Saturday, March 31, 2018

I like turtles

About a year ago I left town to travel to where the glam crowds swarm in the summer. It was work alright but as it happens when you're serious about going all business I happened upon the most fun work circumstances one ever can. Just the villa we had rented would suffice, the editorial setups, the tons of florals and glorious views of the azure, the mills, the pebbled streets, the art of it all. 

They say all greatness comes in threes, and there were more triads than I could count. One of them wore a backpack on the shoulders, offered to carry my heavy black coat around all day, shared my sincere affection for pistachio ice-cream, plus endless talks about literally everything, frozen coffee cups, gyros pies, octopus and ouzakia on the beach till we got a little lightheaded, was kind to strangers, had two cucumbers a day, went yoga flying at dawn and joined me to dance in a circle of 250 strangers at the local fair. 

Sometimes, Life is kind to us that way. 

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

In stiches

"This is the mood fellas" 
_ Joezie

A face is rarely symmetrical, each side tells a different story, if you care enough to look you'll find two characters under the same feature. His one side produced that soft and stainless I'll-give-you-a-moment kind of smile, the other a crooked little smile to match a crooked little mind. As for his laugh, his laugh was like a far-removed detonation, a low, rumbling boom. 

She said she hated her laugh. She'd have a drag and then gazing at ther nails she'd go on with how it was too loud and too throaty, it didn't fit her or any other woman for that matter. Yet, every time I heard her giggling through her nose, the way she snorted and then chuckled slowly and warmly reminded me of honey and made me feel a little more in love with life. 

From the cow shed there came the most high pitched scream and we all dropped the chore we had been assigned and ran hell-for-leather in its direction. When we got there she was lying on her back covered from head to toe in cowshit, semi dangling by her left leg that was caught in the winch rope. She stopped flailing when we entered and took on such an indignant face that you'd have to have a heart of stone not to laugh. There was no pretence of sympathy and no mad rush to detangle her. My laughter did not build softly but exploded as good as TNT, filling the dusty air and spilling out into the early morning sunshine.

Talking about the morning incident over lunch another laugh came from him like a newly sprung leak - timid at first, stopping and starting. He wasn't done yet though, I could tell from the way he rolled his beryl eyes to the sky and half bit his lip. From deep inside his chest came a great shaking motion and his face muscles grew tight. I folded my arms, eyebrows arched, waiting. In moments Joel's laugh was more like a bust water main arching into the sky soaking everyone around him with gales that debilitated him to a thigh slapping and pick faced picture of glee. I wanted to stay straight faced, flip my hair and storm off - he was after all laughing "at me", not "with me." But before I could stop myself,, my poker straight mouth twitched upwards and I was laughing despite myself. Damn it Oz, you're such an asshole.. 

Thursday, January 4, 2018


Went back home two hours later half rested half beaten down. I mean it was kinda cool getting my ass out of the house in the first place but my expectations do not far exceed what I've known for quite some time now. Reality is I hardly conclude things unless it's work, or something really necessary and even then there's a small window open in case I need to make a run for it. 

I didn't get to see much of my company -quite a relief there as there's barely any need for me to look like a dork who's trying too hard, which I do, and what's worse I know it but for some odd reason I haven't yet reached the point of quitting. 

From time to time it feels like it's the easiest thing ever, to quit. I take off the ring, now hanging looser than it used to when I first put it on my finger (don't be fooled it's not that huge a difference - plus it is borrowed as he clearly stated), I put it on the bedside table and refuse to even look at it. I'm positive I'll give it back first chance I get and let go of that initial stupid romantic thought that having it could mean a thing. It doesn't. If it did the bestower would have had me know. Or would he? Fuck speculations, I could hurl at my own face when I dope out like that. 

A few days later it kind of bothers me seeing the thing lie next to my bed, so I put it back on my finger, I wouldn't want it to roll on the floor and get swallowed up by the vacuum cleaner-  what will my excuse be if it got lost, better safe on me till I give it back. A few days go by and I find it comfortably settling on my finger again, I spin and roll it with my thumb, check how much looser it got as I Skype, flip records or wash the dishes. And then he's there and I'll say something like "you want it back right?" and he nods no and it still gives me that kind of accord and silly warmth when he tries it on for a while and then takes it off and puts it back on my finger. 

Celi says I drive him crazy. I don't see yet but I do, she says, it's only a matter of time, but there are nights like tonight when we've had our time together and got to hug and say our thank you this and thanks for that and kept texting after parting and I come home hungry, sit over the hot plate cooking chicken and lettuce and feel like bawling because physically I miss him too much. And I could refuse his fingers snapping to light my cigarette or deny how sedative his warmth is, a kind of heat that creeps from the knees to my chin when he holds me taking a few seconds too long to let go. And I don't even want to be touched or even talked to by anybody because nothing feels like that silent grip. 

I could withdraw all the words he reads or listens to because my mouth is always so big. I could stop thinking oh fucking kiss me already and just act on the thought. But who says those things in reality? The only truth is if you won't kiss me then you can shove your mouth in your ass. 

