You talked together about exes and siblings, friends and parents; the choices you made that got you where you are today. You talked about the ones you were with while you were with each other and decided together not to tell them you were. You realized that love had nothing to do with it and you danced together on your toes to Billie Holiday and you sang your hearts out until you were horizontal and then it was all kisses. You tasted of each other’s breath until it mingled and became the breath of one. The one you still remember the day after in a wisp of fallen hair or on the collar of your shirt. The sweet smell that is not quite either of you and yet you pick out certain fragrances like a fine wine. You tasted each one and then you cleansed your mutual pallet with a bit of conversation. You talked with each other; making an offering of yourself – thin and fragile like the communion wafer and with all the same implications. First an exhale of the day’s events then empathy arrives like a deep breath or a good sporting commentary filling the lungs to capacity. The moaning begins slowly with a soft, long caress, a bit of history; builds to a climax as you reveal your secrets to each other and invent new philosophies that aren’t new, but neither is this and finally subsides like an unaccepted paradigm; bodies quivering with desire and glistening with passion until all you can do is hold each other tight and sleep.
This shit’s all sterile you know. We wished for baby soft and what we got was nothing less than spiritual man. It was a lucky strike. It was real and true and it was all love, like true magenta. It was blue skies and cyan moon clouds just hovering, passing like when the sky just opens up and lets you have a peek. Eight ball in the corner pocket baby, yeah. And when I feel yellow he’s all red. He’s mean and he’s mine. We catch it. We catch it together. We beat it. We scratch it. We watch each other into submission. It’s the ultimate. It’s a fighting game cock until the black comes and the cone rises and the hen crows at daybreak. It’s primary colors, simplicity aggravated. Complexity unraveled like the rope that swung from the old apple tree where ripe fruit fell to the ground and we to our knees. The rope that swings gold and silver, silver and gold svelte around her pretty little neck. A portrait of water, blood and ink it was. The sweetest kiss is a long goodbye. Hey mister, can you spare a spare? Her ass was soft and fleshy and impenetrable, like a heart.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Just a Dream (Must be 18+ e-mail anantiananda@gmail.com for password)
Intro. to "Just a Dream" (not published)
In a creation myth rivaling that of the most powerful shoguns of ancient Japan, today you were born into the body of a coal black Aprilia RSV4.
Your dark, naked body shone in the full moonlight that permeated the room and caused our bodies to contrast so virtually we embodied natural duality. My hair lapped across your taut chest – dampening into mahogany cat o’nine tails. Our sweat mixed as we writhed against one another; resting only momentarily in ecstatic postures. As we posed in tantra, our tongues met first, then moist lips slipped top over bottom, bottom over top – exchanging the business of being in charge.
There seemed to be no limit to the amount of pleasure we could receive from each other. Then suddenly, without warning your chiseled arms wrapped themselves around my perfect, round ass and lifted. I was on top of you in an instant. Supine beneath me, you tensed every muscle as solid and hard as your cock. I felt you grow deeper inside me. Every inhale was a gasp of pleasure. Every exhale was a moan of sweet release.
Darkness enveloped us as the moon rose too high to illuminate our bed through the tall southern window of the room. There were no doors. The blankets and pillows were yours. Dizzy whimpered in the corner and you reassured her that we would both live through the ordeal. I lost sight of you. I blinked. I looked down where you should have been – where I could still feel you. I saw the shine of your body as I had before and relaxed for a moment. But, how could you shine when there was no moon?
The warmth of your body between my legs became something all together new and exciting. I felt your body heave as our sweat turned molten and cooled to smooth metal. Electricity passed through us and your atoms split – exposed to oxygen in the brisk, night air that blew in from the open window. We shivered as we both came to orgasm. That would be our last common act as human beings.
I held on tight with both legs; my creamy thighs straining for a grip. Your chest turned to chassis - a twin-spar adjustable aluminum frame dipped in anthracite – the highest rank of coal – just for looks. Your arms dissolved Christ-like from around my waist into a front suspension of 43-mm stanchions in an upside-down fork. Your elbows became adjustable and spring preloaded with hydraulic compression for rebound damping. Your hands were dual 320-mm diameter floating stainless steel discs with Brembo monobloc radial calipers. I shuddered and reached to cradle your head as I realized what was happening.
Mixed low and thick, your legs became the twin-sided swing arm now deftly fitted between the bend where my hip and ankle made a perfect triangle. Your knees merged into one Öhlins Racing monoshock with piggyback. Your feet morphed into a 220-mm disc brake with a Brembo floating caliper and two 32-mm isolated pistons. Instead of boots, you wore completely machined Aprilia forged aluminum alloy five-split spokes.
A breeze picked up in the room and swept my hair around my shoulders to barely cover the tips of my rock hard nipples. I was excited and scared. I still held your head in my hands. You looked up at me with a stare so confident; my fear vanished and was replaced again by desire. It appeared as though you were glowing through a third eye!
As the transformation was near complete, I knew that this ethereal glow would soon be the center of the tri-jeweled crown of guiding light on our impending journey. I pinched the your fleshy lobes one last time before they turned to grips; found a comfortable two-fingered position around the brakes and managed a giggle as I imagined tickling you behind both ears.
By this time, your internal organs were in a severe state of flux but the metamorphosis from man to machine was made somewhat more acceptable to me knowing that you already had a four-chambered heart. Not exactly a 65-degree V-four built for superior agility and rear-wheel traction; but a ventricle system none the less. The expansive network of veins that once moved blood beneath your flesh morphed into a fly-by-wire throttle system with double overhead camshafts. Your atria now variable-length intake ducts, and a total of eight fuel injectors. Your blood as pure and powerful a fuel as the god Inari could bestow upon a pious farmer.
Your lungs of course, were reconfigured 4 into 2 into 1 with a single oxygen sensor. And the rest of your respiratory system was now simply one lateral silencer with an engine unit-controlled butterfly valve and integrated trivalent catalytic converter. You now weighed 395 pounds – dry.
Now that the conversion was complete, I reveled in the pure joy that was the melding of your soul to the bike beneath me. Although some would say you became mon objet d'amour, you were in every sense still utterly in control. All I could do was hold on. It was different all alone on the front. The wind lashed out, seeking penance for my sins. It didn’t ask my permission and there was no safety word to stop it. As the RSV4, you sensed my boundaries and slowed into a turn to deflect the pressure. On the downshift, your newfound voice sent a tingle from my toes to my tits with a deep, penetrating rumble gnash before hitting the perfect note in the space between my hips where my clit rubbed against the hard leather inseam of my new riding gear. I hoped it never softened.
Your mouth seemed to swallow whole parts of the road in lurching gulps as we lunged forward into the abyss that was 177bhp and 85lb ft. of torque. It was all I could do to bow my head and kiss the tank where I once felt your heart beat too fast to be human. You reared up like a wild stallion at that moment and I knew no one would ever tame you. This only served to make me more excited. I easily compared my exaltation to the day all emperors descended from the sun goddess who formed the islands of Japan in her womb and birthed them from a cloud. You were man, machine and manga legend all rolled into one.
Listen for free first!
Just a Dream BONUS Audio!
In a creation myth rivaling that of the most powerful shoguns of ancient Japan, today you were born into the body of a coal black Aprilia RSV4.
Your dark, naked body shone in the full moonlight that permeated the room and caused our bodies to contrast so virtually we embodied natural duality. My hair lapped across your taut chest – dampening into mahogany cat o’nine tails. Our sweat mixed as we writhed against one another; resting only momentarily in ecstatic postures. As we posed in tantra, our tongues met first, then moist lips slipped top over bottom, bottom over top – exchanging the business of being in charge.
There seemed to be no limit to the amount of pleasure we could receive from each other. Then suddenly, without warning your chiseled arms wrapped themselves around my perfect, round ass and lifted. I was on top of you in an instant. Supine beneath me, you tensed every muscle as solid and hard as your cock. I felt you grow deeper inside me. Every inhale was a gasp of pleasure. Every exhale was a moan of sweet release.
Darkness enveloped us as the moon rose too high to illuminate our bed through the tall southern window of the room. There were no doors. The blankets and pillows were yours. Dizzy whimpered in the corner and you reassured her that we would both live through the ordeal. I lost sight of you. I blinked. I looked down where you should have been – where I could still feel you. I saw the shine of your body as I had before and relaxed for a moment. But, how could you shine when there was no moon?
The warmth of your body between my legs became something all together new and exciting. I felt your body heave as our sweat turned molten and cooled to smooth metal. Electricity passed through us and your atoms split – exposed to oxygen in the brisk, night air that blew in from the open window. We shivered as we both came to orgasm. That would be our last common act as human beings.
I held on tight with both legs; my creamy thighs straining for a grip. Your chest turned to chassis - a twin-spar adjustable aluminum frame dipped in anthracite – the highest rank of coal – just for looks. Your arms dissolved Christ-like from around my waist into a front suspension of 43-mm stanchions in an upside-down fork. Your elbows became adjustable and spring preloaded with hydraulic compression for rebound damping. Your hands were dual 320-mm diameter floating stainless steel discs with Brembo monobloc radial calipers. I shuddered and reached to cradle your head as I realized what was happening.
Mixed low and thick, your legs became the twin-sided swing arm now deftly fitted between the bend where my hip and ankle made a perfect triangle. Your knees merged into one Öhlins Racing monoshock with piggyback. Your feet morphed into a 220-mm disc brake with a Brembo floating caliper and two 32-mm isolated pistons. Instead of boots, you wore completely machined Aprilia forged aluminum alloy five-split spokes.
