Monday, July 24, 2017

Nighttide


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

Spindrift




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.
Per





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) 


Saturday, March 4, 2017

L'attesa è lunga, il mio sogno di te non è finito -- .

 the wait is longmy dream of you is not finished 
_Eugenio Montale
















La Bufera e Altro ("The Storm and Other Things") is a collection of poems published by Eugenio Montale in 1956. Montale, one of the most famous Italian poets of the 20th century, is one of my favorite poets of all times.

His poetry has often been described as pessimistic and hermetic. While this is true, one needs to consider the historical background which accounts for its main features. When Montale started publishing his works, Mussolini was already in power. Montale always refused to join the fascist party, and as a result was denied employment and the possibility to gain from his work. His isolation was, therefore, a way to express his respect for the values of human dignity and his faith in mankind.

Montale's poetry can be sometimes difficult to understand, due to its being "hermetic" and introspective. But his poems are always beautiful to read aloud and have a strong imagery which catches the reader's attention.

For example:

Felicità raggiunta, si cammina per te su fil di lama. 
Agli occhi, sei barlume che vacilla,
 
al piede, teso ghiaccio che s'incrina;
 
e dunque non ti tocchi chi più t'ama
.(From "Felicità raggiunta")



Happiness, for you, we walk on a knife edge.
To the eyes, you are a flickering light
to the feet, thin ice that cracks; 
and so may no one touch you who loves you.



repost from #readthenobels 

moon shine




Look at the moon shine… 
we can forgive them, can’t we, 
all those early men 
who never learned the moonlight 
didn’t come from the moon itself… 

We can forgive them… 
we can let the mirror be the light. 
What harm would be done 
if we laid in each other’s arms 
and stopped thinking so much. 

What harm would be done 
if we let the moon burn for us 
in this winter sky.






Wednesday, March 1, 2017

the heart slips backward, remembering, remembering


Peregrine,
What are you made of
that massaging your bare back
eases my tensions,
relaxes my body, calms
the busyness of my heart…

What are you made of…
what does your body release
underneath my touch
that floods my own senses
with the peace I mean for you 



Sometimes it feels as if those 20- 25 years of intense circumstances should suffice to say I've lived quite a lot, to easily declare a certain range of moves, experience, and things to expect. 
But there we are in our well-lit room, I'm out of the bathroom all conditioned which won't exactly work without a proper blow-dryer. I sit beside you, crack a joke, the tangles of my hair less tangled than my life, the knots, the split ends... I don't like you to see me with the towel wrapped around it like some petit Tutankhamun, I only want you to see me at my best. 
And there you are, silently rising, going to the bathroom, returning with my paddle brush in your hand. So kind of you I say and reach for it. That is not kindness you reply, sit down beside me, turn me around...My darling doll, you say and I feel the brush slowly descending through my scalp, its tiny bristles grooming the heart of this animal. 
Deep in the heart of the shortest month, I understand I've lived quite nothing, I understand I'm hungry, greedy and naked, and your hands call to me in little brushing grips, in those extra seconds your fingers rest to feel the blood pulsating on my back. I understand that until now I've known nothing about love _ 


Monday, February 27, 2017


An invisible red thread connects those destined to meet, regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but never break.
~Ancient Chinese Proverb~

Peregrine, 
Friday dropped you off 
two blocks away in the rain 
with no umbrella. 
As soon as you step inside, 
you strip off your wet clothes, 
pull back your wet hair 
and pour yourself a whiskey. 

I sit in the window seat, 
black slip, black socks, black 
bra and panties and I
watch the rain that touched you. 
The weekend begins 
with me thinking of you there, 
thinking of me here.



Not every emotion has a home… 
some don’t even have names. 
They’re born and they wander off. 
Maybe a brother to loneliness, or 
a sister of grief… maybe some 
distant, grungy cousin of love, 
out looking for a fucking heart. 

Maybe you feel them now and then… 
an unsettling wish or needfulness 
at the end of the day… a sudden, 
nagging desire for warmth. Maybe 
they’re some of mine… on the loose… 
wild things that escaped from me 
with your name on their lips.