Saturday, December 27, 2008


Holding the left hand of sunrise
Above the fogline, thin spires cut the blue
Stars still sprinkle the shrinking dark
Like little punctuation marks of kisses
Sunrise’s right hand cups my flesh, pulls me to waking
Traces orange patterns of veins and bones
Traces my lips
Bright replaces the purples I wrap around me when I sleep
Just a few more minutes
I want to hold the sun
Right here

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Shadows and Ghosts

He opens his eyes, reassures himself that I am here, not a figment, the weight of me in his arms not enough to disprove dreaming, and falls back asleep.
But that was yesterday. Or perhaps the day before. Or a lifetime before.
I'm not sure anymore. He's not here now.
I stare at the blankness of my bed, cool, smooth. A bird caws, the others sleep on.
Sun still down. Stars fade, taking the silence.
It wakes up and leaves to find a new home.
No train whistle to replace it, provide harmony to the dissonance.
And he is not here, not here to keep me warm, to wrap around me and slide his fingers up my thighs. Not here to keep the monsters away, to lock up the demons that chew my brain.
My bed is empty.
All it holds is me. That's not enough.
It holds a shell. My words pour out, spill over the edge, puddle on the floor.
See the light peaking in, and flee.
Farewell, goodbye. Silence, wait for us, we are on your tail.
We won't be back.
You've used up your allotment.
You are as empty as your bed. Replace us, but you'll still be empty.
Ghost fades, put my hand out to touch the space. No trace.
When you are gone, were you ever here?

Another Happy New Year

He asked her, but not me.
His ex-wife, the mother of his children, but not me.
I'm just the not.
Not girlfriend, not lover, not future.
I will never be more than I am right now, this minute this second.
Which isn't saying a helluva a lot.

Candle Lighting

She lights one candle, then another
A whole row of candles, the first melted away before she's lit the last.
Turns to me, looking for approval, looking for a sign.
A sign that I love her, that I'll always love her, that I won't leave anymore.
It kills me, the leaving, the constant leaving.
Leaving is being.
Unless I stay
and another part of me leaves, so I can breath.
The candles burn, use up the oxygen.
Where does the fire go, after?
My fingers climb the smoke wisp, looking for a way out.

Empty Frame

The voices go on, a hum? a buzz?
She can't make out the words, static in her head.
Upset, always upset.
She wants perfection, some Norman Rockwell fantasy.
She's never seen a Rockwell, doesn't know.
He saw fantasy, memory, a snapshot moment and the reality behind it.
The hurts, injustice, cruelty.
The evil.
And he saw the good, the loving-kindness, fulfillment.
All she sees is a picture
and that she isn't in it.

Dec 6 1994

It's empty, the rink. The eighty-four foot spruce casts no shadow at this hour. Soon, the street will be filled with happy, laughing families, or at least the appearance of happy laughing families. Does anyone know the inside of another's heart? Can you? Can I?

For now, it's empty. I have it all to me, this grey-pink hour between night and dawn.

I've watched it, cars honking at 4 a.m., plaza crowded with partiers, too much to eat, too much alcohol, too many drugs, drowning sorrows they don't know they have, filling their insides, their physical insides while I watch and compose metaphors. Hug themselves against the cold, giggling, going up and down the stairs, round the tree, and then?

Everyone leaves.

No one will see the sunrise except me.

I have no where else to go, no one to miss me, to wonder where I am.

Maybe when the sun comes up, I won't be so cold.


Whither Thou Goes, I Wish I Could Go

It's different here. Different kind of cold, goes through me-
Oh god, the train.
Take me, take me, take me, the whistle says.
Come with me. I'll be waiting at the station.
I'll take you anywhere you want to go.
Take the first step.
But you can't look back. You'll be salt.
I lick my arm. Squeeze of lime, shot of tequila.
Yes. I am salt.
The train pulls out, silent now.
Standing there, I don't wave goodbye.
I don't take the next train either.

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Truth in Lending

I'll do anything to avoid-
even write garbage, deliberate crap-
to avoid myself.
Anything at all. Why?
Jumpstart, need a boost. How? Where?
Had it all and now nothing.
But I know this, the root is absorption in I.
Get rid of it. Gut it. Stop concentrating on me.
New page, see what appears. Cross off, delete, x out.
Move it somewhere else.
It'll be okay, we'll figure it out. We will.
Make our worlds coexist, overlap and not lose what brought us here.


Pull a random note, any note, do anything at all with it.
Just to get from here to there. Or anywhere.
Anywhere. Everywhere.
Desperate to get anywhere.
Good bad indifferent, go anywhere.
Mean median mode. La mode et mean.
Life is cruel. No matter how cruel, no matter how much it hurts,
what excuses life conveniently throws down
[Liar! You put your own stumbling blocks in your path.
When they aren't there, you build them. Liar!]
You find more.

Empty Station

The train is gone.
The ducks, too.
Night is silent.
Sucks the sound from me.
Hornets sleep, long sleep.
Dark cradles the hive, just enough to encourage sleep.
Standing here, listening to nothing,
missing the buzz under my skin.
When they wake, fear nausea reaches down and pulls my guts out.
Pulls them right out, piles them on the floor and puts a candle on top.
Happy birthday to the end of the world as we know it.

Writers' OCD

Damn straight I'm fussy.
It's fussy to want A-1 AND ketchup?
You are talking to someone who spends hours looking for the right verb.
Damn straight I'm fussy.
Deal with it.

Snow in July

That night
I loved you so much that night.
Every dream, all dreams converging in one perfect place.
My make-believe future, every girl's future, all laid out.
We'd live happily ever after.

Music pounding, bass note loud in my bones,
not as loud as the steel and concrete, girders and cranes building dreams.
It's all going to be fine.
It'll be alright now.
Well, it's not.
Hands running up and down me, eyes anywhere else.
Not on me. When did it get so cold?
Struggle into a sweater on this 90 degree night.
So cold.
Because the truth is happy ever after is a grease puddle rainbow,
illusion in used up, drained out motor oil when you look down,
faint light reflected on the ground swell.

Lead guitar breaks a string.
Hands in me, kiss me. Close my eyes so I can't see where your eyes are.
Anywhere, everywhere but here.
Keep them closed while they restring the guitar.
Keep them closed.

Mind's I

If you were here, here, now, next to me
How can you say that, say such wonderful things?
You see what you want to see.
Shiver when your skin touches mine, shiver wondering
when you will see what I see, as I see.
Give me now, I want to be what you see.

Saturday, November 1, 2008

My little one

Please note the latest addition to my list of preferred authors. As my youngest child has completed her latest short story, explained the illustration sequence to accompany said work and then played a work of music that she composed, I realized that I have been negligent in adding her to the list.

Perhaps I'm not ready for her to grow up.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Absence from Those We Love is Self from Self-

I have immortal longings in me.

It was once.
But we fought like an old married couple who had been through way too much and stayed because we didn't know any other way.
It was once.
And we were enthralled with each other, shocked at this glimpse of what might be, stretched out in the back seat of your Escalade.
It was once.
Gone our own ways, lives keeping us where we have to be, not want to be, oh not ever where we want to be. Not ever.
And lucky number seven doesn't feel lucky, rolled by strangers' hands.
Should be. Would be.
Could be.
We could be. We are not.
Your shirt brushes my calves. That and a question mark are all I have.

* Title and line 1 from William Shakespeare.

and on another topic...

i voted. as did my oldest [her first time! i remember my first...]
did YOU vote?
early voting extended in florida: 7 am to 7 pm, today, Thurs, Fri and a total of 12 hours Sat and Sunday. Certain locations may not be open on Sunday. If you have questions about weekend hours at your nearest location or anything else, please call 1-877-235-6226, or contact your county's Supervisor of Elections.


Falling off the frozen wasteland
like the bad old days
but tonight
on your side of the bed.
Inhale dreams you left here


It is all personal. Here. Now. This very moment.
Why am I climbing the mountain?
You think because it is there?
Not why.