A breeze picked up in the room and swept my hair around my shoulders to barely cover the tips of my rock hard nipples. I was excited and scared. I still held your head in my hands. You looked up at me with a stare so confident; my fear vanished and was replaced again by desire. It appeared as though you were glowing through a third eye!
As the transformation was near complete, I knew that this ethereal glow would soon be the center of the tri-jeweled crown of guiding light on our impending journey. I pinched the your fleshy lobes one last time before they turned to grips; found a comfortable two-fingered position around the brakes and managed a giggle as I imagined tickling you behind both ears.
By this time, your internal organs were in a severe state of flux but the metamorphosis from man to machine was made somewhat more acceptable to me knowing that you already had a four-chambered heart. Not exactly a 65-degree V-four built for superior agility and rear-wheel traction; but a ventricle system none the less. The expansive network of veins that once moved blood beneath your flesh morphed into a fly-by-wire throttle system with double overhead camshafts. Your atria now variable-length intake ducts, and a total of eight fuel injectors. Your blood as pure and powerful a fuel as the god Inari could bestow upon a pious farmer.
Your lungs of course, were reconfigured 4 into 2 into 1 with a single oxygen sensor. And the rest of your respiratory system was now simply one lateral silencer with an engine unit-controlled butterfly valve and integrated trivalent catalytic converter. You now weighed 395 pounds – dry.
Now that the conversion was complete, I reveled in the pure joy that was the melding of your soul to the bike beneath me. Although some would say you became mon objet d'amour, you were in every sense still utterly in control. All I could do was hold on. It was different all alone on the front. The wind lashed out, seeking penance for my sins. It didn’t ask my permission and there was no safety word to stop it. As the RSV4, you sensed my boundaries and slowed into a turn to deflect the pressure. On the downshift, your newfound voice sent a tingle from my toes to my tits with a deep, penetrating rumble gnash before hitting the perfect note in the space between my hips where my clit rubbed against the hard leather inseam of my new riding gear. I hoped it never softened.
Your mouth seemed to swallow whole parts of the road in lurching gulps as we lunged forward into the abyss that was 177bhp and 85lb ft. of torque. It was all I could do to bow my head and kiss the tank where I once felt your heart beat too fast to be human. You reared up like a wild stallion at that moment and I knew no one would ever tame you. This only served to make me more excited. I easily compared my exaltation to the day all emperors descended from the sun goddess who formed the islands of Japan in her womb and birthed them from a cloud. You were man, machine and manga legend all rolled into one.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
What it is
When the late October cold front swept across our four corners and brought with it high wind advisories; I welcomed the change in weather. Any weather in Phoenix, Arizona is exciting news. Any weather other than the 100+ degree days forecast we just barely left behind earlier in the month, that is.
I expected the crisp chill through my thin sweater and the wind that whipped my red hair into flaming wisps and tangled it prettily around my face. I expected the dust and the soft violence of air mixed with tiny fragments of sand and bone. I accepted that the tree we so tenderly pruned and lifted off the ground last year may not survive despite the presence of the ropes and railroad ties staked in by strong, capable and caring hands.
I have a certain expectation of the wind to begin with. I’m fond of it in the way an adulteress is fond of her lover. It’s a force of nature after all. Not a bad thing, although it can certainly cause serious damage and not a good thing, though without it certain seed would not be spread. It is what it is and that’s all.
When everyone died a few years ago, I felt the wind an ally. I felt a departed friend in its forcefulness and its transitory, ethereal coming and going. I’ve come to expect the wind to bring out certain emotions in me because it reminds me of that day. But this day was different. I didn’t expect this.
There’s a very particular smell associated with sandstorms. Not unlike the patron in smoky juke joints of the past, it clings to your clothes and hair and penetrates every orifice so stealthily that you begin to forget it happened but it’s there. They say smell is the most powerful of senses linked to memory. I cannot disagree.
In the summer of after eighth-grade graduation, I met a man I would fall so deeply and permanently in love with no one else would ever stand a chance. In fact, I cheated on every boyfriend I ever had - with him. Funny thing is, I never felt like I was cheating on anyone but him. When I met him, he was holding a baby. It was the first time I ever saw a man put a child above all other things, including himself. He couldn’t have known it then, but he groomed me to be his perfect companion. The books and music he gave to me were more like sustenance than any food I had yet tasted. More significantly - he gave me my first journal and many others to follow. We had little physical contact. Long conversations on the telephone and short infrequent visits always in the company of others were treasured moments. I identified with the blank pages of the journals he presented to me as if they were holy scripture. It was there we shared our most initmate moments. As I wrote down my secrets and desires, I felt him filling me up.
I saw many women come and go from his life. My friend Lissa included. She was four years my senior and beautiful, and experienced. She had a car. An old Dodge Charger, mustard yellow with olive green interior. I knew that they had slept with each other before I ever knew what that meant. Lissa told me the stories as she dressed in her daintiest bra and panties. She let me try on her old lace corsets and garters. We twirled in front of her floor length mirror, admiring our taut, glowing skin under the costumes we invented from scarves tied around our chests. We wound the silky fabric tight around our bodies before I ever knew such thing could be called fetish. Or bondage. Or that men would like the way I looked as much as she did.
I told her that I loved him. She laughed and then realizing the seriousness in my voice, tenderly stroked my hair and told me how it was between them. Her face flushed as she retold their last encounter. She breathed more heavily. She seemed alive with an energy that I had never seen in her before. I could not even imagine the things she told me then. Even now it seems more like a mysterious, magical interchange rather than what I know to be a sexual encounter. It sounded like just the thing for me.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
I met Lissa and her little friend, Jade at my house near Berkeley. I was 21, recently divorced with an infant son in my care most weekends. His mother left me for a better life. A life she didn’t think I was capable of providing. She was right. I want nothing to do with the life she leads now. But she was my first love. High school sweethearts and the whole deal. I would have died for her. Looking back on it, I guess I did.
Lissa was a huge slut and had already slept with two of my three roommates before she decided I was what she really wanted. It wasn’t until after she brought Jade over for the first time that she started in on the flirting, suggestive conversations and the mini-skirts. My god, I still remember those skirts. I liked her immediately because I didn’t have to wonder what was on her mind. Frankly, the attention did my damaged ego good. I assumed that Jade was her little sister at first because Lissa always dressed her like a miniature version of herself. Especially after the first time we met.
Lissa fucked enthusiastically if not skillfully. She gave blow jobs more than willingly and it always seemed to me that she was extracting secrets from me even though I don’t believe in that shit. I usually felt a little empty, a little drained after an encounter with her. She couldn’t have known it then, but she was unwittingly working recon for Jade. I saw the way the little one looked at me and it made me feel like I better look away before some trouble came of it. She was 15. Nothing was ever going to happen there. And Lissa made a fine surrogate vessel for the urges I inevitably experienced during their visits.
One night, after a few intentionally weak vodka and cranberries the little one asked to try the bong. Lissa was ecstatic. My roommates and I had grown somewhat protective of her but decided the potential for entertainment far outweighed our concern for her safety or her 10 o’clock curfew. The thing was almost as tall as she was and much more intimidating, inanimate though it was. I didn’t know then that she was a first-chair flautist or an honor student or that her father was an alcoholic with a temper. When she cleared the four-footer on her first try and held it in as long as we told her too without coughing, I saw the trust in her clear, green eyes and I knew the night would not end well.
Lissa passed out. Jade was on the verge, her eyelids opening and closing involuntarily. Me and my buddies led her out to our car and told her to take a little nap. Guiding her into the backseat, I realized I didn’t even know where she lived. God, she was so beautiful and helpless at that moment. Pure and clean as far as I knew. What the fuck? Where did that come from? We got an address out of her and prepared a formal apology for her parents some where along the half-hour drive from our off-campus bungalow near the university to her middle class suburban home. It was agreed that the youngest looking of us would take her to the door. That was Jorge.
I didn’t know until much later how she suffered after her father met us at the curb 15 minutes past curfew and dragged her from the backseat where she sat alone. None of us dared to be that near her malleable frame, her angelic face or her perpetually wet, pink lips that seemed to smile even as she slept.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
It was the early eighties when my father broke his leg on a worksite. Our family suffered, but not to our knowledge, at least not then. The construction trade was booming and we always had what we needed plus a goodly portion of all that we ever wanted as well. Dad could never be described as the doting father-type but he did make absolutely certain that we girls never wanted for a thing he could buy. He bought our love easily and when that faded, he consistently bought it back again.
I was grounded for two weeks after that night which was just enough time for the bruises to heal. Lissa took the fall for being the irresponsible one. She told my parents she let me drink and they thought it was adorable I was such a light-weight. Practically passing out after two drinks! I wasn’t allowed to spend the night with her anymore. We were granted one last night together however to “say goodbye”. That night, Lissa dressed me up again and spun me around in front of her mirror as she held me in her arms and told me that when I was ready, this is what I would wear when I went to him. We kissed and giggled playfully over the thought. She put make-up on me to complete the transformation and I knew one day soon, I would be a woman.
Jorge, who had pretended to be overly concerned about my welfare and my age and my friend’s complete lack of respect for my parents that night on the lawn, made quite an impression and I was allowed to see him again on the condition that he come over and introduce himself properly in the presence of my father’s .44. He was 21. My parents believed he was 17.