Wednesday, November 22, 2017

He is a November baby 
and I February. He is always 
and in every way before me… 
I am now and in every way 
living in the wake of his scent, 
in the wake of his existence. 
I live
a day that is
thankful for the feast of him_ 

A Silver Slipper of A Moon

Ονειρεύτηκα οτι κατάφερα να μπω στο αμάξι και να εξαφανιστώ, έφυγα χωρίς να χρειάζεται να σηκώνω τηλέφωνα, είχα μπροστα μου μόνο άσφαλτο και ουρανό, σταμάταγα σε μέρη που κανείς δεν σταματάει, κι οταν έβρισκα κάτι που μου άρεσε στεκόμουν.
Έχω φύγει εδω και μήνες, άλλοτε κοιμάμαι κάπου ζεστά και μαλακά, γελάω στον ύπνο μου και βάζω το χέρι κάτω απο το μαξιλάρι ή ανάμεσα στα πόδια,  άλλοτε καταφεύγω σ ενα απόκοσμο ξενοδοχείο του δρόμου, ένα με βρύσες που σφυρανε με άθλια ταπετσαρία στον τοίχο και παλιά τηλεόραση, πλένω τα δόντια μου στη βεράντα κοιτάζοντας μια άδεια δεξαμενή που κάποτε ηταν πισίνα χαζεύοντας αστέρια να πέφτουν στο βάθος, ή ακούγοντας τις ρόδες των αυτοκινήτων να γλιστράνε στη βροχή ... σγους ... το ένα μετά το άλλο περνάνε αφήνοντας ένα αναμνηστικό , ξεχνανε εναν αναπτήρα ή ενα στυλό διαφημιστικό ή ένα χαρτάκι τσίχλας ή μισό το φαΐ τους. Δεν με νοιάζει... καταλαβαίνω οτι ποτέ δεν μ ένοιαζε τόσο, ποτέ δεν θα γίνω τελείως ευπρεπής, γιατί οσο κι αν μ άρεσαν αυτές οι ευγενείς στην τρίχα γκομενες,εγώ τη μία γυαλίζω και την άλλη περπατάω ξυπόλητη.
Κάποιοι απ τους περαστικούς ρωτάνε που πηγαίνω αλλά δεν εχω ιδέα πώς να τ ονομάσω, ξέρω μόνο πως έχει θάλασσα, ότι μπορω να περπατάω στην άμμο και να κάθομαι σκαλίζοντας χωρίς πια να μιλάω,    ξέρω ότι εκεί το φεγγάρι έρχεται όμορφο, αργό, και λίγο επώδυνο , σαν το χαμόγελό σου .. 

Saturday, November 18, 2017

...  να είναι κάποια που σε γυρνάει ανάποδα και σου βγάζει κάτι εαυτούς περίεργους, κάτι εαυτούς που τους έχεις φανταστεί αλλά δεν ήξερες ότι επιτρέπεται να εμφανίσεις...Kάποιοι είναι ζώα ανήμερα και άλλοι κάτι φωτάκια του αυτοκινητοδρόμου που σχηματίζουν σειρές στο σκοτάδι, κι είναι όλοι τους εσύ και ό,τι είσαι κι ό,τι θέλεις να γίνεις, κι ό,τι φοβάσαι να είσαι... κι αυτή πάντα να λέει να είσαι όλα αυτά όποτε σου 'ρχεται.
Κι είναι αυτή, με τα τσιγάρα της τα μακριά και τα λόγια της τα τετράωρα, που αν δεν την σταματήσεις θα σε κολλήσει στον τοίχο και θα θες να της αστράψεις δυο σκαμπίλια.. Κι έτσι τη σταματάς, και πάντα απογοητεύεται λίγο που τη σταμάτησες και που δεν έβαλες το χέρι σου στο λαιμό της να την πνίξεις κι αυτή να γελάει μες τα μούτρα σου...

- Καταλαβαίνεις τι κάνεις; 


... να είναι κάποιος που σε φέρνει πίσω σ' αυτό που ήσουν διαρκώς μέσα σου, που σου φτιάχνει να φας κι έχει ξεχάσει να στρώσει το τραπέζι, που σε μαλώνει γιατί έβγαλες να στρώσεις εσύ τα μαχαιροπίρουνα, που τον παρακολουθείς να σου βάζει με το κουτάλι στο πιάτο, να κάθεται απέναντι  με τους αγκώνες όρθιους και σε νικάει με κάθε κίνηση που κάνει... που ξέρει ότι δεν θα καθίσεις να χάσεις, και που δεν θα καθίσει να σε βλέπει να κερδίζεις.. κάποιος που σκέφτεται και σε ρωτάει ξανά: τι άλλο, τι άλλο μπορεί να θες;
Κι είναι αυτός, με τα μυστήρια του και τη διακρή του κίνηση, και τα χέρια του που έρχονται όταν έχεις τελείως ξεχαστεί, που σε ξαφνιάζει και κρατιέσαι να μην πεις συνέχισε, γιατί δεν χρειάζεται να τα ξέρει όλα, γιατί δεν θα του πεις ούτε σήμερα ότι ζυγίζεις τα χέρια σου για να μην αφεθείς και μαρμαρώνεις όταν τα δικά του προχωράνε