No one to stop me, I graze on freedom.
Burn is wrong, always in all ways, being exorcized.
It's time.


Roll over. Alone. Pillows confuse me,
pile pushed up against my back mimic you,
somewhere else tonight.

Palms dance on papyrus flesh, serifs and punctuation marks.
We savor the sentences we write.
Quotation marks fighting sleep, searching the other.

Drink it black, regular, sucralose, decaf. Coffee whore.
Anything goes in my mouth,
indifferent to the taste.

But tea? Sultan of this harem,
clarity, aroma, texture, taste.
It is another facet of a diamond in the making.

Lunar Eclipse

Some nights are like that, darker, quieter.
No specific reason unless it is the barometric pressure
conjuncture of Mars and Jupiter
cracks in the asphalt
no reason I can discern on a conscious level.
Just darker, quieter. Closer. Further away. Just is.

How can away be more or less away today than yesterday?
Tomorrow, final tomorrow is closer; fire that will be.
Breath on my neck, hovering, waiting to put its teeth around,
pull me into a future I won't fight.
I feel it, that future. Rough tongue wakes dormant cells,
scrapes away sleep, gangrene, plunging knives.

Arise you slumberers, arise.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008


Mommy died on April 16, 1986. The hospital called my uncle to tell him that she had taken a turn for the worse and perhaps we should come in to speak to her doctors. A turn for the worse? She'd already spent a week in the intensive care unit, had tubes running in and out of her, been robbed of her speech-oh that was the worst, being unable to speak! She'd yanked the tube out of her throat once too often and the nurses had tied her arms to the bed- and the use of her limbs. So what could be worse than that?

I had spoken to the nursing staff before I'd left for work that ordinary Wednesday morning, like any other Wednesday morning: "No change." What could have happened in the seventy minutes from when I locked my front door until I sat down and changed from sneakers to pumps? What?

Everything changes in the blink of an eye.

A child is conceived.

A person falls in love.

A truth is revealed.

A woman dies.

But that is all neither here nor there because tonight I want to talk about what happened sixty day later, twice sheloshim.

Sheloshim is the first thirty days of mourning. At the end of the month of mourning, the bereaved are allowed to wear regular clothes, uncover their mirrors and return to life, or the end of the world, as they know it, and are expected to function, to be okay with things, be normal.

I am expected to function and to be okay with things. But I know I'm not, I know that I am filled with slivers of glass. Twenty years in the future in a time and place where life appears normal, the bottom of my foot will be shards and I will leave a trail of blood, but I don't know that. I look into a shattered mirror and see nothing.

No one looks past the mirror, past the teeth of a shredder.

Sixty days and Jeff was admitted to Mt. Sinai for the first of many stays, the beginning of a too long, too short period of dying, pain and funeral planning.

I begin to count on June 16, 1986, like the counting of the Omer, long hot summer followed by a wet fall. David and Jeff went to the high holiday services at a temple near their home. We didn't have a regular temple, didn't have a congregation to support us for good or ill, a spiritual home where we could pad around in our slippers and drink tea with honey while analyzing the meaning of the letter ‘bet' in a particular word and why god chose to pass this cup of bitter to our lips.

Jeff carried the prayer book which had been given to him for his twenty-first birthday and had his name embossed on the cover in gilt lettering. Although his grandfather or maybe it was his great-grandfather, had been a rabbi or at least a big-macher in the reform movement, no one remembers the truth of family legends, Jeff was the product of a mixed marriage and not ritually observant. I have always numbered him among the holy thirty-six, but what do I know anyway?

He and David were reveling in exploring their Jewish roots and their new found spirituality. They shared Jeff's prayer book that year, the first time my brother had gone to services in his adult life, and struggled through the Hebrew together.

A year later, while Jeff drifted in and out of consciousness, David read the services to him and the minyan of friends who stood at his bedside in that small room at Mt. Sinai, or so I was told later.

When I spoke to them, to Jeff for the last time, from Hong Kong, I asked if they would meet me at the airport when I returned in a few days. Jeff replied, "I don't know. I can't predict what will be tomorrow, let alone a week from now. Little Sister, everything changes in the blink of an eye. You, more than anyone, know that."

Yes. Yes, it does.

In the blink of an eye, David read the services to Jeff, read them despite his inability to read Hebrew, read them as Jeff struggled to breathe, read them as Erica steeled herself not to cry, read them as Brian punched his fist through the wall, read them as Jews all over the world prayed for forgiveness, for repentance, prayer and charity to temper judgment's severe decree, and by the time the blink was finished, he was gone.

The next year, David carried Jeff's book to BHS, the home we'd found on Remsen Street, the congregation that adopted us and became our place of peace, took us in as we merged until we didn't know where one of us started and the other one ended, Meanddavid.

But that is still another story, the story of the lost years and I cannot bear to revisit it.

David carried it every year and let me hold it now and then. He'd hold Lizz and I'd hold Jeff's book open so we both could read.

When he died, I looked for Jeff's book with all of David's other prayer books, his tefillin, the collection of kippas, in the buffet in his dining room behind the left door. It wasn't there.

I looked in the bedroom.

I looked in the bookcases.

I looked in the garage.

I looked in the cars, woodshop, office, parlor, behind the wood stoves, under the loose tiles, above the kitchen cabinets, on the shelf in the closet where the cats slept, in the pockets of his jackets, under the mattress.

It wasn't there.

I sat on the floor in the dining room. "David, you need it? You need it so bad you took it with you? You're with Jeff now, you need his book, too? You're with your bashert, you couldn't leave me the book? You left me all the drek to deal with, the house of cards fell down, but you couldn't leave me the book. Fuck you, David."

He didn't answer. Not answering is also an answer.

I nodded, got up from the floor and went about my business. What choice did I have? At services, I used one of the books from the piles of books stacked all around the sanctuary. Every year when I took a book from the pile, I thought of Jeff's book and resented my brother for taking it, resented him for standing next to me, telling me things I knew, what I had to do or not do, to live my life without regrets or guilt, but not sharing the book. Being dead gives one a kind of omniscience or perhaps it changes one into an obnoxious know-it-all. I'm not sure which and who am I to judge anyway? Every year I did this, but I continued to search, moving furniture, emptying closets, cupboards, shelves of life. I enlisted all my friends in the search as we dismantled David, but it never turned up.

We contracted to sell David's house about five years after he died. All the furniture was gone, the cars, tools and supplies. All that was left was a folding table and three chairs, where we'd sat boxing up the last few things. I clicked the remote and opened the garage, looked around. I'd lost my brother and I'd lost a child and I'd lost years of my life. Gone. The echoes of sunlight were swallowed by this cave I'd wandered for so long, tripping over stalagmites of Stickley tables and knocked in the head by stalactites of log rules.

I sighed, walked to the table, stopped.

In the middle of the table was Jeff's book.

I reached out, touched it with a fingertip to see if it was real. Pulled my cell from my purse, dialed.

"Richie, did you find Jeff's book?"

"Stephen, did you find Jeff's book?"

"Harrison, Antoine, Micheal?"

No. No. No.

"Honey, Jeff's book is here."

"What do you mean? David took it."

"It's here. On the folding table."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

My husband pulled into the garage and got out of the car, walked over to me. Reached out and touched the book with a fingertip to see if it was real.

"Feels real."

"Did you....."

"No. I would have called you or brought it home. I wouldn't have pulled a stunt like this."


"I dunno, hon. I dunno. Maybe David decided he doesn't need it any longer."

"Or maybe that I need it more than he does since we're..."

"He passed it on."


"How? How do we know? Do we really want to know? Do we?"

We stood there, staring at the book, for bit longer. I picked it up and put it on the passenger seat of my car. We backed out of the garage and drove home.

Every year I carry Jeff's book, the book he received for his twenty-first birthday, the red "Gates of Repentance" embossed with his name.

Jeffrey H. Glidden.

I never did find out what the "H" stood for

Thursday, October 16, 2008

Quote the Raven, Nevermore

I look down the stairwell.
There was no knock on the door, no scratching at the keyhole.
I look anyway. Empty floor. No shoes adorn my foyer.
Sitting there, at the top of the stairs, listening to silence.