Lissa and Jorge had been together for a year or so before she started going into Paolo’s bedroom instead. I’m sure I thought she loved him, though I had no idea what that meant. He thought so too. He confessed his jealousy on each and every car ride from my house to the bungalow as if I was his best friend. I never said more than two words to him. I’m sorry and thank you. I guess he really did feel responsible for me or at the very least responsible to my parents who allowed him to take me one night every weekend as long as I was home by 10. No exceptions. They called Lissa a little whore when they thought I wasn’t listening. That sounded mean but I couldn’t tell you what I thought it meant. Maybe it meant that she liked sleeping with men or that she was just plain bad or both.
That summer, in Jorge’s big green car, I got my second kiss. My first had been only months before at the last dance of the school year. I still remember that boy's name, but that's all. “Happy Birthday, sweetheart,” Jorge said and pulled away before I realized what happened. It was almost uncomfortable, awkward - like I had noticed my father had recently begun to do and it disturbed me though I knew not why. What possible reason could a father have to stop kissing his daughter?
________________________________________________________________________
Alright, alright. I kissed her already. What do you want me to say? I kissed her and she smiled and it made my friggin’ day okay? I don’t see anything wrong with that. That bitch Lissa broke my goddamn heart when she left me for Paolo. He’s got a goddamn kid over half the time and she picks him over me? Whatever. I’m over it.
I just don’t see how a chick like that – perfectly nice and all – gets up from the couch one night, looks up at me with this look of absolute pity in her eyes and then walks right into another man’s room. What the fuck is that?
It wasn’t my choice to be Jade’s escort. Just because I look young and am polite enough to deal with the parental units doesn’t make me her gd-boyfriend all the sudden. I mean, c’mon. I’m 21. That shit is grounds for statutory rape and I’m not stupid.
To be perfectly honest, I thought she despised me. I had no idea why I kept picking her up every weekend and spilling my guts to her about Lissa except I felt she was the only who really listened. Fuck the guys. I mean, they were my best friends man, but they didn’t care about the chicks they laid– not like me. Jonas fucked Lissa in the laundry room the first night he met her and we all heard it – including Jade. I could count on her to shut the fuck up and listen when I talked. She wasn’t the type of chick to interrupt or interject her opinion every other minute.
She had the kind of face you could call sincerely caring. Her eyes never gave anything away but sincerity. I was certain she new nothing of compassion or empathy. She just didn’t have the proper experience required.
The kiss would have been a non-sequitor had it not been for what happened later. She was excited about her birthday and was being her usual smiling self when she bounded toward my Buick and hopped in for our show hug. The one we put on for her parents’ sake. God, when she smiled, she fucking glowed. It seemed like a perfectly logical thing to do until I felt myself instinctively pull back and saw the first glint of knowing in her innocent eyes. She suddenly seemed much older and I found myself forcing the numerals one-five to remain foremost in my mind.
What the hell was she doing hanging around with a bunch of college guys anyway? Not that any of us minded. She was smart and quiet and held the dual-title of house geisha and madame. She unwittingly inspired the women we occasionally dated and often brought home to return for…shall we say, seconds? The ladies were just as enamored by her as the three of us were protective.
Every Saturday night it was the same story. She read poetry aloud to us from our myriad text books, some older than she was and a lot less relevant. Couples merged from one to many on the floor, the couch. Anywhere we could get horizontal. Her voice melted away any doubt that our women would compete for, if not simply succumb to any and I mean any desire or fantasy we might come up with. The fireplace helped too.
Lissa eventually tired of playing her litte learning game with Paolo but I had not let her back into my room until that night. Jade had just finished reading to the last of the lingering lovers who had not yet retired to their private rooms. She put her head on the nearest pillow as she always did and waited for someone to finish and take her home. I was about to close the door behind me when I saw Paolo come out and sit right down on the couch beside her. They spoke softly, their faces close – too close. Lissa nudged me hard in the ribs and gave me a look some where between she’ll be fine and who gives a shit.
Paolo had been in his own room all evening putting his son to sleep. I trusted him with
Jade, and I did feel somewhat responsible for her well-being after having met with her parents face to face, regardless of the charade. I was so damn excited to be back with Lissa. I didn’t think. I forgot all about the kiss I planted on Jade when I picked her up for her birthday celebration and the new look in her eyes and at the time, I really had no idea she had already fallen for him.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Who did that dude think he was fooling? Everyone knew that Jorge was in love with Jade and that the façade they had put on for her parents was trickling down the gutter to Realityville. I had no idea how Jade felt about Lissa and Jorge getting back together, but I suspected it was not good. It was hard to tell. She had this melancholy happiness about her or a joyful sorrow or some kinda shit that freaked me out and turned me on all at once. Didn’t matter though. She was not 18. Jail bait. And I was a new dad, not about to fuck with someone else’s baby daughter.
I played some songs on the stereo. That seemed safe enough. She said she recognized the sound a band called Mazzy Star made and tried to indentify the producer off the CD jacket in the dark. I was impressed. Riley and I had been listening to her calming voice muffled through the door until he fell asleep, fighting his infant exhaustion all the way down to Pillowtown. She was a lullaby and a living nightmare all rolled into one fabulously luxurious package, laying on the very couch where many much older and experienced had succumbed. Didn’t matter though. Not 18.
That was the first time we talked alone – one on one. She told me she thought the producer was the same guy who made Opal sound so good. I’m almost certain she didn’t know what the hell it was a producer did exactly until that moment. She seemed like a pretty cool chick though. Just young. I was fucking lonely as hell and tired of laying co-eds one after another. Six weeks max was all it ever lasted. I just couldn’t commit after Sheila. Sheila wanted more than I could give and went ahead and found it in another man before she bothered to divorce me. Now I know there are only two ways a relationship like that can go. So why not kill it before it gets too risky? I’d die for one person on this earth and that’s enough. Bought the album though. Good shit.
________________________________________________________________________
I expected the crisp chill through my thin sweater and the wind that whipped my red hair into flaming wisps and tangled it prettily around my face. I expected the dust and the soft violence of air mixed with tiny fragments of sand and bone. I accepted that the tree we so tenderly pruned and lifted off the ground last year may not survive despite the presence of the ropes and railroad ties staked in by strong, capable and caring hands.
I have a certain expectation of the wind to begin with. I’m fond of it in the way an adulteress is fond of her lover. It’s a force of nature after all. Not a bad thing, although it can certainly cause serious damage and not a good thing, though without it certain seed would not be spread. It is what it is and that’s all.
When everyone died a few years ago, I felt the wind an ally. I felt a departed friend in its forcefulness and its transitory, ethereal coming and going. I’ve come to expect the wind to bring out certain emotions in me because it reminds me of that day. But this day was different. I didn’t expect this.
There’s a very particular smell associated with sandstorms. Not unlike the patron in smoky juke joints of the past, it clings to your clothes and hair and penetrates every orifice so stealthily that you begin to forget it happened but it’s there. They say smell is the most powerful of senses linked to memory. I cannot disagree.
In the summer of after eighth-grade graduation, I met a man I would fall so deeply and permanently in love with no one else would ever stand a chance. In fact, I cheated on every boyfriend I ever had - with him. Funny thing is, I never felt like I was cheating on anyone but him. When I met him, he was holding a baby. It was the first time I ever saw a man put a child above all other things, including himself. He couldn’t have known it then, but he groomed me to be his perfect companion. The books and music he gave to me were more like sustenance than any food I had yet tasted. More significantly - he gave me my first journal and many others to follow. We had little physical contact. Long conversations on the telephone and short infrequent visits always in the company of others were treasured moments. I identified with the blank pages of the journals he presented to me as if they were holy scripture. It was there we shared our most initmate moments. As I wrote down my secrets and desires, I felt him filling me up.
I saw many women come and go from his life. My friend Lissa included. She was four years my senior and beautiful, and experienced. She had a car. An old Dodge Charger, mustard yellow with olive green interior. I knew that they had slept with each other before I ever knew what that meant. Lissa told me the stories as she dressed in her daintiest bra and panties. She let me try on her old lace corsets and garters. We twirled in front of her floor length mirror, admiring our taut, glowing skin under the costumes we invented from scarves tied around our chests. We wound the silky fabric tight around our bodies before I ever knew such thing could be called fetish. Or bondage. Or that men would like the way I looked as much as she did.
I told her that I loved him. She laughed and then realizing the seriousness in my voice, tenderly stroked my hair and told me how it was between them. Her face flushed as she retold their last encounter. She breathed more heavily. She seemed alive with an energy that I had never seen in her before. I could not even imagine the things she told me then. Even now it seems more like a mysterious, magical interchange rather than what I know to be a sexual encounter. It sounded like just the thing for me.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
I met Lissa and her little friend, Jade at my house near Berkeley. I was 21, recently divorced with an infant son in my care most weekends. His mother left me for a better life. A life she didn’t think I was capable of providing. She was right. I want nothing to do with the life she leads now. But she was my first love. High school sweethearts and the whole deal. I would have died for her. Looking back on it, I guess I did.
Lissa was a huge slut and had already slept with two of my three roommates before she decided I was what she really wanted. It wasn’t until after she brought Jade over for the first time that she started in on the flirting, suggestive conversations and the mini-skirts. My god, I still remember those skirts. I liked her immediately because I didn’t have to wonder what was on her mind. Frankly, the attention did my damaged ego good. I assumed that Jade was her little sister at first because Lissa always dressed her like a miniature version of herself. Especially after the first time we met.