- Καταλαβαίνεις τι κάνεις;

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Long live the (d)evil

μπελάς είσαι      

άμα λέω γω... με τα γραμματάκια σου τα στρόγγυλα και τα μαλλάκια σου και τα λογάκια σου και κάτι απρόσμενες κινήσεις που κάνεις, τη μια μου φέρνεις μια κουβέρτα και με σκεπάζεις, και λες ότι είμαι σαν γατί κουκουλωμένο, την άλλη με ταίζεις, μια που ξεβρακώνεσαι νυχτιάτικα και πηδάς στη θάλασσα με τα πόδια σου τα μακριά και την άλλη που σφίγγεις τα χείλια, κι άλλοτε όπως γελάς κι άλλοτε όπως κολλάς για ένα δεύτερο και κοιτάς τα χέρια μου ή την άκρη απ' το μαλλί μου ή δεν ξέρω τι κοιτάς και τι βλέπεις... να δες εδώ χτύπησα, να δες εδώ κάνω μονόζυγο, να δες κόπηκα, να δες εδώ πονάει, να δες μου πέρασε και πάω να τρέξω ... κάνει ένα χραπ το φερμουάρ κι αθόρυβα εξαφανίζεσαι και στριφογυρνάω γύρω απ' την ουρά μου πού να πήγες και μετά ανοίγεις την πόρτα από πάνω και ανεβαίνω τα σκαλιά και δεν σε κοιτάω και κάνεις ένα "χιχι" κι απορείς αν εννοώ αυτά που λέω και δεν έχεις ιδέα πόσα δεν λέω, και κάνεις ένα "μισό λεπτό ζεστάθηκα" και κάνουν τα μάτια μου μεταβολή γιατί όταν εσύ ζεσταίνεσαι εγώ θέλω ξεπαγιάσεις και να μη φοράς αμάνικο γιατί δεν μπορώ να βλέπω τα χέρια σου.. κι όταν κάνεις όλα αυτά που κάνεις και βάζεις το μπούτι σου ανάμεσα στα πόδια μου συνεχίζω να μιλάω και πάω τα μυαλά μου περίπατο ή βγαίνω στη βεράντα, και μια που λες έλα αγκαλίτσα και μια που δεν λες αυτό που ξέρω ότι θα έλεγες, και μια κάτσε να βγάλω την μπλούζα τρίψε μου την πλάτη, κι ύστερα μιλάω τόσο που το μέσα μου φωνάζει σκάσε αλλά δεν σταματάω γιατί δεν αντέχω τη σιωπή, μ αρέσει η σιωπή μόνο αν μπορώ να σε κοιτάω προφίλ και δεν με βλέπεις, γιατί έτσι περνάει γι ακίνδυνη σα να μη συμβαίνει τίποτα... και πιάνω πράγματα, πιάνω τα πράγματα σου και τα περιεργάζομαι και στέλνω φιλιά στα ψάρια σου γιατί είναι δικά σου, και μιλάω στα κουνέλια του γείτονα γιατί όλα αυτά, όλα οσα είναι Εκεί... είναι εσύ, και είναι κάτι ώρες που χοροπηδάνε τα συκώτια μου, κι ύστερα αρχίζεις μια ιστορία και γέρνω στα κάγκελα και ξεχνάω τι ώρα πήγε γιατί δεν θέλω να φεύγω θέλω μόνο να έρχομαι, κι εσύ είσαι ολο φως σαν τα τζάμια του τρένου που περνάει κάτω από τα πόδια μας, και κοιτάω το χείλι σου που κόπηκε κι έχει αυτό το βαθουλωμα το κόκκινο μπλε που μάλλον σε πονάει όταν γελάς αλλά μου φαίνεται τόσο όμορφο, και σου φέρνω τούρτα γιατί ίσως εκεί χωράνε ολα όσα δεν λέω, καπνίζω τα λόγια και χειρότερα... καπνίζω τα έργα... τώρα τελευταία τρώω και μια καραμέλα, μ αρέσει όταν τρως κι εσύ την ίδια, απ το ιδιο κουτί, γιατί για λίγο δεν στριφογυρνας, και είσαι εκεί μαζί μου στη βεράντα, και ακούω τη φωνή σου μέσα από το κλακ που κάνει η καραμέλα.. και με παίρνεις τηλέφωνο να δεις γιατί αρρώστησα και μου περνάει πιο γρήγορα και θέλω να το πω και πάντα αναρωτιέμαι αν έκανα καλά, και γίνεται ο κόμπος άλλος τόσος όταν το λέω, σα να πονάει αλλά όμορφα, και μου φέρνεις ενα κασκόλ κι ένα σκουφάκι και σου πετάω ενα φιλί αλλά δεν είναι φιλί είναι μόνο ευχαριστώ, κι όπως γυρίζεις την πλάτη κοιτάω το λαιμό σου στο γιακα του πουλόβερ, εκεί που πάει να ενωθεί με τον ώμο κι έχει ένα χνούδι ξανθό που όταν γυρίζεις να πεις καληνύχτα μ εχει κιόλας διαλύσει..