Monday, September 22, 2008

Day 2 in Spades

It’s a let down. After all the anticipation, the training, to have it stop, be over, is a let down. The amazing high of knowing i was going to finish knowing i was this close to the end and then passing that line, how could i not feel deflated after? What is going to give me a thrill like this again? A sense of accomplishment, achievement? What?

After a desultory dinner of spaghetti and marina sauce topped with tasteless shaved cheese (not grated, shaved. Reminds me of my shin with the thin layer of flesh shaved off) tossed salad and coffee and cake (no tea. Only oddballs drink tea. I can make tea in my room later) the North Florida Chapter of the National MS Society makes a few announcements, not wanting to step on any toes, the usual sort of thing...except it's not usual at all.

they list the various reasons people take part in this charity fundraising event: family member or friend afflicted with MS, near one who has died, actually diagnosed, believer in the cause or a personal statement of strength and challenge. We are asked to rise as our reason is announced, snap the glow stick left on the table and raise. The dark room is awash in blue light. The lights remind me of small limbs, small arm or leg bones, swaying gently in the dark room, much as a person with MS will lose control of his/her limbs and wobble, perhaps fall, the individual lights are lowered, laid down on the table of hung around necks. many of the riders are crying. am i? no comment.

The room is still full. Dinner is over, announcements made and honorifics given out. cyclists and their families wander the room, reliving the days events, their training regimes and what they'll do differently the next day, if they are planning to ride. There is a one day option for the MS150, which about a third of the riders elect to do, not wanting or able to give up a whole weekend with their loved ones.

The riders are a diverse group, from 22 states and 3 foreign countries. Perhaps 3/4 of the riders are male, which surprises me. Recreational cycling is a male sport, whether it is because of the time or money involved or because women can’t find mentors to help them, give them tips to be comfortable and train, I don’t know. I do it and I feel it and I have no one to discuss this with, no woman who has cycled longer or harder than I have to tell me what will help with the female specific discomforts. I look around, recognizing some of the faces from the day. The family at the next table didn’t meet at the hotel; they rode down on two tandem bikes, mom, dad and the 2 kids. Over there? A group of recumbents, a university team, a business team, a family reunion. It is a patchwork, more colorful than the room holding our bikes for the night.

Talking to various groups, finding other ‘virgins’ we discuss our preparation. I seem to have the unique honor of having the shortest, most intense training regime with the highest number of cuts-n-bruises of any other newbie I meet. The consensus is 6 to 8 months of increasing time on road racers, going from 30 miles per ride (mpr) to 70 mpr over a few months. My two months of 10 mpr to 45 mpr provokes horror, although my fellow cyclists seem to find my scrapes (shin, shoulder, ankle) and contussions (left thigh) rather appealing. it reminds me of MSR and the way the women would ooh and ahh over the men's bruises or GMSMA members comparing whipmarks. to each their own...

No interest in the bar, head back to my hotel to sleep. Breakfast is 6 am, 7 am take off again. Wait a sec. I just did 90 miles. I’m going to do that again? AM I OUT OF MY GOURD? I open the window on the terrace and watch the moon, listening to the breakers. They sing, ‘teshuva, tefila, tzedukah, that is why you are here.’ The crashing waves remind me of the blowing of the shofar. And I fall asleep.

In the morning, restless, I ride in circles, then decide to take off. I hear the Pledge of Allegiance recited and The Star Spangled Banner being sung in the now faint dark behind me. A few groups have already ridden off, they’ll reach the finish point at perhaps 10:15, keeping a 24 mph pace. These are road racers and century riders. I’ll be happy if I get in. Whenever I get in. After all, it’s not a race, it’s a ride. My challenge is personal to see if I can finish, not to beat an arbitrary clock or the rider to my left. I set a goal, made a promise to my readers, to myself and I intend to keep that promise.

As soon as I assume the position and take off, I know something is wrong. Despite copious amounts of anti-chafing cream to my bottom, thighs and shorts liner (AsMaster and butt'r chamois creams are popular brands) I am raw. And it hurts. Oh boy, does it hurt! I can’t get comfortable on my bike seat. I have to ride 86 miles and I am in agony, my skin rubbed right off, no drugstore in sight and no topical painkillers in the med buckets. What to do, what to do?


What choice do I have? SAG out? [SAG out: Support and Gear will transport injured or tired riders and their equipment to the nearest reststop to await transport to the finish area] i have too much pride for that. and i have a mission. if i have to crawl, i'll cross that line, but i am NOT going to SAG out.

I ride. I find a group with a speed that matches my own and a pedaling cadence that I feel comfortable with. I watch the knees rise and fall, a long line of knees, pedaling, pausing, pedaling, pausing, and slide in, taking advantage of the draft and the rhythm riding with a group forces me into. This will be the best thing for me, enabling me to reach the end. I won’t have to concentrate on keeping my timing, I’ll be able to look around, admire the clouds, the shadows AND HUNT FOR A DRUG STORE FOR SOME *^&%(*#o@ TOPICAL PAINKILLERS.

i try to ignore the pain that knifes through my groin with each downstroke of the pedals. today's mantra "you'll live. it's only pain. you can can handle this. up down up down." it's hard to keep my shoulders relaxed because of the pain. i can feel it stealing energy from me and i'm afraid. i know i'll finish, but wonder how long it will take this abrasion to heal? and how do i even explain it to a medic? well, at least my GP is a sports doctor. and my OB/GYN has seen much worse...

Did you know that convenience stores, which seem to carry everything, do NOT carry topical painkillers? I rack my brain, trying to come up with a substitute. At the 44 mile stop, halfway there, I speak to the medic: "I need a numbing cream. You sure this will do the trick?" the medic offers me some Biofreeze, telling me it’ll numb whatever it is that needs numbing. I look at the small greenish glob "are you SURE this will do it? i just want to be numbed." A pair of women cyclists tap my arm: "Where are you planning to use that?" Embarrassed, I mutter that my crotch is kinda sore, i have an abrasion... One cyclist takes out a small tube of butt’r, says to use that, NOT the BioFreeze, it would kill me. The other cyclist pouts, says, "Oh but it would have been fun to hear her scream when it went from numbing cold to blazing hot in about 30 seconds. You didn’t know BioFreeze was another IcyHot gel?" I swallow, visualizing the knife in my groin becoming a shredding machine and whisper my thanks. i slip my goo covered fingers inside my shorts to apply the gunk to my loins. Done. Relief. Bliss.

It doesn’t last long. But that’s alright because I find a truck stop which carries Oragel. If it’s good enough for a baby’s mouth, then it’s good enough for my crotch.

And it was. OMG, the absence of pain is a beautiful thing. I can evaluate its intensity by the difference in my whole demeanor and ability to move once it stopped. It reminded me of when I was in labor with my first-born. After 8 hours of back labor, 90 second contractions only 3 minutes apart (again, an analogy which men cannot fully commiserate with, the closest parallel being pack pain or sciatica), it stopped. Like snapping off a light switch, it just stopped and I was able to coast, reveling in the pleasures of the human body and the wonder that is the central nervous system.

I ride. I ride some more. I ride up bridges, which do not bother me at all as I am too busy thinking about my nether regions at the time to be concerned with panic attacks. I ride down small inclines. I ride into the wind. I ride under tree limbed canopies. And I clock miles. Checking my odometer, I had perhaps two or three miles to go, so I fly, left turn, straight, right turn, left turn, right turn and under that banner, that banner with one word on it: FINISH.

I was done. Over. It was over. For this year. I stowed my bike in the car. And registered for MS150 2009.

But I wasn’t done, not quite yet. I still had to get home. Wandering around, the fully occupied massage tent, sore muscles being pummeled into shape, the medic and bike repair tents, empty except for staff, the musician tent, and the largest of all, the Bubba Burger tent, where we could consume as many burgers as our calorie starved bodies could hold. I ate one, a whole burger, but would have been better off confining myself to the lettuce and tomato, I think. I’m not used to eating that much red meat at a sitting any longer, a whole 5 or 6 oz. of chopped meat. My stomach clenched in rebellion, or perhaps it was muscle cramping from the sudden inactivity after five hours of pedaling. Perhaps.