Lissa fucked enthusiastically if not skillfully. She gave blow jobs more than willingly and it always seemed to me that she was extracting secrets from me even though I don’t believe in that shit. I usually felt a little empty, a little drained after an encounter with her. She couldn’t have known it then, but she was unwittingly working recon for Jade. I saw the way the little one looked at me and it made me feel like I better look away before some trouble came of it. She was 15. Nothing was ever going to happen there. And Lissa made a fine surrogate vessel for the urges I inevitably experienced during their visits.
One night, after a few intentionally weak vodka and cranberries the little one asked to try the bong. Lissa was ecstatic. My roommates and I had grown somewhat protective of her but decided the potential for entertainment far outweighed our concern for her safety or her 10 o’clock curfew. The thing was almost as tall as she was and much more intimidating, inanimate though it was. I didn’t know then that she was a first-chair flautist or an honor student or that her father was an alcoholic with a temper. When she cleared the four-footer on her first try and held it in as long as we told her too without coughing, I saw the trust in her clear, green eyes and I knew the night would not end well.
Lissa passed out. Jade was on the verge, her eyelids opening and closing involuntarily. Me and my buddies led her out to our car and told her to take a little nap. Guiding her into the backseat, I realized I didn’t even know where she lived. God, she was so beautiful and helpless at that moment. Pure and clean as far as I knew. What the fuck? Where did that come from? We got an address out of her and prepared a formal apology for her parents some where along the half-hour drive from our off-campus bungalow near the university to her middle class suburban home. It was agreed that the youngest looking of us would take her to the door. That was Jorge.
I didn’t know until much later how she suffered after her father met us at the curb 15 minutes past curfew and dragged her from the backseat where she sat alone. None of us dared to be that near her malleable frame, her angelic face or her perpetually wet, pink lips that seemed to smile even as she slept.
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It was the early eighties when my father broke his leg on a worksite. Our family suffered, but not to our knowledge, at least not then. The construction trade was booming and we always had what we needed plus a goodly portion of all that we ever wanted as well. Dad could never be described as the doting father-type but he did make absolutely certain that we girls never wanted for a thing he could buy. He bought our love easily and when that faded, he consistently bought it back again.
I was grounded for two weeks after that night which was just enough time for the bruises to heal. Lissa took the fall for being the irresponsible one. She told my parents she let me drink and they thought it was adorable I was such a light-weight. Practically passing out after two drinks! I wasn’t allowed to spend the night with her anymore. We were granted one last night together however to “say goodbye”. That night, Lissa dressed me up again and spun me around in front of her mirror as she held me in her arms and told me that when I was ready, this is what I would wear when I went to him. We kissed and giggled playfully over the thought. She put make-up on me to complete the transformation and I knew one day soon, I would be a woman.
Jorge, who had pretended to be overly concerned about my welfare and my age and my friend’s complete lack of respect for my parents that night on the lawn, made quite an impression and I was allowed to see him again on the condition that he come over and introduce himself properly in the presence of my father’s .44. He was 21. My parents believed he was 17.
Lissa and Jorge had been together for a year or so before she started going into Paolo’s bedroom instead. I’m sure I thought she loved him, though I had no idea what that meant. He thought so too. He confessed his jealousy on each and every car ride from my house to the bungalow as if I was his best friend. I never said more than two words to him. I’m sorry and thank you. I guess he really did feel responsible for me or at the very least responsible to my parents who allowed him to take me one night every weekend as long as I was home by 10. No exceptions. They called Lissa a little whore when they thought I wasn’t listening. That sounded mean but I couldn’t tell you what I thought it meant. Maybe it meant that she liked sleeping with men or that she was just plain bad or both.
That summer, in Jorge’s big green car, I got my second kiss. My first had been only months before at the last dance of the school year. I still remember that boy's name, but that's all. “Happy Birthday, sweetheart,” Jorge said and pulled away before I realized what happened. It was almost uncomfortable, awkward - like I had noticed my father had recently begun to do and it disturbed me though I knew not why. What possible reason could a father have to stop kissing his daughter?
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Alright, alright. I kissed her already. What do you want me to say? I kissed her and she smiled and it made my friggin’ day okay? I don’t see anything wrong with that. That bitch Lissa broke my goddamn heart when she left me for Paolo. He’s got a goddamn kid over half the time and she picks him over me? Whatever. I’m over it.
I just don’t see how a chick like that – perfectly nice and all – gets up from the couch one night, looks up at me with this look of absolute pity in her eyes and then walks right into another man’s room. What the fuck is that?
It wasn’t my choice to be Jade’s escort. Just because I look young and am polite enough to deal with the parental units doesn’t make me her gd-boyfriend all the sudden. I mean, c’mon. I’m 21. That shit is grounds for statutory rape and I’m not stupid.
To be perfectly honest, I thought she despised me. I had no idea why I kept picking her up every weekend and spilling my guts to her about Lissa except I felt she was the only who really listened. Fuck the guys. I mean, they were my best friends man, but they didn’t care about the chicks they laid– not like me. Jonas fucked Lissa in the laundry room the first night he met her and we all heard it – including Jade. I could count on her to shut the fuck up and listen when I talked. She wasn’t the type of chick to interrupt or interject her opinion every other minute.
She had the kind of face you could call sincerely caring. Her eyes never gave anything away but sincerity. I was certain she new nothing of compassion or empathy. She just didn’t have the proper experience required.
The kiss would have been a non-sequitor had it not been for what happened later. She was excited about her birthday and was being her usual smiling self when she bounded toward my Buick and hopped in for our show hug. The one we put on for her parents’ sake. God, when she smiled, she fucking glowed. It seemed like a perfectly logical thing to do until I felt myself instinctively pull back and saw the first glint of knowing in her innocent eyes. She suddenly seemed much older and I found myself forcing the numerals one-five to remain foremost in my mind.
What the hell was she doing hanging around with a bunch of college guys anyway? Not that any of us minded. She was smart and quiet and held the dual-title of house geisha and madame. She unwittingly inspired the women we occasionally dated and often brought home to return for…shall we say, seconds? The ladies were just as enamored by her as the three of us were protective.
Every Saturday night it was the same story. She read poetry aloud to us from our myriad text books, some older than she was and a lot less relevant. Couples merged from one to many on the floor, the couch. Anywhere we could get horizontal. Her voice melted away any doubt that our women would compete for, if not simply succumb to any and I mean any desire or fantasy we might come up with. The fireplace helped too.
Lissa eventually tired of playing her litte learning game with Paolo but I had not let her back into my room until that night. Jade had just finished reading to the last of the lingering lovers who had not yet retired to their private rooms. She put her head on the nearest pillow as she always did and waited for someone to finish and take her home. I was about to close the door behind me when I saw Paolo come out and sit right down on the couch beside her. They spoke softly, their faces close – too close. Lissa nudged me hard in the ribs and gave me a look some where between she’ll be fine and who gives a shit.
Paolo had been in his own room all evening putting his son to sleep. I trusted him with
Jade, and I did feel somewhat responsible for her well-being after having met with her parents face to face, regardless of the charade. I was so damn excited to be back with Lissa. I didn’t think. I forgot all about the kiss I planted on Jade when I picked her up for her birthday celebration and the new look in her eyes and at the time, I really had no idea she had already fallen for him.
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Who did that dude think he was fooling? Everyone knew that Jorge was in love with Jade and that the façade they had put on for her parents was trickling down the gutter to Realityville. I had no idea how Jade felt about Lissa and Jorge getting back together, but I suspected it was not good. It was hard to tell. She had this melancholy happiness about her or a joyful sorrow or some kinda shit that freaked me out and turned me on all at once. Didn’t matter though. She was not 18. Jail bait. And I was a new dad, not about to fuck with someone else’s baby daughter.
I played some songs on the stereo. That seemed safe enough. She said she recognized the sound a band called Mazzy Star made and tried to indentify the producer off the CD jacket in the dark. I was impressed. Riley and I had been listening to her calming voice muffled through the door until he fell asleep, fighting his infant exhaustion all the way down to Pillowtown. She was a lullaby and a living nightmare all rolled into one fabulously luxurious package, laying on the very couch where many much older and experienced had succumbed. Didn’t matter though. Not 18.
That was the first time we talked alone – one on one. She told me she thought the producer was the same guy who made Opal sound so good. I’m almost certain she didn’t know what the hell it was a producer did exactly until that moment. She seemed like a pretty cool chick though. Just young. I was fucking lonely as hell and tired of laying co-eds one after another. Six weeks max was all it ever lasted. I just couldn’t commit after Sheila. Sheila wanted more than I could give and went ahead and found it in another man before she bothered to divorce me. Now I know there are only two ways a relationship like that can go. So why not kill it before it gets too risky? I’d die for one person on this earth and that’s enough. Bought the album though. Good shit.
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Sunday, October 18, 2009
Letter from a Lost Texas Prairie
You saw me this morning.
I was radiant in pale first light -
diffused by cloud and canopy.
I saw you too.
We each walked the path of our years -
dissecting the understory.
You glowed
Fresh dew on my blue-stemmed heart.
We all followed; taking turns with one another -
Fairly sharing the role of understudy.
You never stopped smiling.
I was inspired by you.
Your strict code of order,
Your permeability,
Your steadfast resilience --
Even as I tread the path alone
I sensed you -- watching me.
Several times you brushed my arm in passing.
I noticed you.
We all noticed you.
The smell of gin mingled with your breath and made us giddy.