μπελάς είσαι 

τι να σου κάνω που τα έχω όλα κουβάρι άλλο πάω να πω και άλλο λέω με τις γάμπες σου ανάμεσα στα πόδια μου και την κολόνια σου τη μυστήρια που με κοιτάς και με γδύνεις και μου μιλάς και με γδύνεις και σε συναγωνίζομαι και την προσοχή σου θέλω, και είσαι μουρλοκομείο και σε ησυχία δεν μ' αφήνεις 

Wednesday, November 8, 2017

I can still feel your cum piercing its way through my nervous system. It's because I liked how everything went static, locked in a grid. Or maybe because I miss getting drunk and barefoot and gratis.

Sunday, October 15, 2017

I take the train to go meet him cross-country, or is it two planes and a train, or two trains a plane and a metro ride enough to have one's back quiver a bit, but hey not ours_ we'll catch an uber to the apartment he's rent in the city next to the Jewish synagogue corseted by small kosher shops that smell of bluish smoke and foods whose names I forget, our house with its massive double doors to the living room, its Swedish wooden floors, white sofas, and Talavera bathroom tiles. 
As the car crosses the large Sunday-empty streets, he'll pull me close and whisper something on my neck as his hand circles my knee and we'll kiss and laugh, and then make scenarios what it would be like to fuck in the back seat of the uber, he'll mention he's got a bottle of Miraval cooling at home, the one I like from his parts of the world. We'll take the 1920's elevator up to the 5th floor and as we do he'll squeeze me against the mirror my lipstick smeared on his chin his shirt forming a little wrinkle half-pulled under his neat blue sweater. And then we'll fuck and dine and fuck again, and his nakedness doesn't scare me one bit, his long legs with their fair hairs sleep between my big thighs, tit to back and loin to shoulder, his paleness and my redness, my black hair, and his perfect white teeth. 

We come from hunter-gatherers… maybe we’re not meant for plenty. 
Maybe we can make a meal out of just a few written words. 
Maybe kisses, maybe touches, maybe you coming in my arms… 
Maybe having all those things would make us too weak to survive in this wilderness life… Maybe wanting… maybe dreaming… maybe desire… Maybe living a needful life is the best way ever found… not to be happy, but to be… awake to the beauty in the world and aware of the heaven we want it to take us.

Monday, July 24, 2017


Bits and pieces from summer 73' based on Linda Loue's recollections and my mother's journals. 

You've smoked enough, he says the moment I send my cigarette butt down the throat of a cylindrical clay ashtray. We' re sitting at this wooden picnic table under a tent on the left side of the surf camp. The music is not loud, but loud enough to cover bits of conversation among the few regulars. He's having water in a large blue plastic cup and I can hear the ice-cubes dancing on its synthetic walls. I pretend to search some invisible pocket in my blouse. 

Where did I put it? oh here it is... I grin extending my middle finger. He shakes his head, baffled at first, then looks at me, hardly amused. It's funny how childish I get sometimes at someone's kindness because that was no discipline shenanigan, just a remark to point the non-obvious, he cares. Next one you have, I'll light it for you. 

Soon as Scott sits down with the drinks I produce another cigarette, so between picking up the cocktail glass he had me ordered and teasing Scott, I nod "here" and hold the stick in the air for him to light. He does. A frown follows: just hold it in your mouth, I mean to light it over there. 

Five minutes later all conversations shift to an unbounded race of punchlines, scoop and dope cognition. Although the two of us -Scott and I- keep on palavering for over an hour, I notice how the field of reference gradually puts a soft-pedal on Ryker's enthusiasm. That's when I start feeling I just have too much nonsense coming out of my mouth.  He has a lot to talk about and get asked on , but neither of us (especially not me) has shown the will to listen to or seems to care about. 

Truth is, I get carried away by shitty stuff,  but...  at that point I know I want to hear what he has to say. I like the way Ryker goes silent and all patient. Silent as in he's truly listening to you (something that people rarely do) and patient cause he won't cut off your tons of bullshit, as he totally understands your need to sound so cool and shit. I envy Ryker for this quality, a trait I obviously do not possess. And had it been just me and him I would have asked (a lot) and kept my trap shut. 

Here is a fact: I don't. 

Here is another fact: I don't stop smoking either. 

Here is a truth: I smoke because I like to smell my soul burning. 

Here is the dope: I think when Ryker lights my cigarette it is because he likes to watch. That mirror-touch synesthesia when the flame torches blue and red causes him to feel the drag of my lips down the center of his stomach. 

Perhaps my soul burning smells nice. Perhaps Ryker's able to understand why people like us love life so much they get obsessed with finding out why their soul smells so good when it's burning. Perhaps I like to think that way because I will never admit to him I care about what he thinks, at least not to the degree I do. 

I've never told Ryker about my fascination with father-son relationships, how much I love to listen to stories, mainly the painful ones. A guy's relationship to his father speaks volumes if you wish to understand the nature of man. And I'm not going Freudian on you. It's just a simple thing really. It is a matter of inception spreading through your system in the form of septic (or antiseptic, it depends) nucleic acids, the biopolymers that make you meek, or difficult, or utterly fucked up. When Ryker brings his father's issues up I wish all the scatology would end and us to have a grown-up huddle. 