Driving home, it struck me. There were over 2200 cyclists in this one event, and the National Multiple Sclerosis Society holds 100 of these each year, including in my home towns of New York and Orlando. Not every event is two days nor do they each attract as many riders. Yet they require support: the NMSS, the NFMS, volunteers to do paperwork, cook, clean, serve, clean up, medical personnel, bike shops, SAG teams. There are as many of them as there were of us, and without this group of unrecognized persons, the people that don’t get the applause, silly necklaces, nutritious but disgusting granola bars, none of this would be possible.

Without your support it wouldn’t be possible.

I drove home, thinking about this world so much larger than myself, each individual trying to help, to achieve a small bit of grace by going outside him/herself and started to shake. How many degrees of separation are there in this, as in all things? None. Not a one. I drove my car, the same roads I’d ridden the day before, powered by my legs and will, knowing I played a small part in fighting this disease that steals the ability to power legs but leaves the will whole, to be frustrated over and over until all that will can control is one finger.

One of the few times I hit my kids, my oldest was pretending she couldn’t walk, that she required a wheelchair. "Don’t you EVER do that. Your aunt has a withered leg and SHE doesn’t use a wheelchair. You be grateful that you CAN walk or dance or whatever and don’t you EVER make believe that you can’t walk again." How prophetic.

I remember and think of all those who can’t dance and I cry. It’s cathartic, after the highs of the weekend, to cry. I cry for about 15 miles, from when I pass Daytona, the ending point of Day One and the beginning point of Day Two, until I am well onto I4, quiet tears. When I get home, I sleep.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Day 1 and I am Still Breathing-Heavily

i'm not dead. not quite anyway. pulled out of st augustine airport about 7:15. taking an easy pace, not pushing myself, not suffering, stopping at the various checkpoints to see what was there, who was there, taking photos (which i will upload at a later time) hit the midpoint about 10:15, earlier than i thought. "midpoint" was 44 miles.

keep telling you, IT'S NOT 150 MILES, IT'S MORE. but once you're at that level, what's a few more miles? actually paused for a second at the 'century' turnoff, had a brief hallucination of myself, on the ground, stars on eyes, bicycle spoke through my heart with dirt being tossed on my face. shook my head to clear it, continued on the plebian pathway

saw tandem recumbent, a family on a pair of tandems, an old 1970's style recumbent, junker bikes, top of the line megabuck bikes, many teams, some of whom found their noses slightly out of joint when a certain not-so-young punk passed them. [preens slightly, fluffs VERY sweaty hair]

i should have been much more tired than i was. i can say that now, i've showered and rested. going to take the shuttle bus to dinner at a certain point, take more photos.

oh yeah, skipped the pool party, started raining about 10 miles from the finish point, so... maybe 12:15 or so, when i got over the SECOND drawbridge.

yes two drawbridges. some of you may know about my inclination to anxiety attacks when crossing bridges or elevated roadways. don't mention it that often any more, had behavioral therapy for it years ago in order to be able to get my driver's license. in fact, i hardly ever think about it any more. well, the first drawbridge. as i pedaled over it, i looked down through the grating, saw the choppy water and panicked. deep panting breaths, cold sweat, muscle tremors. yes i realize those can all be attributed to extreme exertion but soon as i got back on land i was fine.

the 2nd drawbridge, longer, because of the rain, we had to walk across. five bikers had skidded out before i got there. so dismount and walk. on a narrow pathway. with grating to my left and a low railing to my right, whitecaps underneath. you know part of my mantra, "up down, up down, one foot after the other, that's it. you can do this, half way there, 3/4 way there, you are over you are done you are fine" well it's playing in my head nonstop, just the way adam taught me years ago. got over, rode around on the grass to relieve the tension.

oh great. i get to do it all over again tomorrow.

well, at least my life insurance is paid up. girls, remember me fondly. make a chocolate cake in my honor. a triple layer cake. with vanilla mousse filling. don't spend it all in one place.


ps: reached the finish point about 1:15, an hour earlier than i estimated at my BEST time.

Friday, September 19, 2008

24 hours...

24 hours from now i will be dead
48 hours from now i will rise to the heavens in a poof of smoke.
a few months from now i will do it all over again.
the MS150 (LIARS!!!it's 172 miles, NOT 150) charity bike ride to raise money for multiple sclerosis.
will report back next week. after i'm scraped up from the asphalt.

teshuvah, tefila, tzedukah.

(see! i told you i was a jewish mother! GUILT! GUILT!)

Thursday, September 18, 2008

More on THAT LUMP!

look at that lump! if i wasn't so toned from all the biking there is NO WAY i'd be able to get into my shorts! look at the collar of my jersey! how did i manage to rip that? thumb has almost returned to normal normal? what's that?

going to curl up for an hour or 3 with a book of bukowski's poetry.charles bukowski has received any number of awards, commendations, been told he is a genius, oft-quoted etc etc "oh robyn you HAVE to read his work, you will love him" well... i've read 8 pieces so far. it does not strike me as poetry for the ages. it is very much of its time and place.

which is fine. i think 90% of my work is of its time and place, not for posterity IF it manages to escape the trash can or shredder.i have a heavy duty shredder and i'm not afraid to use it. which i do.only a small portion of good writing is writing. the rest is reading, refining, editing. lather rinse repeat as often as needed.which is generally 2-3 more times than you think. stop too soon you do an injustice to the reader, to yourself AND to the piece. get that marker. get that red pen. ATTACK!

i'm going to curl up and rest for tonight's 25 mile ride. i am so hyped about this weekend.

Why Bike Helmets Are Important and What's That Purple Lump?

got to the ride site early, did about 5 miles just cruising around lake eola (no bikes allowed, rode outside the park. note to self: swan boats ARE a form of transportation. resolved: to ride in a swan boat)we were a large group, way over 20, lots of new people.

how can we tell they are new? well first off, never saw them before. 2nd, no helmets, no gloves, no lights. i may have ridden a junker, and been happy to do so, but i ALWAYS wore a helmet. keeps my nose from getting broken. protects my eyeglasses too. [more about the importance of bike helmets later...] so we did 11 miles, nice and easy, the newbies dropped out, they'll join us again thurs or next week.

and then we took off, did another hour, perhaps another 12 miles. i skidded out on some loose sand, bruised my left side, tore my jersey, dislocated my right thumb. starting to wonder if this carelessness on my part meets some psychological need for praise or if it truly a physical thing, result of my VERY poor night vision, loss of depth perception, still getting used to the clipless pedals etc etc. probe all of this AFTER the weekend.

because i am riding. 84 miles each way (official route, NOT 75, but when it is that long who counts anymore?)(unless you're doing the century option, adding 16 miles at the end to get the 100 mile patch. and NO i am NOT going to do that. i will be VERY HAPPY to finish both days) (crazy but not totally nuts)

i'd like to thank all of you for your support and generosity. this is a wonderful cause. research, individual support, helplines, psychological, emotional, legal support-YOU ARE THE ONES WHO MAKE IT POSSIBLE.


every single one of you.

thank you.


it's been a month since i fell and bruised my left size. i have a hematoma the size of texas [yes, STILL!] been to the doctor 4 times for that and for the infection i developed from some of my scrapes AND the allergic reaction i had to the meds AND to the associated bruising (black and blue from hip joint to mid-calf). had an MRI on my thigh to determine if there was vascular or neural invovleement, concern about permanent brusing on the bone since it is taking so long to disolve.

so WHY am i labeling this 'bike helmets are important'?
because when i fell and hit my shoulder and tore my jersey, apparently i also hit my head. the styrofoam inside my helmet cracked and there is a NICE dent on the fiberglass outside. i didn't notice any of this, it was pointed out by my biking partner. sent chills down my spine. if i hit hard enough to dent my helmet, what would the impact have been on my naked skull?