Then your eyes went misty with a long-forgotten memory.
Canyon fog welled up around us as we descended behind you
and we listened intently as you retold the story of your past.
By the time you finished, we were spent standing still in the spot you left us.
I saw you blink back a tear just as the midday sun burned away the residue of our history together.
Then, you sighed a Blackland Prairie sigh and the seed was spread.
I was radiant in pale first light -
diffused by cloud and canopy.
I saw you too.
We each walked the path of our years -
dissecting the understory.
You glowed
Fresh dew on my blue-stemmed heart.
We all followed; taking turns with one another -
Fairly sharing the role of understudy.
You never stopped smiling.
I was inspired by you.
Your strict code of order,
Your permeability,
Your steadfast resilience --
Even as I tread the path alone
I sensed you -- watching me.
Several times you brushed my arm in passing.
I noticed you.
We all noticed you.
The smell of gin mingled with your breath and made us giddy.
Then your eyes went misty with a long-forgotten memory.
Canyon fog welled up around us as we descended behind you
and we listened intently as you retold the story of your past.
By the time you finished, we were spent standing still in the spot you left us.
I saw you blink back a tear just as the midday sun burned away the residue of our history together.
Then, you sighed a Blackland Prairie sigh and the seed was spread.
Friday, September 18, 2009
In a pickle
You are awake
you dream the dreams
that lovers make
in daylight hours.
You haunt the city of worship
infiltrating the minds of the meek
and uninhabited.
You hover languidly o'er forgotten
relics in memory of those
who sought, yet seek no more
and those who fought too hard to see.
You stalk
inside a labyrinth of fear illuminated
by knowledge.
Your acceptance clears safe passage
to every exit and entrances those
who dare to tread deep waters.
How have you not busied
yourself with the mundane?
How have you suffered the foolish?
How you have enlightened us,
the now-knowers
How you have sweetened our lips
with brine and vinegar.
you dream the dreams
that lovers make
in daylight hours.
You haunt the city of worship
infiltrating the minds of the meek
and uninhabited.
You hover languidly o'er forgotten
relics in memory of those
who sought, yet seek no more
and those who fought too hard to see.
You stalk
inside a labyrinth of fear illuminated
by knowledge.
Your acceptance clears safe passage
to every exit and entrances those
who dare to tread deep waters.
How have you not busied
yourself with the mundane?
How have you suffered the foolish?
How you have enlightened us,
the now-knowers
How you have sweetened our lips
with brine and vinegar.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Storytime
The moment she entered the theater door he was on her. He grasped her small hands in his, raised her arms over her head and spun her to the wall behind him. He forced a bent leg between hers and she felt the top curve of his knee rise to meet her. Her body slid down the wall. The softness of the skin over his knee-cap reminded her of something that made her flush as it slid higher against her and almost met. One arm now wrapped around her tiny waist and the other pushed her, palm to shoulder down further to the ground. His left hand found the sweet spot between the pale soft curve of her waist and her perfect ass. His right hand moved from shoulder to neck, thumb facing forward along the clavicle line still holding her firmly in his grasp. He had fantasized about holding her long neck in his hands this way. It was smaller than he imagined. He stretched his thumb under her jaw line just below the ear lobe and let his fingers burrow through the silky soft hairs on the back of her neck to her other ear. In one hand he held the entire weight of her head as she slid further beneath him. He looked down on her and held her that way for a moment then brought his hand to the front of her neck and wrapped it around again. He tucked the spot between his thumb and fingers up under her chin and held her like that as she slid the rest of the way down.
A nail in the wall caught her skirt and scratched the back of her thigh but she didn’t flinch. He caught her in his right forearm, releasing the grip on her neck to lay her body down and bring both arms above her head again as he pinned her to the floor. There was only time enough to gasp and catch a glimpse of the thousand multi-colored origami cranes migrating from the sound booth to the lobby before her eyes rolled back into darkness. A stress reflex retained from some childhood trauma as yet undiscovered, she thought as she awoke seconds later. Minutes later? She never knew exactly how long she had been gone.
Her hands are free now, but they are always last to return. He knows this. He has already begun the work of locking her legs into place by swinging them over the bend in his arm, the skin on the backs of her knees taut against the fleshy insides of his elbows. She can feel his hot breath on her neck as he leans into her. If she could move, she would only have to tilt her head left or right to kiss her own knee. She remembers the flush she felt as he forced his knee between her legs and begins to feel a familiar thrusting – her spine slightly curved at the spot where it meets the cold floor beneath them. Rhythmically, her body moves back and forth on that horizontal plane. He lets one leg slide gently from the crease of his arm to the floor. The toes are usually first to return but it’s a chilly night and her boots are still on. Thank you, she thinks and remembers the cranes. They are real and so is this.
His weight is full upon her now. Her left leg sprawled out behind him; her right now stretched across his chest. She feels a tiny knee-cap press against her chest directly between her breasts and sees the dainty point of a black leather boot near enough to his head to whisper into his right ear. If it were not for the heat culminating at the spot where their bodies became one, she felt sure she would be shivering. Her whole body tingled at the thought and made her hair stand on end. The thrusting stops and is replaced by a new sensation. Hot hands cupping her cold, naked breasts – her nipples so hard they hurt. Hot breath again and lips against her right thigh quivering now from being stretched to its limit, responding in tiny convulsive impulses like static on a radio dial so deftly tuned as to find life where none was ever heard before. He lingered there in the rosy red that spread before him without restraint.
She was fully and completely his. His mouth pressed against her full force while he held the quivery leg in place and buried his head between her thighs. It’s like silk he mutters looking up at her to gauge how much longer he’ll have her. His lips are shiny, wet with her sweet scent.
The sight makes her want him inside her again and the urge is so strong she finds the words to say so.
Maybe next time he thinks, maybe next time it will last just a little bit longer.
A nail in the wall caught her skirt and scratched the back of her thigh but she didn’t flinch. He caught her in his right forearm, releasing the grip on her neck to lay her body down and bring both arms above her head again as he pinned her to the floor. There was only time enough to gasp and catch a glimpse of the thousand multi-colored origami cranes migrating from the sound booth to the lobby before her eyes rolled back into darkness. A stress reflex retained from some childhood trauma as yet undiscovered, she thought as she awoke seconds later. Minutes later? She never knew exactly how long she had been gone.
Her hands are free now, but they are always last to return. He knows this. He has already begun the work of locking her legs into place by swinging them over the bend in his arm, the skin on the backs of her knees taut against the fleshy insides of his elbows. She can feel his hot breath on her neck as he leans into her. If she could move, she would only have to tilt her head left or right to kiss her own knee. She remembers the flush she felt as he forced his knee between her legs and begins to feel a familiar thrusting – her spine slightly curved at the spot where it meets the cold floor beneath them. Rhythmically, her body moves back and forth on that horizontal plane. He lets one leg slide gently from the crease of his arm to the floor. The toes are usually first to return but it’s a chilly night and her boots are still on. Thank you, she thinks and remembers the cranes. They are real and so is this.
His weight is full upon her now. Her left leg sprawled out behind him; her right now stretched across his chest. She feels a tiny knee-cap press against her chest directly between her breasts and sees the dainty point of a black leather boot near enough to his head to whisper into his right ear. If it were not for the heat culminating at the spot where their bodies became one, she felt sure she would be shivering. Her whole body tingled at the thought and made her hair stand on end. The thrusting stops and is replaced by a new sensation. Hot hands cupping her cold, naked breasts – her nipples so hard they hurt. Hot breath again and lips against her right thigh quivering now from being stretched to its limit, responding in tiny convulsive impulses like static on a radio dial so deftly tuned as to find life where none was ever heard before. He lingered there in the rosy red that spread before him without restraint.
She was fully and completely his. His mouth pressed against her full force while he held the quivery leg in place and buried his head between her thighs. It’s like silk he mutters looking up at her to gauge how much longer he’ll have her. His lips are shiny, wet with her sweet scent.
The sight makes her want him inside her again and the urge is so strong she finds the words to say so.
Maybe next time he thinks, maybe next time it will last just a little bit longer.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
In the Pink
Licking the powder from her lips with a white coated tongue, she reaches for the strawberry milk – Kwik of course. Does anyone else make strawberry milk? They may, but none so well she was certain. She’d always had a good eye for merchandising. The infomercialists wet dream and a credit limit to match. She had limited herself to a degree. Purchasing only items she knew would benefit others if not directly then by the divine knowledge that such an item as a cure-all phyto-chemical or a no-snore pillow made of husks was available if only for the asking. The milk was good. She took a big gulp from the carton that she had begun to open from the wrong side until she noticed the print on the other. “Open this side.” The pink dribbled from the corners of her mouth and onto her chin where she amphibiously and instinctively flicked out her tongue to keep it from traveling any farther. The side that open is always either too narrow or way too wide for her tiny mouth. Always. Just like her shoes, a size five on a hot day, smaller in the winter when she gets to shop in the kids’ section. Everything is less expensive in the kids’ section; as if they actually charge by how much raw material gets used. How did those kids get so damn big anyway? Must be something in the Cheerios. They’re heart healthy and nutritious!
Are we almost there yet, daddy? You know how you can tell if we’re almost there, sweetheart? You see that big dog off in the distance? Looks like he’s howling at the moon? That’s Picacho Peak. Site[DM1] of a great civil war battle and folks say the ghosts of the men in blue and gray still haunt the place. Now when that peak is on your right and it doesn’t look like a dog anymore, you’ll know that we’re almost there and if you keep your eye on him as we pass he will become a dog again and then before you know it, we’ll be there. Well dad, it’s not the same from the rearview she speaks aloud to herself as NPR fades out and she is forced to listen to some frivolous rock music. That’s when she knows she’s almost there.