Here is a fact: we don't  

Here is another fact: Fuck!

Here is a thought: For fuck's sake,  why do I care? 

Here is the dope: We go night swimming. 

Walking down that giant obsidian jam of mud and seaweed is like finding myself in the belly of a whale,  in a dream where I'm stoned and happy. I wonder if it is a feeling universally shared if the millions of beings fastened to this world ever experience it one way or another if it has anything to do with how we felt inside our birth mothers' guts.  

Are there any pen shells in these waters Ryker asks but I have no idea. I think I've just stepped on one

Crap there are hundreds. My heels grope in the dark. There is another one over here. My toes pat around its sharp half-open mouth. The sea is warm and cool with drafts. Just go on swimming then keep your feet off the thing. Ryker splashes away. I watch his legs create a mess of white froth and black ripples. He vanishes underwater. I turn to Scott. 
You coming in already? 
No way I'm not wetting these trousers or the hair
Ryker emerges right next to me. I yelp.  

Here is a fact: that was an overreaction 

Here's why 

You know those people who you see and despite their bodies, they seem too large for a doorway? It is something about the way they carry themselves, their personality, their smile or laughter; a mountain trying to force its way into a bookstore. Ryker is one of those. All of his size is held in his eyes, a monument trying to squeeze itself into the space beneath your chest.

Sunday, July 23, 2017


What would people look like if we could see them as they are
soaked in honey, stung and swollen, reckless, pinned against time?   

Ellen Bass, from The Human Line; “If You Knew

All words are spells in one way or another. His, coming out of a mouth whose spit had turned chalk-white, evinced I'm fragile and unholy. 

It's dehydration you know, I haven't had enough water, that is what happens when you don't, the right edge of his lips forms a pint-sized crescent. 
I must have produced something between a smile and a frown, a certain nod of disbelief, or unawareness, or maybe just my caught attention. I'd show you, but nah, nobody wants to see that, right? 
Go on I urged. He did. 
Oh wow, that is some serious white right there

Boys love causing aversion, it is a game of power against the weaklings. Mostly that's girls who say oh eww you're such a jackass that is gross, which is a pretense -of course- because really, people do tons of crazy-gross shit when no one's watching. 

And so do girls. We tweak our body parts and pick our noses, mess with our natural fluids like tasting our own snot when we cry, pee in the sea, burp loudly, or scratch that crusty cake of skin off a wound, and then give it a good look up close, just like the next guy. Only we hate to admit it. Along the process of establishing that comely identity, we just get infused with that damsel-y blight of fragility that has our asses going ew and yuck and I don't know what else. 

I recall doing so myself at some point in life but it was only a pre-adolescent veneer that chipped soon as I hit the age of fourteen. Right then I decided I preferred to go with the liberties guys had, meaning to go as raw and as indecent as they liked, not giving it a lot of thought, just freedom.  Freedom, so necessary and so cherished, and so deliberately delivered to flames when you fall for someone's jade-colored eyes and chalk-white spit I guess. 

We each have our triggers, things that wait for us in the dark and one can't be honest enough when they want to. I found the sight of his spit particularly risque. All I  had to do was be wise and unsee it, or at least put a sock in it about what makes my thoughts a little less tame. 
I definitely avoided saying I like it, cause liking it can't go unexplained, it's fucking dehydration.  And I don't think I even said that's kinda cool, which can be partly explained if you're able enough to twist words to your benefit. 
I'd be an asshole to go for that trick. So I lit another smoke, got out of my chair and changed the subject smoothly. 
Play another song for me. I liked that track you chose. I'll play you one or two. 's that cool?

Ryker is smart -all kinds of smart- talkative when he feels like giving you a taste of thorns, his future plans or a piece of his vagaries, wistful, enthusiastic, seriously self-judgemental and therefore touchy to what can spoil your image of him , a tad impatient and mildly skeptical before he lets a little honey drop. He will appreciate your honesty (a lot), will let you in on it in a softly-spoken single word, and if the input has been sweet,  he'll find a way to pay it back a few moments later by dosing you with an affectionate remark his tone implies he means it. 

Sometimes you 're able to taste the very young on people's lips long after they're considered such, the 1994-hard of their curves or the 1995-sweet of their skin each time you touch them. And sometimes you can sense the thirty-something give of their body or the forty-something way they'd come like they're setting a blues song loose like they're gonna break every string. 

So it is no big mystery why, when we accidentally touch, my kneecap flinches as if he tapped me with a rubber hammer. He notices. I'm no doc I remark but that means I've got good reflexes. He's way too smart to buy it, and besides, unlike the case of doctor Feelgood and his little gizmo, this one is a bilateral reaction. I know it, Ryker knows it. As long as no one's asked to hop on one leg while they pat their head and rub their belly, there is his hand drawn back in a flash saying sorry, and there is my kneecap in all its unadorned glory. No biggie, right? So we sit tight.This didn't hurt a bit. 