can anyone spell S-C-R-A-M-B-L-E-D B-R-A-I-N-S?
i think i need to take up a safer hobby. like russian roulette.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

i've been busy

in case you haven't gotten my emails, this is what i've been up to:

various posts:
(redundent if you get my emails- SORRY!)
so now you know the real reason i've turned into a bike maniac. i've been hard training for this for two months now, have gone from 30-40 miles a week at 10 mph to 120+ miles a week, average ride length (LOTS of hills) of 30 miles, doing that 3-4 times a week, have done 48 miles in about 3 hours, 36 miles INCLUDING sugarloaf.
average speed of 15-16 mph, so should be able to do this, even if i have to crawl.
will be updating the profile on the MS site later tonight, but leaving on a training ride in an hour!wish me luck, please make a pledge and i thank you for your support!

clipless pedals
i tried them.
i'm not sure if i like them, but i tried them. it's a learning curve i am going to coast down. coast, not skid. i hope. i don't need any more bruises. really. i don't. in my eternal battle between the curbs and my flesh, the curbs are winning.
anyway, i CAN feel the difference. it's a smoother stroke, conserves energy, utilizes all the muscles, is bidirectional. the foot is bound to the pedals, so the force that would be used to remain in contact with the pedals is instead transferred to the wheels. it takes full advantage of inertia, that a body at rest wants to remain at rest and a body in motion wants to remain in motion. the push accelerates the pull and the pull motivates the push.
it'll give me better control of the beast between my legs, that wild piece of hardware i've been riding. am i talking about pedaling a bike or am i talking about....? hmmm. oh well.ride 'em, cowgirl! hey. i DO live in kissimee! the MS150 (and i) would like to thank bike fitters of ponte vedra for their continued support. visit them on the web at

sunday's ride
rode with a different group. much easier pace, no curbs, no stairwells, no in-and-out of buildings. kept to officially designated bike trails (west orange trail) but took it AWAY from sugarloaf where there was a massive assault of bike riders. apparently a few of the groups who regularly ride up that way avoided sugarloaf because of that. felt odd to be so close and NOT be struggling with the mountain. then again, i had the pedals to deal with, my first real ride. they take getting used to but i can see that they conserve energy. we did a total of 37 miles, then i did an additional 10. so a total of 47, legs not tired, wrist was okay too.i have acquired a biker's tan: my arms are dark from shoulder to wrist,my hands almost white from the gloves, my upper thighs dark, lower legs medium, stops at my socks, back has odd lines from my various bike tops.

and guess what?
NO NEW BRUISES! the gash on my shin is healing nicely. well, let's see what happens this week. i need to be in tip-top shape for saturday am, have to be there by 6 am to sign in, get my tags, arrange to have my overnight bag shipped to my hotel (along with my extra eyeglasses, i'll be wearing my sunglasses) (no i do NOT need a full medical kit, they have EMS squads every 10-15 miles along the route. and one EMT has been personally assigned to moi)and then i get to ride 75 miles to daytona (it's actually a little bit more than that, but when you're looking at such big numbers, we stop counting. you know, one, two, three, more than 75....) eat, sleep, tend my wounds (my wrist hurts already)

and do it all over again the next day.


my first post, i said "maybe i don't know anyone with MS. maybe it's not personal. maybe i do. maybe it is." well, it turns out i know more than one. more than two. i am hoping not more than three. those senior moments we all get? maybe they're not just senior moments... pray that they are.

thank you for helping

wait a sec. does that say the finish line celebration starts at 10 am? for the road racers who think nothing of riding along at 22+ mph, sprinting at 28+ mph? the guys (and ladies) who intimate the beejesus out of me? i'm figuring on hauling my almost dead ass over the finish line at about 3 or 4 pm. if i have to claw my way across.
[robyn's mantra: stubborn stubborn stubborn, up down up down, you are NOT going to let the road win, stubborn stubborn stubborn.] you have doubts? DON'T DARE ME

Friday, September 5, 2008

Skim Milk and Cream

It hurts to drive away. And I know it hurts you.
You tell me that, often enough. No comfort, hearing, saying it.
No comfort stating facts.

If it were a relief-
not-so-sweet parting, looked forward to relief
-like all the others, ones, tens, dozens of others,
I'd be sad.
But it would be a relief. And I'd have me, my time.

It's not.

Living on skim milk, crumbs, a prisoner in solitary,
You feed me cream, chunks of cake, coat my palate with richness.
With you.
Stuffing ourselves for hibernation, gaunt again after a few days.
A few hours. Minutes. Seconds.

I am awake, conscious. Wishing I still slept.
Can't sleep anymore, too cold to sleep, too hungry to sleep.
The little match girl sits; her belly growls in the icy rain.
Fantasy in smoke warms her but that only for a match flare.
She has boxes of matches and will use them all, trying to stay warm.

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Carrot and Stick

Dangle that carrot!
Tell me everything I want to hear, have ever wanted to hear.
But I know. The carrot is poison.
Behind that smile are teeth.
Easy to swallow that carrot.
Open wide, bite, chew, swallow. Status quo.
Push down roiling bile.

Check the chains, ropes, locks.
Ask the Korean torturer,
"Please sir, I want some more."
Ground absorbs split water.
Oh! He saved a few drops for me, just for me!
He DOES love me.
Prostrate myself, roll over, expose my soft underside, mouth open
to receive the life giving fluid, drop by drop, grateful not to be kicked.

And he wonders why.

Drawn and Quartered

Drawn and quartered!
It doesn't matter what you do or say or anything.
All that matters is how my gut reacts.
You can't make it right by force of personality.
I can't be seduced.
I can't.
I can't.
I won't.
I want to live

Where Ever We Are, That's Where We Be

We do what we want, whatever we want
may lie about it, deny it, but still do it.
May not look that way; may look 180 from outside.
Push me, kicking and screaming. I let myself be pushed.
Rationalize everything, justify, verify.
Ugly is as ugly does. It suits me,
absolves me of responsibility, of free choice.
Ohh, he gave me paper. "This is your direct deposit info."
No one made me.
No one made me.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

A Good Death

There is such a thing as a good death. And a bad death. I've seen both. Hah! I've seen so much death, left right and sideways that Lethe has knocked me down and covered me as easily as the Atlantic in January or July. This is not my death we are discussing, for once, that will be soon enough I am sure, but death as an abstraction, death that I have witnessed.

Oh, I've seen. I've seen close, I've seen so close the Eish crept out between the lips I pressed shut, crept out and snaked around and kissed me. I've known death from the other side of the world, when all I could do was nothing, nothing, nothing to help or console, heal or be healed except rock like an autistic child, banging my head against the wall so I wouldn't feel.

A good death. What is a good death? A death prepared for, expected, welcomed, longed for even, perhaps with your loved ones around you to comfort you and each other. I want a good death for me, but that will be alone, just between me and the lightpost. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to talk about myself, the ego train never leaves this choo-choo track does it? It's not all about me although in some sense every word I write is a reflection of me. Me and the lightpost. Or the support beam. The cinderblock wall. The water way down below, swollen river calling me.

It's about Jeff. My beloved Jeff, my snaggle-toothed, 5 ft 6-1/2 inch angel with the most beautiful black ringlets I've ever seen, at lest until it fell out in clumps from the meds, great handfuls of hair, trails of hair. Hansel and Gretel tried to follow the trail of hair, but the birds took it to weave into new homes for their chicks.

If the birds got a hold of one of Jeff's boots, they could house the whole covey there.

Jeff had time, or at least e knew how fast the sand was running. The blessing? curse of knowledge, that odd gift which resulted in god but perhaps not shekinah abandoning us in Gan Eden, knowledge which opens one door and shuts another. That is what all knowledge does, opens doors. Who admits that it also closes them? Who has that courage? Courage is touching the sacred, holding it, evaluating it. Where is it sacred? Is the taboo, the profanity in the object or in the touch?

