riffing guitars and basses over long trilled scales across the length of the taut strings of the instrumentals and strands that united a heavily rocked out adolescent of the 70s. I felt. The teeming moody years hammocked me.