He's now perched up the wooden balcony rail, balancing himself, hugging the corner sleeve, crossing his tanned thighs, then blows on a hay golden strand of hair falling over his eyes as he speaks of the future and blushes like an ocean in love, wild with blueness. 
I'll do it, for real .. he pauses as if he's had a clear vision of his life passing before his eyes like cinemascope,  I'll make a living for myself and then go find a nice little place of my own and die without anyone being able to locate the body. I hate old age and the idea of people crying over a senile corpse. 

What was that thing Van Gogh had said: I'd rather die of passion than of boredom? You crazy-ass idealist, romantic, Mustang boy. 

I'd go on telling him that who he is, is bound to change, that some things will always be able to take him back, music, tastes, scents, and probably that rash he gets from climbing the surfboard he so much loves despite the reaction. 

I'd go on saying that these things are now making him who he is and one day they'll be unspooling time for him, like a dress slipping on the floor or some woman who'll be all hair and hips and hell. 

I wanna tell him that life is going to pull him apart and put him back together, expecting him to look the same, and see the same, and speak the same, but he'll be different.He's going to have thorns and poetry and be brave as hell; still eager to live a little bit longer, go into the unknown a little bit deeper; he will be fearless despite the fear.

But he has to have been there. He has to have smelled that scent. He has to have tasted that wine and danced to that music. So before he changes he needs to save who he is. He needs to bury his body in someone's skin, and they should cover each other in need and dance.

I found this written on somebody's wall the other day. I'm only showing you because that's how I'd love people to witness me one day, I tell him.  
Sounds like a cry, or worse, It's swagger and cocky .. I'm conceited like that. But I like it. Somehow I think a part of you will like it too. We're all such pricks and weirdos, aren't we? 

Let me be God. Let me be
Fuck. Let me be Christ
when you’re bitten too hard.
Let me be animal sounds.

You know what? I am a weirdo, he says pulling back his hair, both knees fidgeting, one arm jammed under his armpit. 

You know what, Ryker, I think that's rather cool. 

Thursday, July 6, 2017

There’s a little rain, enough
to make the fireflies settle down.
Not enough to keep me inside.
They’ve landed in every tree,
on every bush, on blades of grass…
It’s cloudy, approaching midnight,
there is no other light but theirs.

I don’t have the words. I don’t
have the skills to carry you here
by description and poetry alone,
to be with me in this light show, this
glitter-dome. I stand in the drizzle,
in the center of the night, and want
to touch you in ten thousand ways.

Saturday, June 24, 2017

Home again

There were never peaches
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting just outside
the open french window
facing each other

your knees held in mine
the green plates in our laps
the peaches glistening
in the hot sunlight
drinking ouzo
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for another to come

the empty plates
laid on the tin together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child

from your eager mouth
the taste of peaches
in my memory
leans back again

let me love you
let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Calanques hills

let the storm wash the plates

Friday, June 16, 2017

la la land

1"15 Masillia

Ακούω τα τελευταία τρένα ν' αναχωρούν από το St. Charles, άλλη μια μέρα μας έμεινε μέχρι να φύγω, ξέρω ότι όλο αυτό σε κάμποσο καιρό θα μου φανεί σαν υπνοβασία, τόσα που γίνανε που θα ξεχάσω από την πυκνότητά τους, θα θυμάμαι μόνο λίγα κομματάκια, όσα λένε οι φωτογραφίες που τράβηξα , όσα θυμίζουν κάτι, κι ίσως το διαμέρισμά σου, τον καναπέ σου που γίνεται κρεβάτι και δυσκολεύομαι να βρω τη βολή μου και να κοιμηθώ επιτέλους, εσύ με κοιμίζεις, με ταίζεις, με πλένεις, μου φέρνεις λουλούδια, με πας από δω κι από κει και χάσκω σαν καθυστερημένη γιατί όλα μου φαίνονται ωραία , στην Αιξ που με πήγες στη βιβλιοθήκη και στον κήπο με το αρχοντικό με το ένα του παράθυρο ανοιχτό, που κάναμε πικνικ στο πάρκο με παράξενα τυριά και ξερά λουκάνικα και το κρασί που κουβάλαγα όλη μέρα και βατόμουρα κι ύστερα τα στρέιδια και το μπλε σου σακάκι, ή μαύρο που εγώ είπες τα βλέπω όλα μπλε, και τις βόλτες και τα πάνω κάτω, το τραμ σας που είναι ήσυχο, το παγωτό σε σχήμα τριαντάφυλλου και τη μυρωδιά φλερ ντ' ορανζερ που μυρίζουν τα ναβετ που γράφονται όπως και τα λεωφορεία σας, και το Κασσις που λίγο κάτσαμε και φάγαμε ένα σκασμό, και τους φίλους σου τους Ιταλούς και τον ντροπαλό Έλληνα, θα θυμάμαι το ντους σου που δεν έχει βρύση; τα ντουλάπια σου και που με τρόμαξες ενώ έκανα σκούπα και μπήκες απότομα; ή τις πετσέτες σου και το στρογγυλο τραπεζάκι της βεράντας στον 7ο, τον ήλιο που μας χτύπησε κατακούτελα στην θάλασσα και τα βραχάκια και τους χίππιδες που νόμιζαν ότι χορεύουν καποέιρα, τις ταινίες μας, και τη σειρά που δεν θα έβλεπα αν δεν επέμενες, τα ριζότα σου και την κρεμ μπρουλε, το ότι γδύνεσαι και με κοιτάς μυστήρια, το ότι είσαι ένας άνθρωπος τρυφερός που δεν έχω ξαναβρεί παρόμοιο, το ότι με ανέχεσαι λίγο και μου χτενίζεις τα μαλλιά, το ότι σε πιάνω στον ύπνο σου και κάνεις ένα μικρό μι , τ ότι σ ακουω που στριφογυρνάς και δεν έχω ακόμα έρθει να ξαπλώσω, το ότι δεν έχεις τηλεόραση, το σουπερμάρκετ και τις κολονιες μου που σου πρηξα τον πούτσο να πάμε να τις πάρω, το κλείσε άνοιξε τα στόρια καθε μερόνυχτο, τις αγκαλίες που με κάνεις και τα μάτια σου που έχουν μέσα τέσσερα πέντε χρώματα και ότι μερικές φορές ψευδίζεις το αγγλικό σίγμα σε θ ,, το ότι καπνίζεις μαζι μου ενώ δεν καπνίζεις και που με παίρνεις στα σοβαρα΄, τα σαπουνια σου και τα ανάποδά σου παπούτσια, πόσα ακόμα ξεχνάω , τα δευτερόλεπτα ξεχνάω και το ασανσέρ σου που ανοιγοκλείνει πενήντα φορες πριν κλέισει και το ότι με φιλάς όταν είμαι ιδρωμένη και λες εισαι όμορφη ... τι να σου πω εγώ για όλα αυτά ... ότι δεν ξέρω τι μου γίνεται, ποτέ δεν ήξερα ,,, αλλά σ' ευχαριστώ για όλα τους 