The holy of holies will turn you to ashes. I have tasted ashes, worn sackcloth. Am I a holy vessel? Or am I a contaminant?

Sixty days. Sixty days after our mother died, fifty-five days after shiva ended, thirty days after sheloshim, thirty days when we were supposed to breathe deep and know that we come out the other end of this tunnel, and it doesn't matter if there is light or no light, all that matters is coming out the other side.

Oh god how could they? How could they kiss him on the forehead and send him home to us, wounded creatures that we are? How can we take care of him when we are don't know how to take care of ourselves?

He was so beautiful. But you know that, you've heard me say it any number of times, that David's bashert was the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen. A sun everyone wanted to touch, to be burnt, scorched, rendered into an offering fit for a god, or rendered as an offering to a god.

Is there a difference between being an offering and being transformed into one? Aaron's sons were struck down, nothing was left. My sun accepts, catharsis, transforms into a part of the whole, a better part than it was to start.

If you knew him.

If you'd met him.

He had as good a death as it is possible to have, if you can wrap your mind around the concept that any death being a good death.

I'd like to die like Jeff. Oh, not of AIDS, not from medicines that poison while they heal, not from some long wasting illness, not surrounded by people either. No, I'd like to die peaceful, here. Knowing that whatever I had done or not done, the decision was made and all I could do was accept and sleep. I want the freedom of irresponsible, of escape. Jeff had everyone who loved him crowded into a hospital room, a minyan which sang his eish to straight to heaven, to the right hand of god, to join the rest of the thirty-six who awaited.

I still have the flowers that were on his night-table. Twenty-one years and I still have the flowers.

Monday, August 25, 2008

Tell Me Lies, Sweet Little Lies

My head is spinning
"I'd tell you but it would hurt"
and guessing games don't?

"You just don't get it"
How many forked tongue lies kiss me?
Why do I love you?

New toys for baby.
Slots, twats, cunts. Touch, lick, fuck, fill.
Jerk. Ass. Turd. You? Me?

But's its okay now
Late night, alone, you smell me.
"Hey are you awake?"

No more dreams of you.
Don't know or care when they stopped,
it's good that they did.

Sunday, August 10, 2008

One Door Shuts...

"Don't go. Don't leave. It's still early. Not even midnight. You're not a pumpkin." He pushes a few stray hairs back from her face, an excuse to touch her. "Put your keys down. Here." He takes the keys and puts them on the bureau.

"It's late. I have a long drive." She reaches for the keys, leaves them lying there. He takes her hand, kisses it. "It's a dark night."

"Cloudy, covers the moon. Stay. Leave in the morning." If she leaves now, will she come back? Will I see her again? Will it feel like this? Fingers twisting her hair around his fist, I can't stop kissing her. I can't.

"Stop. I have to go. Really." The keys poke his neck as she kisses him. "I have to go home. I do." She lets go of him and sits up. He stands, then shakes his head, takes the keys and puts them back on the bureau. Clicks the lamp to a lower setting.

"Stay." He bends down, kisses her breasts, her belly. Slides his hand under her dress, touches her gently with his fingertips. "Stay. Don't go."

Eyes closed, hands knotting the coverlet, she leans back. "I have a long drive. It's over two hours." When the words and actions disagree, trust the actions, and oh god, I want to stay. I don't want to leave, I want more of this, more of him, it feels so good, but I promised. I swore I'd be home tonight and oh god, what is he doing now?

Kneeling before her, he bites her, pushes her thong aside and tickles her with his tongue. Looks up, "Stay." Licks her again. "Please stay." His face is haggard in the dim light. "It's too late to drive. Stay."

"I really have to go." He pushes her back, lays on top of her. Kisses her neck, face, mouth, tasting of her. "I do, I promised I'd be home tonight. I am so not doing this, I'm not. I can't, it's too new. I have to leave."

"Stay. It'll be okay. It will. Stay with me. ‘Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields.' Let me make you happy."

"You quote Marlowe to me?" She runs her fingers through his hair, tightens them. Smiles and kisses him. "The light makes you glow."

"A poet for a poet." He strokes her waist, slides down and buries his face in her again. Feels her shudder, fighting every sensation. "Stay, love. Stay. Look, you're striped," the light through the blinds patterning her. Takes her hand in his, twines their fingers while his other hand caresses her, his mouth still probing, kissing her. And after, kissing her mouth again. "Stay. Please stay. I'll do this all night, make you happy."

"I have to go."

"I can't let you do that, not unless I know." A car passes, stereo blasting, lights tracking across the ceiling.

"Know what?" Holding his face in both her hands, she kisses him, licks the side of his mouth. "You're covered with me. Know what?"

"Will I see you again? Will you come back?"

She turns away, straightens her clothes. He puts his arms around her, tightens them. "Tell me. Tell me yes, that I'll see you."

She shakes her head, picks up the keys again. "I can't. I can't know. I shouldn't have let you do that. I, I, I, I don't know what you'll think of me, what I'll think of me. I'm not ready."

"Ready? If you wait until you're ready, you'll never go anywhere, ever. It's all a mystery," waving his hand at the window. "As for what I think of you? I think you're beautiful. Outsides, insides, ephemerals. Beautiful. If you could see what I see... You can't wait for your life to begin, it's happening now, out there, in here, every minute. There'll be excuse after excuse. Stay. Don't wait."

"I have to go home."

"I'll be your home. Walk with me, beside me." He rubs her fingertips against his cheek.

"I don't know you."

"You will. Stay." He kisses the top of her head, her shoulders. "Anything you want to know, I'll tell you. I won't lie or sugarcoat it. You need to know me. And I want to know you."

"You want to know me? I'm not so pretty."

"So? I want to know your flaws. They make you you, special. Stay."

She shakes her head again and pushes him away. "No, I promised. I have to go."


"And what?" But she smiles, kisses him again. The keys press into his back.

"Take a step. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."

"Like this?" She takes a step closer to the door, away from him.

"No, like this." He moves in front of her, blocking the door a bit, kisses her forehead. "Stay." He sighs. "Fine. Let me walk you to your car."

She unlocks the car, opens the door, sits down. He kneels, touches her arm. "You'll come back. You have to come back. Or I'll come to you. I can't stand the thought that this might be it. I've never... I've dreamed but I've never..."

"Hush." She puts a finger over his mouth. "It's okay. I know. But I need to think." What am I saying? Think? I need to escape.

"What you need is to feel. You think too much already. Let yourself feel. If you knew what I feel, what I see, here," placing her hand on his chest, "you'd stay." Takes her hand, turns it over and kisses the knuckles. "These hands, what these hands do, I want these hands."

"You don't even know me."

"I know enough to want to know more." She nods. "Tell me you want to know more, that you're not going to shut the door. Or if you are, that you'll open the window. I'll climb in your window, we can drive off into the night together." He stands and looks up, resting his arm on the doorframe. "No stars tonight. Stars would be cliche, I guess. Just a crescent moon peaking through the clouds. Stay." A plane flies over, red light winking steadily. "I wonder where it's going. Let's go see the aurora borealis."

"Silly. I have to go." He folds his arms over his chest, nods his head, defeated. "I'll come back. Or you come to me." Did I say that? Does he mean it? She looks at him, wanting to read his expression but his face is turned to the ground. She bites her lower lip. I wish I knew. Please let it be so. She turns the keys in the ignition, flicks the headlights on, puts the car in reverse. "When hurlyburly's done, when the battle's lost and won." Even if it's so, that's today and what about tomorrows? Too many tomorows. She blinks the memories of not-tomorrows away, all the pretty lies she's been told.

"No hurlyburly. No battle. We've both had enough war. You'll really come back? Maybe tonight?"

"Really truly, but not tonight. Now move before I run over your feet." She backs out of the driveway. He walks to the curb, watching until she makes the turn onto the main street before he goes inside and lowers the garage door.

