Sketches

5. The night sleeps, pulled every living thing under its cover. 

I am not dead. Unless you consider my devotion a tomb. Mind, once fluid, now a rock in preservation of your memory.

Imagination held down, nowhere to go, without you. 

I realize you hate this sort of expression. I'm searching for more to say. The games prove too harsh an environment for my fragile ego. 

Sketches

4. The faraway noise of children's television, a sensibility hammering hammering hammering away, it's own private voice, not easily quieted, in the stereophonic mind, the mailman drives past in his old jeep, the sun softly teases at the blinds, pulsing again to the throb of a life, tired from mental labor and physical hours, a drift, an immense and dreamless sleep

Sketches

2.

The world is still a beautiful place.

I see the trees softly blanketed in the morning fog.

His limbs warm around my womanly thighs.

The last minutes bundled in snuggle.

Soft breaths and cloudy sleep.

Sketches

1.

Vacant Mind
Dead Air Stare
Space So Spacious
Between Here And There
Not Too Much

I forget

He is tired of the word games, he is tired of it all.
We can watch cartoons and laugh like carefree children.
Or get toasty and chain-smoke, discussing music and life. He might go away and become a monk. There's a monastery in southeast China that accepts white people.
I tell him that they better or I'll kick their asses.
He is pissed about being under appreciated or broke or sex-less.
And suddenly,
I forget how to open up.

Rememory of all

Rememory of all that he taught and now to obscure what long ago should have been spotlighted.
My heart weakens in memory and my breath deepens to prevent collapse.
Amazing how effective the breath.

Steady Waters

You have a new love, my love. You are smiling again. Nothing left to say. Our ship never sailed, it sits in the harbour.

Retreat

The endless commentary on the shortcomings of human nature.
The perpetual breathless desperation of the loveless.
The mad rants and excitatory ravings of common lunatics.
The pretty picture posts of the natural world. Pretty picture posts period.
An entire subversive culture of sexual addiction, pornography, domination, handing over of power...
Erotica.
Mundane writings. Odd writings. Interesting and curious perspectives.
The man I think I love.
And why I must retreat.

...

He is the image of the dark
A tall bare tree growing bark, hard for protection
Against all elements of nature that would rage to destroy him
She clings to his branches
She swings, a tight rope
Wishing on tender buds that flower
Listening to bird calls and seeing the owl's watching eye

..

The wind stirs around my head and his spirit whispers to me words in another language
But I think I recognize this haunting voice

Because you asked me

I'm gonna write you a love poem.
It's gonna trip you out of your mundane reality. There will be no flowers but .... Birds. If I had a singer's voice, a talent with melody, my poem for you would translate more easily. A love song. I can only hope that your ears, heart, and sensitive body tune in...to mine. I'm gonna write you a love poem. Maybe two, who knows-where this new adventure goes. You fill my spirit with excitement, with hope and for what? I don't exactly know. It's more than just your masculine form that puts me on edge. It goes beyond the seduction in your eyes, your voice. It's probably all that AND the words you would whisper, the love you speak, the probing personal concerns and the understanding you show. Can I hold your hand? Can I touch your heart? You're so very hard to read, a complex book, sometimes open, often hiding ... something ....
I'm already jealous of other women. You make me feel that special.
I'm gonna write you a love poem. Because its the One thing you asked of me. And you seemed so upset. And I shiver when you are close. Although you've made your motives for me pretty clear, I want you to know, I have my own. So...I'm gonna write you a love poem. The ideas are formulating right now. I'm gonna write you a love poem and this is not it.

Southern Nights

Balmy Southern nights. Walking around town in my prettiest dress. Smiling and laughing with the people we meet. Holding hands at the bar. Kissing in a booth and drinking margaritas off the topmost shelf. He tells me I'm the prettiest woman around. I smile and squeeze his thigh. Music live. I get up and dance. He can if he wants to.