Monday, June 5, 2017

Light is to darkness
as darkness is to light -
a co-dependent existence
connected to a body of pearl;
whose kiss laid rest
to the son of Daedalus.
Perpetual light in
perpetual darkness in
perpetual light;
neither existing more than the other,
yet existing simultaneously,
always, and never.
And in this transparent ambiguity,
I understand, our love is always,
and never meant to be.
So, I wait for you.

Πέρσι αρχές Ιουνίου ετοιμαζόμουν να πάω Γαλλία με τη Γιάννα. Έλεγα ότι είχα βρει την ησυχία μου, μπάνιο στο Μπαολί στις Κάννες, να σκάμε στο περπάτημα στο Μόντε Κάρλο και στο μουσείο του Κουστώ να χαϊδεύω έναν καρχαρία στην πλάτη, περνώντας δέκα πόλεις  να τραγουδάμε στο λεωφορείο μ' έναν φευγάτο οδηγό που έπαιζε ιταλικά, να τρώμε Τροπεζιέν στο παγκάκι κοντά στο παζάρι και να μην έχεις υπάρξει ποτέ. Πότε πήγα από εκεί στην κουζίνα της Σύλβιας, να κάθομαι στο τραπέζι ξυπόλυτη φορώντας μόνο μια φανέλα, ψάχνοντας να σου γράψω συγγνώμες, να σου εξηγηθώ για πράματα που δεν σ' αφορούσαν. Αρχές Ιουνίου φέτος και ξαναφεύγω για Γαλλία. Ακόμα αγνοώ τον μέλλοντά μου και δεν με νοιάζει να μάθω, μα αν είναι να έρθεις πάλι, ένα έχω να σου πω : μην έρθεις, μείνε εκεί που είσαι, δεν θέλω άλλο ρόουντ μούβι, ούτε καινούριο Νέο Κόσμο αφημένο στα μισά ... 

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Kept seeing you in my sleep tonight, dream after dream, stories in one, places that look like your house, a home near the water with a terrace where a blond girl lives but never comes down to greet the guests. She is wrapped with a blanket or a towel of some sort and looks melancholic, or maybe just losing herself in a dream of you without guests. And guests keep arriving with small luggage to spend the weekend, and you organize trips and things for them to do, things that require lots of walking as you tell me. Then you sit down,have breakfast, like the ones we were having, I straighten the runner,  try to steal your attention but it doesn't seem to work till I go wash the dishes and you come from behind me ask me to bend my knees , show me that we click if I do it. And you're always so you, glowing eyes, shinny hair, quiet manners, the one everyone's looking at but can't seem to grasp. 