Entering his room, it is an alien place, cool, dark, empty. He'd never noticed how empty it was amidst all the clutter. Lays on his back on the bed, staring at the play of light across the ceiling. Moves his head onto the pillow she leaned on a few minutes earlier, one of her long hairs curled there, wondering if she meant it, if she'd be back, if they'd ever see each other again. Everything was against it: socio-economic strata, religion, race, geography, all the indicators and guidelines typically used to predict a good outcome in relationships were wrong.

"Doesn't matter. Don't care." He mutters to himself, holding that single hair to his lips. All I know is, I want that flame, that fire. Oh god, I don't even have a picture of her.

He wants to call that fire home. He wants her like he's never wanted anything before in his life, and he has had life by the gallons. Determined to make it happen, "I'll build a fireplace to shelter that flame, feed it, make it grow. And then I'll build a home around it to keep it safe, a home with lots of windows to let in the light and air so it never feels stifled, strangled from lack of oxygen."

Lying there, taking one deep breath after another, he pulls up the blind, tilts his head to see the cloudy sky. Please come back. Please come back. If wishing can make it so, let it be so. Star light, star bright, there are no stars tonight, wish I may, wish I might, have a dream come true tonight.

The occasional car passes the house, headlights flickering across the ceiling, but wishing doesn't make any of them turn around, pull into the driveway, ring the bell.

Eventually, he falls asleep.

Dream Lover II

i had dreams about you last night....
and yes i can touch myself, invoke the feel of you,
texture of your skin on mine,
pressure of your mouth, hands, cock sliding in and out of me

but it's not the same

not the same as having the heat of you
swirls of your fingerprints tattooed on me
angle of you lifting me up, against you,
torsos melded together
voice whispering in my ear
'tell me what you want' when i cannot think, let alone speak

not the same

Aches and Pain

Anxiety, tinged with relief, every time I left him
wanting to be needed, hungered for, naked
bittersweet of knowing I wasn't, that I fell short
Slanted eye that measured me, snipped me exactly on the line
There is no shoulder on this highway, no room to drift.

And now?
My ache is me, wanting to be where I am,
knowing I am and that I am enough
Just me.


Wisteria roof, bits of sky peak through, small salt breeze
She sniffs, smiles, face speckled with light
Hard concrete bench, my hand inches from her thigh
If I touch her, is she real?
She covers my hand with hers.

Late, moon's glow on your face
Cotton sheets still warm, hold your scent...


"I love being with you
I love feeling you
I love the way you make me feel
I love how you look when you do that
I love the things you say to me
I love everything about you."

but you don't love me.

Shift Gears

Every hair follicle open
turpentine, sandpaper, fire
strip off the layers.
Raw flesh ready, new
I kiss you.
Felt your eyes wander, looking for someone
the grass is greener everywhere but here
Your saliva coats me, forms a scar.

Rip the scabs off
I'd rather ooze than be soothed
be alone than be placated

Find new gears, fast enough to fly
Be seen by eyes that look at me
too fast to be held.

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

More Things Change...

She looks the same, almost exactly the same, he thinks. He hadn't seen her in almost a year and she looked the same. He wants to put his arms around her, hold her, but is afraid. Ironic, that. After all they'd been through, done to each other, with each other, how they had explored every crevice of each other's body to be afraid to give her a hug, a fully clothed hug was the pit of irony.

Forget about a kiss, kiss her, kiss that mouth, that beautiful mouth he had... oh god. Don't go there. Don't remember that mouth, the way she kisses with that mouth, like no one else he'd ever kissed, New York style, Philadelphia style and the dreaded, perfect San Francisco style.

San Francisco kisses. He closed his eyes, the memory of her kisses on his lower torso, the way she used her tongue on him. No one else ever had done the things she'd done. Not before, not after. No one else, ever.

He shook his head to clear the ghosts. Her hair was a bit different. Shorter? No, maybe it wasn't her hair, something more subtle. Makeup, tan? No. It was the way she stood there, the very fact that she stood there, so still. He'd never gotten all the way inside before; she'd always greeted him with those kisses, blocked the doorway. Only after she'd been kissed to saturation did she say hello and by then they were inside, naked.

And now? Waiting. No hug, no kiss. It hurt. It hurt more than not seeing her. Because she is real, here. He could smell the tang of her skin, her peculiar musk mixed with her favorite perfume. She tasted like vanilla. Well, her neck tasted like vanilla. The rest of her was just her. He'd never thought about it before, that her neck tasted different. His wife, his other girlfriends had tasted pretty much the same all over, so why did her neck taste like vanilla?

She stood there. Maybe that was the difference, this serenity and quietude. Larger than life, whirling dervish, his whirling dervish, the energy she put into everything, he wanted that, he missed that. He missed the electricity of being with her. He felt more him when he was with her, felt bigger, deeper, smarter even.

"Hi. I've missed you."

She nodded but didn't speak. Eyes on the floor, she folded her arms across her chest.

"Nothing to say? That's a first. I have lots. I don't want to, but I do. I tried not to, oh, how I tried."

She smiled at that, a small smile. "Tried not to? No pleasing substitutes? New playmates didn't work out?"

He didn't want to admit to her that there had been no substitutes, no new playmates. He was ashamed of the torch he carried. Yeah, he'd gone out, scanned the web, gone to bars, placed ads, driven all over and ... nothing. A big nothing. The women would put their arms around him, press their lips to him and it was nothing.

It made him want her more, the other women. When did it happen? They'd been going along fine. So when? When did a convenience turn into an obsession? Was it when she left? Was it before? He was so angry, angrier than when his wife had threatened to leave. Of course, he knew that was just a threat, his wife was full of idle threats. But her? She didn't believe in idle threats.

"There were no playmates." He stared down at his hands now. She'd loved his hands, his long thin fingers, his fingers that could reach so far inside her and find all her sweet spots, make her cling to him, clamp down on him, biting his shoulder to stifle her cries. She'd leave his shoulder black and blue with her teeth marks. He couldn't look at her, let her see how much he wanted her.

But he was here, of course she knew. She knew that one day he'd call her. Just like she knew that she could ask him anything and he'd comply.

"Oh come on. You expect me to believe that? A whole year? No one? I wasn't born yesterday. I've got a bridge right over here if you're interested."

"No playmates. Not anyone else. I couldn't." Did he really say that out loud, admit that? "I couldn't. They all, they all weren't you." Tell her about the times he had tried, despite te Gordian knot in his stomach, taken some whoever's clothes off and nothing? The bodies that didn't feel like her, the kisses that tasted sour, the feeling that he was trying to fuck a wall of cotton batting and it was going to choke him? Tell her about the drinking, waking up in his car so lost it gave him an excuse to use the GPS she insisted he buy? Tell her that? "No. There were no playmates. None."


"And you? Break a few hearts?"

She looked away but didn't answer, which was an answer in itself.

"Not answering is also an answer, Bad Girl."

"Don't call me that! Don't say that! She's dead! Dead, dead, dead!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. Oh god, I am so sorry, Cassie. Please don't cry. I'm sorry. Oh god, what did I do?" She was heaving dry sobs, crying without tears. He put a hand on her shoulder, stepped closer to embrace her. She felt so good in his arms.

"Don't you say you're sorry! Don't you touch me! You just leave me alone! You go back to whatever rock you've been hiding under for the last year and you just leave me alone!" She pushed him away, turned and covered her face.

"I really am sorry."

"Go home. Leave."

He nodded, helpless. She's crying and he can't even comfort her, hold her. He touched her shoulder again. So warm. He could feel her heat through the fabric. ‘I'm sorry."


"Can I call you? Someday?"

"Oh darling, don't you get it?" She looked up at him, first time since he'd gotten there that she'd really looked at him, mascara streaks down that beautiful face. "Don't you see? Someday never comes. And Bad Girl is dead. So mourn, mourn for all the things that'll never be, all the things that never were."

"Cassie...I really am sorry. Please. Can I hold you? Just for a minute?"

Standing so close, he felt her go limp against him. Put his arms around her to keep her from falling, careful to keep his hands at her waist and shoulders, not let them wander to anywhere more intimate.