Her stomach starts to flutter. She’ll see him soon. It’s been so long. He’s going to tell her why after all these years. She never asked, she never wanted to know and now she would and she is scared. Scared to find out what she has feared most. That he made another woman feel the way she had felt the night that her life changed seemingly forever and made her a prisoner of her own body. She has driven 300 miles to see him with only one tape cassette in the car stereo and she is sick of it. Sick of hearing the same old lines over and over and over. So sick, even the deejays on the FM dial are entertaining. It’s mindless chatter and a few oldies thrown in for good measure. It’s exactly what she needs to take her mind off of what awaits her at the next exit. She passes an official looking green sign. She doesn’t have to read it. She knows what it says. It is a warning. Do not stop for hitchhikers next 10 miles. Arizona State Prison Complex, Tucson.
She’s been traveling quite fast now for quite some time and it’s slow going on the last long stretch of road out into nowhere land and her stomach reminds her of how long it has been and shy she has come to see him one last time. She parks the car and rolls herself out like she did out her bed on Sunday mornings as a child when the church bus came to pick her up and she had overslept again and they would honk and honk and make sure she knew that they were outside waiting for her, waiting to take her away. She was a quiet girl especially in Sunday school. She understood the concept of forgiveness right away and also how to forget. She secretly loathed the question askers who seemed positively dumb and who prolonged her suffering. The offering of Tang and rock hard sugar cookies was no consolation. It was all too much for her ambulatory sociopathic seven-year-old mind. She developed a small hate for her mother and her father, then later she would call them martyrs but she did not know yet of patriarchy. She forgave and she became extremely forgetful.
Now stretching her fully grown arms into the clear blue sky and checking her reflection in the passenger window, she dips her hips a little back and forth. Let her shirt ride up over her navel and stretch tight across her chest. Pulls her hair back from her face, remembers where she is and wants to always remember because this is the day. This is the day. She gathers up the stuff she could bring inside. Five dollars worth of quarters in rolls for the vending machines, one pack of unopened Camel cigarettes, a disposable lighter, her i.d. Then the stuff she can’t bring inside. A book “All Souls Rising” for the wait outside the fence and the huge mechanical double door that could crush your body like you always thought those doors at the super market could until you finally got caught one day and it was only embarrassingly fatal because your new training bra left marks on your back before you even knew a thing about cleavage but knew enough to be thankful. Her compact, her sunglasses and a single stick of marijuana that fell into the hole in her pocket one day but didn’t fall out. It gave her highly illegal ideas that of course, she’d never think on her own. She wore black pants because the residents all wear denim. That’s how the guards know who to aim at. She looked good. Like a night out on the town. Right down to her square-toed high heel boots. She knew he would like the way she looked. As she stepped on to the open-air shuttle and sat down in the first row right behind the driver she realized he liked the way she looked too.
Even though she was not an especially social girl and this guy was obviously not a very social guy, she breaks the ice with a question she had been wondering about all day. Just how far is it around the perimeter of this place? He grunts, I dunno. She wonders passively what he’s in for and decides to take it all the way. Sure is a long drive from Phoenix she says, and sighs unambiguously. Seems like you could have driven to the moon and back just riding around in circles on this little bus all day. You think? Uh, huh, he grunts again as he brings the bus to an abrupt halt. She hops out jubilantly, assured that she has won the game. See you a-round, she cat calls defiantly in his general direction and shakes out her hair in the wind. Turning her eyes back to the bus, she uses two fingers to drag a strand of shiny copper quickly, coyly from her mouth and flip it around her left shoulder to lay in waves with the others on her back.
She feels good as the guard reminds her to remove all of her jewelry. Could you help me with this one? Thanks. Once you’re in, you have to board another bus. This one drives the bumpy dirt paths past the guard towers to the medium security yard and she can smell the anticipation of loved ones mingled with the stench of summer sweat and dirty diapers. She thinks, I can’t take this turn around. This is too much. But then the bus stops and the door opens and the air comes in a rush to dry the sweat on the back of her pale, slender neck. She dramatically lifts and drops her thick hair a couple times and fancies herself equestrian. Then the mirage of security is revealed beneath the shadows of a giant overhang designed to shield her from the desert sun or possibly bullets. It’s nothing more than a colossal outdoor cage. A cage that she will enter willingly and be locked in with all the others. There is no sound as deafening, no sound as heavy or as dismal as the sound of those cages closing in around you, maybe forever.
One can never tell when the apocalypse might suddenly come and where will you be? What if you’re just visiting and they never let you out? After that you go through a metal detector and they sit you all down at different tables arranged just so the residents will be back to back which means you are directly facing of these others while you wait for yours to show up, be called is what they say. There’s no hugging that room, you can hold hands on top of the table. You can stare, but can’t kiss. In Tucson they let you pick where you want to sit and wait but have to sit until yours is next your table then can stand and hug and kiss but not too much. My guy is walking that walk the walk that is just a hop-skip away from a full-out sprint and practically collide into each other like freight trains with the momentum I’ve gained just standing up from my chair. God, I miss you. He’s tall and my head rests on his chest and yes, we remembered at that instant what it had been like to hold each other similarly in a different place to fall from the sweet embrace on down to the soft grass of the park where we always walked for miles and miles just waiting for the sun to come up and it’s hard to let go so I look up and he looks down and the kiss is quick and wet and it wants to last forever but were like two school kids and this is our first time and we are sure that we will be caught. Caught up in the fire that would surely rise up from our loins and ignite the touch of our lips like flint to flame.
The most significant Civil War battle in Arizona took place near Picacho Peak on April 15, 1862, when an advance detachment of Union forces from California attacked a Confederate scouting party. The battle lasted for 1-1/2 hours, and three Union soldiers were killed. Every March, "The Civil War in the Southwest" comes alive again as over two hundred re-enactors converge on Picacho Peak on foot and horseback. Visitors enjoy viewing exciting mock battles that took place in Arizona and New Mexico during the Civil War. Also on display at the March reenactment are recreated military camps and living history demonstrations.
http://azstateparks.com/Parks/PIPE/index.html
Are we almost there yet, daddy? You know how you can tell if we’re almost there, sweetheart? You see that big dog off in the distance? Looks like he’s howling at the moon? That’s Picacho Peak. Site[DM1] of a great civil war battle and folks say the ghosts of the men in blue and gray still haunt the place. Now when that peak is on your right and it doesn’t look like a dog anymore, you’ll know that we’re almost there and if you keep your eye on him as we pass he will become a dog again and then before you know it, we’ll be there. Well dad, it’s not the same from the rearview she speaks aloud to herself as NPR fades out and she is forced to listen to some frivolous rock music. That’s when she knows she’s almost there.
Her stomach starts to flutter. She’ll see him soon. It’s been so long. He’s going to tell her why after all these years. She never asked, she never wanted to know and now she would and she is scared. Scared to find out what she has feared most. That he made another woman feel the way she had felt the night that her life changed seemingly forever and made her a prisoner of her own body. She has driven 300 miles to see him with only one tape cassette in the car stereo and she is sick of it. Sick of hearing the same old lines over and over and over. So sick, even the deejays on the FM dial are entertaining. It’s mindless chatter and a few oldies thrown in for good measure. It’s exactly what she needs to take her mind off of what awaits her at the next exit. She passes an official looking green sign. She doesn’t have to read it. She knows what it says. It is a warning. Do not stop for hitchhikers next 10 miles. Arizona State Prison Complex, Tucson.
She’s been traveling quite fast now for quite some time and it’s slow going on the last long stretch of road out into nowhere land and her stomach reminds her of how long it has been and shy she has come to see him one last time. She parks the car and rolls herself out like she did out her bed on Sunday mornings as a child when the church bus came to pick her up and she had overslept again and they would honk and honk and make sure she knew that they were outside waiting for her, waiting to take her away. She was a quiet girl especially in Sunday school. She understood the concept of forgiveness right away and also how to forget. She secretly loathed the question askers who seemed positively dumb and who prolonged her suffering. The offering of Tang and rock hard sugar cookies was no consolation. It was all too much for her ambulatory sociopathic seven-year-old mind. She developed a small hate for her mother and her father, then later she would call them martyrs but she did not know yet of patriarchy. She forgave and she became extremely forgetful.
Now stretching her fully grown arms into the clear blue sky and checking her reflection in the passenger window, she dips her hips a little back and forth. Let her shirt ride up over her navel and stretch tight across her chest. Pulls her hair back from her face, remembers where she is and wants to always remember because this is the day. This is the day. She gathers up the stuff she could bring inside. Five dollars worth of quarters in rolls for the vending machines, one pack of unopened Camel cigarettes, a disposable lighter, her i.d. Then the stuff she can’t bring inside. A book “All Souls Rising” for the wait outside the fence and the huge mechanical double door that could crush your body like you always thought those doors at the super market could until you finally got caught one day and it was only embarrassingly fatal because your new training bra left marks on your back before you even knew a thing about cleavage but knew enough to be thankful. Her compact, her sunglasses and a single stick of marijuana that fell into the hole in her pocket one day but didn’t fall out. It gave her highly illegal ideas that of course, she’d never think on her own. She wore black pants because the residents all wear denim. That’s how the guards know who to aim at. She looked good. Like a night out on the town. Right down to her square-toed high heel boots. She knew he would like the way she looked. As she stepped on to the open-air shuttle and sat down in the first row right behind the driver she realized he liked the way she looked too.