Saturday, May 20, 2017

Headed down to AB for the casual Saturday groceries, there was some panic going on by the sun product supplies  fiftey per cent on a saile , says a lady near the counter or ya  geit one plus one if ya go for the lower shelf tiz officialey summa.... I can't help but listen. I nod politely then head to the back of the row in the line for the cheese and the bacon, I pick up some kiwis thinking how I've seen a meme somewhere contrasting a kiwi fruit to the head of a baby growing its first hair. Then I make for the juice bar and last for those crackers that taste like cardboard but are apparently great for digestion. I get a flashback of us shopping at that crowded supermarket in the misty country, looking around nudging each other like fifteen-year-olds and then going back home where I cooked that inedible food that you kindly digested... no crackers, no baby-head looking kiwis, no sun product supply sales and certainly no AB ladies with their small-town accents... just us _

Soon I'm driving back home and I see these teenagers, they have stolen a cart, riding it into the sunset
he is pushing, she's laughing, they are rolling like mad, hair flowing, they are cawing like seagulls, kiss me now as we're crossing the car park 

tiz officialey summa  and although soon we'll be summering too, although the whole country of mine will be summering, simmering, shimmering and  I won't even care, there is always a voice, steaming like hot bather-bodies covered in super-tan oil, or maybe rolling like a cart down the road  'you are yet to find where you really belong' _ 

Monday, May 15, 2017

Fields of Gold

Hanna mówi słowa, których nie zawsze rozumiem..Mówię do Hanny : nie tak szybko , nie tak szybko ! Hanna śmieje się. Ja też się śmieję. Mój polski jest biedny. Mogłem się uczyć więcej, ale nie. Nie pamiętam wszystkiego. Czasami uczę się nowych słów takich jak "istotnie", czasami zapominam ... i czasami pamiętam, jak mówiłeś: "dobra noc, pa pa.." zanim zasypiałeś ...
Hanna says words that I don't always understand... I tell Hanna 'not so fast, not so fast!' Hanna laughs. I also laugh. My Polish is poor. I could learn more, but no. I can't remember everything. Sometimes I learn new words like "indeed", sometimes I forget... and sometimes I remember you saying "goodnight, bye bye.." before you fell asleep ...

Thursday, March 30, 2017

I used to say that skin is unforgiving each line and sag, the sinks
the fleshy slump of growing, parts that I rarely touched
how I perceived myself pretending to exist without them

I touch you and think how kind skin is, on impact even softer
end to end, taste over taste, tender, heartbreaking
even that horribly majestic cicatrix bulging upon your wrist

said I'll forgive you, always _

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Take Frank

By Mary Ruefle

Take Frank. Frank is a bright boy, yet a lazy and stubborn high school student, one who holds in disdain all of his teachers, especially the dedicated, passionate ones. All of his English teachers, since at least the seventh grade, have been passionate. They have all told Frank that if he would only read this or that book he would fall in love with it, he would find himself hidden between its pages, he would have his “mind blown away.”

Frank does not like the idea of having his mind blown away, he finds it suicidal, Frank likes his mind the way it is and he intends to keep it. Frank does not want to fall in love, nor to see himself or find himself, he sees himself every day and he finds himself fine, he is exactly who he is and wants to be. He does not understand what all the fuss is about. So when Mr. Paquette, his English teacher, approached Frank and offered a way for Frank to make up his missing credit, Frank was not even vaguely interested.

In Frank’s view, things existed or did not exist and things that did not exist could not be said to be missing. He lacked a certain amount of credit, that was a fact, but the credit had not gone missing, it simply did not exist. Why go looking for something that did not exist? His nonexistent credit was not a teenager who had been abducted or was lost in the woods, there was no photo of it that could be nailed near the bus stop, it was not a cat, he did not care or have feelings for this thing which was, supposedly, missing. He, himself, had no sense of loss, it was Mr. Pacquette who had a sense of loss.

Passionate people, Frank had observed, had above all else a sense of loss. He knew this was somehow connected to their enthusiasm, their hysterical insistence, their waving-about of their arms. Mr. Pacquette did in fact wave his arms about when he told Frank that he had found “the perfect assignment,” that all Frank had to do was read Herman Melville’s short story “Bartleby the Scrivener” and write a short paper on it, and all the missing credit would be restored, while at the same time Frank’s mind would be blown away—apparently this was an additional bonus.

Frank was not interested and said so, he said, “I would prefer not to,” which Mr. Pacquette recognized instantly as the famous, and only, words of Bartleby the Scrivener, though Frank did not recognize them as belonging to anyone other than himself, they were his own words, they had just left his mouth hadn’t they?

Yet Frank’s words only caused Mr. Pacquette to wave his arms more wildly, and Frank could see his teacher was on the verge of having a point, another thing Frank couldn’t care less about and did not want to be privy to. So when Mr. Pacquette began to get even more excited, when he opened his mouth more widely than was humanly necessary and said, “That’s just the point!” Frank said “I’d prefer not to,” and left the room. Which left the passionate English teacher alone in sad thought, thinking of all the missed connections and opportunities in life, of all the failures. He felt sorry for Frank, and for Herman Melville, and for Bartleby, and for himself. He felt sorry for the sad fate of literature, which should be able to save the world but couldn’t, through no fault of its own.

Meanwhile Frank was walking home along the railroad tracks, the sun shone down on him, his mind was intact, he was doing exactly what he wanted to be doing, he was in his own world, free, not trapped between the pages of a book, and if he saw an insect he could squash it under his foot, or he could save it in a matchbox he carried in his pocket for that purpose.


Mary Ruefle is the author of several books, including, most recently, Madness, Rack, and Honey: Collected Lectures.

Gif : Knox Overstreet - Dead Poets Society (1989)