Even though she was not an especially social girl and this guy was obviously not a very social guy, she breaks the ice with a question she had been wondering about all day. Just how far is it around the perimeter of this place? He grunts, I dunno. She wonders passively what he’s in for and decides to take it all the way. Sure is a long drive from Phoenix she says, and sighs unambiguously. Seems like you could have driven to the moon and back just riding around in circles on this little bus all day. You think? Uh, huh, he grunts again as he brings the bus to an abrupt halt. She hops out jubilantly, assured that she has won the game. See you a-round, she cat calls defiantly in his general direction and shakes out her hair in the wind. Turning her eyes back to the bus, she uses two fingers to drag a strand of shiny copper quickly, coyly from her mouth and flip it around her left shoulder to lay in waves with the others on her back.
She feels good as the guard reminds her to remove all of her jewelry. Could you help me with this one? Thanks. Once you’re in, you have to board another bus. This one drives the bumpy dirt paths past the guard towers to the medium security yard and she can smell the anticipation of loved ones mingled with the stench of summer sweat and dirty diapers. She thinks, I can’t take this turn around. This is too much. But then the bus stops and the door opens and the air comes in a rush to dry the sweat on the back of her pale, slender neck. She dramatically lifts and drops her thick hair a couple times and fancies herself equestrian. Then the mirage of security is revealed beneath the shadows of a giant overhang designed to shield her from the desert sun or possibly bullets. It’s nothing more than a colossal outdoor cage. A cage that she will enter willingly and be locked in with all the others. There is no sound as deafening, no sound as heavy or as dismal as the sound of those cages closing in around you, maybe forever.
One can never tell when the apocalypse might suddenly come and where will you be? What if you’re just visiting and they never let you out? After that you go through a metal detector and they sit you all down at different tables arranged just so the residents will be back to back which means you are directly facing of these others while you wait for yours to show up, be called is what they say. There’s no hugging that room, you can hold hands on top of the table. You can stare, but can’t kiss. In Tucson they let you pick where you want to sit and wait but have to sit until yours is next your table then can stand and hug and kiss but not too much. My guy is walking that walk the walk that is just a hop-skip away from a full-out sprint and practically collide into each other like freight trains with the momentum I’ve gained just standing up from my chair. God, I miss you. He’s tall and my head rests on his chest and yes, we remembered at that instant what it had been like to hold each other similarly in a different place to fall from the sweet embrace on down to the soft grass of the park where we always walked for miles and miles just waiting for the sun to come up and it’s hard to let go so I look up and he looks down and the kiss is quick and wet and it wants to last forever but were like two school kids and this is our first time and we are sure that we will be caught. Caught up in the fire that would surely rise up from our loins and ignite the touch of our lips like flint to flame.
[DM1]Civil War in Arizona
The most significant Civil War battle in Arizona took place near Picacho Peak on April 15, 1862, when an advance detachment of Union forces from California attacked a Confederate scouting party. The battle lasted for 1-1/2 hours, and three Union soldiers were killed. Every March, "The Civil War in the Southwest" comes alive again as over two hundred re-enactors converge on Picacho Peak on foot and horseback. Visitors enjoy viewing exciting mock battles that took place in Arizona and New Mexico during the Civil War. Also on display at the March reenactment are recreated military camps and living history demonstrations.
http://azstateparks.com/Parks/PIPE/index.html
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Muffin Rant
In true nightly news fashion, this rant is evolving into an expose comparing complacent Texans' loyalty to HEB with that of the poor who remain loyal to a fascist dictator who kills their children because it's the only thing they know. I think I can work socialism in there too. Gimme a minute...and another pistachio muffin, please.
----------------------
I bought a pistachio muffin (my fave) from the supermarket yesterday and the guy at the check out says, "You know about the recall right?" and I say, "Well, you wouldn't be selling them if they weren't okay to eat now, right?" and he just smiles, so I call the bakery this morning and tell them I have one and they flip out and say, "Well, you didn't get it from OUR store." After a bit of arguing that I DID in fact get it at their store, and some background speak in Spanish - that I don't understand yet, but will soon thanks to Rosetta Stone - the lady with no clue, who "has been gone for four days" tells me "there's nothing wrong with them anyway." So, I'm going to eat the muffin for good of mankind and the potential destruction of HEB. Though I doubt anything so unimportant as the death of a customer by pistachio poisoning could stop the massive fear-inducing machine that is our local grocery. The ONLY local grocery, I might add. They are a monopoly of the worst kind, forcing us to buy what they want to stock and then not building enough stores in an area so that what is supposed to be a weekly shopping trip becomes end-of-the-world-mob-mentality-stockpiling every day. There is never enough of anything to go around so you end up buying things you don't need and stocking up on things that happen to be available at the time you are there, eventually causing scarcity of that product as well. The very presence of those sad, empty, crumb-ridden shelves (they leave empty on purpose) is enough to cause panic in the cereal aisle.
People (two) have died in our grocery store from heart attacks, according to my last checker who kindly asked‑-as they always do--if I had found everything okay. It's actually stressful to try and get what you want in there without getting hit with a shopping cart or walking ten miles up and down and up and down the ambiguously marked aisles, only to find that they don't sell Skippy peanut butter - just Jiff or store brand. "Um, no. I didn't. I couldn't find three of the things on my list that I usually buy here." She looks shocked as if it was a rhetorical question like, “Is there a God,” and finally someone has dared speak the unholy answer. She hands me a customer satisfaction survey and pitifully comments that yes, in fact they “are currently doing a huge Hill Country campaign” and are restocking the shelves with mostly HEB brand items. The fantastic part is that they have managed to label all of their store-brand products to look EXactly like the leading competitor's brand so if you don't look closely, (or don't know how to read) you will unwittingly be supporting the very giant that is trying to crush your little soul into an oblivion so deep that all you can do is shut up and buy their moldy cheese.
The sad part is, I LOVED HEB when we first got here three years ago. Their prices beat any store in Phoenix by a landslide and even though they did not stock my usual major brands of most common items like peanut butter, catsup, mustard, etc. their store brand was decent and I considered it better than the other major label I didn't want anyway. Kind of like when a republican votes democrat in order to keep the demons in check, yeah? In other words, at first I didn't mind not having a choice, because I was offered a good-quality-money-saving alternative or at least that's what it appeared to be at the time. Over the last three years, I have seen the decline of this store and the behavior of the people in it grow steadily worse before my eyes and NO ONE else seems to see it. They think it's NORMAL. Normal to shop in a throng of people day and night? Normal to find mold in the produce department, stale loaves of bread and gallons of milk with holes in the bottom on a regular basis? Normal for the aisles to be so small that you have to send a single-cartless-(and therefore defenseless)-runner in for the goods and hope he comes back alive?
At first it was a novelty to me and like Texas country roads, people were kind and moved their carts to let you pass; smiling as you went by, sometimes lifting a hand to wave or at the very least to signal your existence. I thought it was kind of cute, like a little community inside a community. Now, it’s all you can do to get out of the store without someone running over the back of your shoe with a shopping cart or worse – dying of a heart attack in the deli line.
The danger of physical harm isn’t the only reason not to shop at HEB. Name your seasonal staple and it will be sold out. Want to contribute to your kids’ college fund through the UPromise College Savings Plan known nation-wide and accepted at every other major grocery chain in the U.S. EXCEPT HEB? Don’t think so. I called the 800 number to ask why they don’t participate in a program so obviously better for children than HEB Bucks and the nice lady on the end of the line basically told me no, HEB does not participate in UPromise, nor will they ever. Why? “Because they won’t.” If I wanted to hear because I said so, I would have turned back time 30 years and called my mother. Even Salsalito and Cheesy Jane’s contribute a small percentage of your bill to UPromise.
Speaking of turning back time….
To put it simply, I'm sick of HEB and if I'm the only one who notices that they are a big-time-monopoly hiding behind a small-town-grocery façade, then it's time some one shed a little light. Though I doubt anything so unimportant as a valid complaint by an educated consumer could stop the massive fear-consuming machine that is suburbia.
----------------------
I bought a pistachio muffin (my fave) from the supermarket yesterday and the guy at the check out says, "You know about the recall right?" and I say, "Well, you wouldn't be selling them if they weren't okay to eat now, right?" and he just smiles, so I call the bakery this morning and tell them I have one and they flip out and say, "Well, you didn't get it from OUR store." After a bit of arguing that I DID in fact get it at their store, and some background speak in Spanish - that I don't understand yet, but will soon thanks to Rosetta Stone - the lady with no clue, who "has been gone for four days" tells me "there's nothing wrong with them anyway." So, I'm going to eat the muffin for good of mankind and the potential destruction of HEB. Though I doubt anything so unimportant as the death of a customer by pistachio poisoning could stop the massive fear-inducing machine that is our local grocery. The ONLY local grocery, I might add. They are a monopoly of the worst kind, forcing us to buy what they want to stock and then not building enough stores in an area so that what is supposed to be a weekly shopping trip becomes end-of-the-world-mob-mentality-stockpiling every day. There is never enough of anything to go around so you end up buying things you don't need and stocking up on things that happen to be available at the time you are there, eventually causing scarcity of that product as well. The very presence of those sad, empty, crumb-ridden shelves (they leave empty on purpose) is enough to cause panic in the cereal aisle.
People (two) have died in our grocery store from heart attacks, according to my last checker who kindly asked‑-as they always do--if I had found everything okay. It's actually stressful to try and get what you want in there without getting hit with a shopping cart or walking ten miles up and down and up and down the ambiguously marked aisles, only to find that they don't sell Skippy peanut butter - just Jiff or store brand. "Um, no. I didn't. I couldn't find three of the things on my list that I usually buy here." She looks shocked as if it was a rhetorical question like, “Is there a God,” and finally someone has dared speak the unholy answer. She hands me a customer satisfaction survey and pitifully comments that yes, in fact they “are currently doing a huge Hill Country campaign” and are restocking the shelves with mostly HEB brand items. The fantastic part is that they have managed to label all of their store-brand products to look EXactly like the leading competitor's brand so if you don't look closely, (or don't know how to read) you will unwittingly be supporting the very giant that is trying to crush your little soul into an oblivion so deep that all you can do is shut up and buy their moldy cheese.
The sad part is, I LOVED HEB when we first got here three years ago. Their prices beat any store in Phoenix by a landslide and even though they did not stock my usual major brands of most common items like peanut butter, catsup, mustard, etc. their store brand was decent and I considered it better than the other major label I didn't want anyway. Kind of like when a republican votes democrat in order to keep the demons in check, yeah? In other words, at first I didn't mind not having a choice, because I was offered a good-quality-money-saving alternative or at least that's what it appeared to be at the time. Over the last three years, I have seen the decline of this store and the behavior of the people in it grow steadily worse before my eyes and NO ONE else seems to see it. They think it's NORMAL. Normal to shop in a throng of people day and night? Normal to find mold in the produce department, stale loaves of bread and gallons of milk with holes in the bottom on a regular basis? Normal for the aisles to be so small that you have to send a single-cartless-(and therefore defenseless)-runner in for the goods and hope he comes back alive?
At first it was a novelty to me and like Texas country roads, people were kind and moved their carts to let you pass; smiling as you went by, sometimes lifting a hand to wave or at the very least to signal your existence. I thought it was kind of cute, like a little community inside a community. Now, it’s all you can do to get out of the store without someone running over the back of your shoe with a shopping cart or worse – dying of a heart attack in the deli line.
The danger of physical harm isn’t the only reason not to shop at HEB. Name your seasonal staple and it will be sold out. Want to contribute to your kids’ college fund through the UPromise College Savings Plan known nation-wide and accepted at every other major grocery chain in the U.S. EXCEPT HEB? Don’t think so. I called the 800 number to ask why they don’t participate in a program so obviously better for children than HEB Bucks and the nice lady on the end of the line basically told me no, HEB does not participate in UPromise, nor will they ever. Why? “Because they won’t.” If I wanted to hear because I said so, I would have turned back time 30 years and called my mother. Even Salsalito and Cheesy Jane’s contribute a small percentage of your bill to UPromise.
Speaking of turning back time….
To put it simply, I'm sick of HEB and if I'm the only one who notices that they are a big-time-monopoly hiding behind a small-town-grocery façade, then it's time some one shed a little light. Though I doubt anything so unimportant as a valid complaint by an educated consumer could stop the massive fear-consuming machine that is suburbia.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Whatever Lies Between
I only want
whatever lies between
cockroaches and pristine white carpets
laundy folded, loving husband at home
and the sweet, sweet smell
of children newly bathed
in a mother's love
swathed in the comfort
of a worthy father's care
and blessed
with the wisdom
to know
when the t.v.
is just too damn loud.
whatever lies between
cockroaches and pristine white carpets
laundy folded, loving husband at home
and the sweet, sweet smell
of children newly bathed
in a mother's love
swathed in the comfort
of a worthy father's care
and blessed
with the wisdom
to know
when the t.v.
is just too damn loud.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Could You Be Happy?
If I said I'd let you go
and that there would be
no tomorrow for us
could you be happy?
Happier than now
without uncertainty
without question.
Do you trust me
when I say
you are everything
this three-man woman
ever needed?
Not because it's fate
not because the lines on our
palms intersect
or because of the way we sit
or how you used to call me
every time I heard that
certain song and thought of you.
Because I love you best
and always will.
Because I am a woman
who was once a girl
and you were
my first.
That's really all there is.
All there ever was.
Could you be happy with that?
and that there would be
no tomorrow for us
could you be happy?
Happier than now
without uncertainty
without question.
Do you trust me
when I say
you are everything
this three-man woman
ever needed?
Not because it's fate
not because the lines on our
palms intersect
or because of the way we sit
or how you used to call me
every time I heard that
certain song and thought of you.
Because I love you best
and always will.
Because I am a woman
who was once a girl
and you were
my first.
That's really all there is.
All there ever was.
Could you be happy with that?
Monday, March 2, 2009
You’ve heard this one before
It’s that song
That song that keeps playing in your head
But it’s only the chorus
And you can’t remember the name
Or maybe you never knew it
So you just sing along
Hoping that it will just go away by itself
A passing infection
Not serious enough to wonder how
Not yet annoying enough to wonder when.
It’s one of the songs you used to love
The song you played every morning when you woke up
And every night before you went to sleep
But you don’t know the name of the band
Or the album it’s on
Because when you swapped playlists
With your lover, or maybe it was your best friend
The data was lost and even Microsoft cannot recover it.
It’s a song, maybe one of many
That you loved once
And now you wish you could delete forever
From your hard-drive, or your heart
But you won’t
Because there are too many to sift through
And some you haven’t yet heard
So you skip tracks
Sometimes several at a time
To get to the ones you know
The ones you still want to hear.
It’s the song that always plays first
When you set your media player to random
The one you can only find deliberately
Sorted by the date the exchange was made
Or the date the file was modified
And your life was altered.
It’s the song that reminds you
Of him, or of her
And you don’t care anymore
It doesn’t hurt
It’s just a good song
That you loved once.
That song that keeps playing in your head
But it’s only the chorus
And you can’t remember the name
Or maybe you never knew it
So you just sing along
Hoping that it will just go away by itself
A passing infection
Not serious enough to wonder how
Not yet annoying enough to wonder when.
It’s one of the songs you used to love
The song you played every morning when you woke up
And every night before you went to sleep
But you don’t know the name of the band
Or the album it’s on
Because when you swapped playlists
With your lover, or maybe it was your best friend
The data was lost and even Microsoft cannot recover it.
It’s a song, maybe one of many
That you loved once
And now you wish you could delete forever
From your hard-drive, or your heart
But you won’t
Because there are too many to sift through
And some you haven’t yet heard
So you skip tracks
Sometimes several at a time
To get to the ones you know
The ones you still want to hear.
It’s the song that always plays first
When you set your media player to random
The one you can only find deliberately
Sorted by the date the exchange was made
Or the date the file was modified
And your life was altered.
It’s the song that reminds you
Of him, or of her
And you don’t care anymore
It doesn’t hurt
It’s just a good song
That you loved once.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Comfort Shared
Sometimes I roam
Just me and my car, a few cds
maybe a snack or two
It was a granola bar, a Fuji apple
and a bottle of water today.
I was looking for Comfort
So, I programmed my GPS
and off I set, headed west--
the direction of home.
An hour in I realized this
though I didn’t have 11 more to spare.
Still, I didn't rest in Welfare just in case.
Just to keep the pace.
No, not tonight. Not with a birthday dinner to attend.
Not without a change of clothes, the laptop I left at home.
I was supposed to be looking for a gift,
not rationing food and planning how to wash the clothes I had on without taking
them all off at the same time.
You said my poetry was good once.
If only I could write about something more important.
I can't think of anything more important than love
at this moment or any other.
I think about writing this poem for you as I drive
and my palms begin to thump themselves in time
to the rhythm of West Texas Teardrops and my fingers
twiddle along side them in six part harmony.
You said, "I don't believe in true love or any of that stuff."
I should have warned you I believe enough for both of us.
It was 52 degrees, but with the sunshine in my windshield,
the seat warmer set on two
and the automatic climate control
at my ideal temp. of 74
I was warm for the first time all morning.
I smiled at the thought of you.
I read the sign before I could see all the letters.
Welcome to Comfort--An Antique Town.
A really old town? A town full of really old junk? I settled on a town of
really old people
as I cruised at 35 down the two-lane, straight and narrow
open road for miles in both directions.
I cruised so mellow I almost passed the hand-painted sign set out by the side
of the road.
"Flea Market--OPEN TODAY" like a boot-legger lemon stand, here today
but maybe not tomorrow.
The remains of the previous flea market were blackened powder beneath my feet.
[caption id="attachment_141" align="alignnone" width="180" caption="The remains"]
[/caption]USE DOOR TO THE SIDE
PLEASE OPEN AND SHUT DOOR
signs of decay were every where
but the men were chipper as we all took turns
gathering around the pot-belly stoves, browsing one another
and the lady smiled
when I told her that the five-dollar wooden Louisville Slugger
was a wedding present for my sister.
It's not.
"We're open on Sundays little lady. Please come again and see us!"
"I will!" I said with a great, big genuine smile that made me feel
shiny and pretty.
But I probably won't. At least not tomorrow.
[caption id="attachment_140" align="alignnone" width="180" caption="Comfort comes in many ways."]
[/caption]I also found the perfect gift and made it back in time to wrap it and wash up
for dinner.
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