She sighed, then pushed him away. "No, don't. I'm fine. I've been fine. I just don't want to hear any more of your BS. You lied to me, even the articles and prepositions were lies. Why should I believe you now? You just...I dunno. You just can't leave it be. You'll say it and then you push and push and push and before I know it, I'm right back there. I can't do that. I can't."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Sorry for what? For not having a twit to fuck, to play your games? What?"

"No, I'm sorry. Sorry for making you feel that way. I am. I've missed you. You, Cassie. I missed you. Yeah, I know you don't believe me."

"None of this matters. Just go. This wasn't a good idea, letting you come here, seeing you. Not a good idea at all. Just go." She pushed him in the direction of the door.

He put his hands in his pockets, those hands she'd done so many things with, those hands that just wanted to touch her one more time. "Can I call you sometimes? Can I? Please? Just to talk. Please."

She shrugged in response.

"Cassie. I'll put your number under Cassie."

She nodded her head and gave him a wan smile. "You do that. Under Cassie."

Stained Glass

"A good light truly illuminates the dark." She clicks the remote, changing the station.

" Would you shut the fuck up with the homilies?"

She looks at him, surprised, hurt. "Hey, it's true! Why are you so pissed?"

"I'm tired of all your explanations and abstractions and pontifications and and and I don't know what all else. I'm tired of it all. And I'm tired of you most of all."

"What?" She clicked the remote again. The image on the TV shrank, then disappeared. She placed the remote on the night-stand. "How can you say that?"

"It describes us."

"Huh? You make less and less sense. Describes us how? What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I'm tired of you, your stories, your high falluting mannerisms. I'm done."

"Done? What do you mean, done?"

"Done. We're done. I'm done. I'm taking my things and hitting the road, flying the coop, jumping the fence. I'm leaving in the morning." He opened the closet, flipped the light switch and disappeared from her view.


"No buts. I'm done." His voice was muffled.

She leaned back against the pillows. "It's 11:48."

"So?" Hangers clattered as he pushed shirts, pants, jackets, back and forth. "And in an hour it'll be 12:48, then 1:48, 2:48, 3:48, 4:48, 5:48, 6:48, BRRNG! Time to wake up and I'll be outta here. You and your friggin sayings, morals, whatever the fuck they are. Where's a box?"

She didn't answer immediately, eyes shut tight against the soft light of the bedside lamp. She'd made the Tiffany-style lampshade a few years ago, while recovering from a miscarriage. He'd driven her to the class, "Stained Glass for Beginners," every Tuesday night for ten weeks, sat outside in the courtyard, reading while she worked and healed.

"Where are the boxes?" He repeated.

"In the garage. You'll need the packing tape. That's on a shelf near the boxes." Her neck itched. When she scratched it, her fingers came away wet. She watched him leave the room and murmured to herself, "That which does not kill us-"

"-leaves beautiful scars. I heard that. So pick at the scabs, I don't care. I'm not interested." He opened the door to the garage and the alarm chimed. "Shit." He punched in the code to deactivate the alarm. "Where in the garage? Behind the shelves? Oh there they are."

Funny, she thought. I can hear his voice clear across the whole house, but in the closet eight feet away I could hardly make out the words. "Yeah, along the wall."

"Got them. Thanks."

"Tape's there too." Why tell him? Why make his life any easier? She should be arguing, fighting, throw herself at him. Wrap herself around his knees and beg him to stay, pound the floor with her small fists, anything to keep him. Right? Isn't that what a woman in love is supposed to do? Keep her man happy, keep her beloved by any means?

"Got that."

So why was she laying there, tears crawling down her face? She took a deep breath, exhaled it slowly. Rolled onto her stomach and pulled the cover over her head. She'd deal with it in the morning.

Or not.

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Conditional Love and 1st Corinthians

Honeyed sweetness drips from your tongue.
How sharper than a serpent’s tongue
it is to have yours slither over me.
Trussed with words, tight, they wrap me,
my throat,trail down my torso, my breasts,
my waist, my back, my pelvis, and slide between my legs.
The lies we weave are so easy,so good.
They feel so good....
I want so much to believe.
The noose is a caress.
I lift my chin, exposing my throat.
Your thumbs stroke my windpipe,
our tongues dancing to the music of lies.
I press against the noose, revel in it
as you bite the nape of my neck.
Every kiss a lie.
Lies disguised as promises
slide down my arm to my ring finger,
size 5-1/4, I do. I do.
Does not take many.
One. Two. Three.
Certainly no more than three.
And I will believe.
Oh, I will clap hands because
I believe.
I believe in fairy tales and happily ever after.
I want so much to believe.
I want the lies.

There are conditions, too many,
like threats.
Eyes filmed over, vision clouded
but now they see.
You have ripped the blinders off
with your own stupidity.

Woman needs to be helped and lifted and have the best place. And ain’t I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm! I could work as much and eat as much. And bear the lash as well. And ain’t I a woman? I cried out, but none heard me. And ain’t I a woman

Does it matter to you?
Not a jot iota bit byte
as long as your conditions are met.
“As long as”
What are you looking for? Why?
Why do I ignore what is before me?
Why do I believe your lies?
Collaborate with them? Why?

I lie here, awake, thinking of lies.
So many.
Yours mine ours, certainly ours,
lies hidden deep within ourselves.
We believe our own lies.
Well, that is best.
When the liar believes the lies
it is easy, so easy
to maintain the illusion.
But the veneer is ripped away.
I swim in a cauldron of sludge
the steam rises, each strand more lies.
The hurt whirls around me.

Faith. Trust. Pixie dust.
Adultery. Betrayal. Mud.
Overtime. Four hour lunches. Lab tests.

Open that drawer.
This is my new weekly sitcom.
Every week a new adventure.
I shut that drawer, silent.
And stay on my side of the bed.

You whisper what I want to hear
Fun house mirrors reflect me, distorted as a lie
and truth even more perverted.
You’ll say anything. Talk.
I’ll believe it
and you’ll believe it
if you say it often enough
loud enough
soft enough.
Your words kiss the helix of my ear
as they travel to my insides
looking for a home.

It all means nothing
if there is no truth
there is no truth
if it is all conditional.

A child cannot see
lines between reality and make believe,
between lies, half-truths, and truth.
An adult learns this, learns when to make believe
and when to lie.
A child, selfish, self centered, stamps his feet because
he wants!
As long as his wants are satisfied.
Nothing else matters.
An adult knows that
cannot be satisfied with lies
or when it hurts another
An adult balances their needs with the world outside,
sees it and does not need prodding.

Love is impatient, it does not wait.
Love is blind to what it will not see.
Love is jealous and has no master.
Love is arrogant and holds itself out.
It is unbecoming in ways that make
me tremble, astonished, excited.
It seeks its place, uncaring.
It provokes and hurts.
It wrongs, it suffers.
It revels in perfidy and rejoices with lies.
It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things “as long as”

“As long as” it gets what it wants.
I want to be an adult
I am tired of being a child
playing childish things.

It is time to put away childish things.

I can flog it.
So can you.
And we will have tired arms.
The corpse will still be a corpse.
That is, if it was ever a living thing.
I have my doubts.
No, no doubts.
I know what it was.

Even now, knowing that I know,
you cannot keep up the facade
just to please me.
Have you ever done anything just to please me?
No. Never.
You can’t even do that.
How can you do anything else?

I cried out, but none heard me

His Country Home

But the pillars are intact. He stares a moment longer. Just stares.
Thin, thinner than thin, emaciated, he walks onto the porch,
sagging, decayed, black mildew creeps up the walls, kudzo-like.
Just another alien invasive species wrecking havoc on
His Beloved.

Floorboards broken. Shutters hang by a single hinge. Termite ridden, too.
He would open the door to enter the Manse … if there was a door.
Step smoothly over the threshold into that gaping doorway
like a whore opening a zipper and mounting a faceless erection,
still wet with another man’s cum.

Picking his way over piles of debris, abandoned furniture, books, clothes.
Rats? armadillos? snakes? rustle, jump out, slide from sight.
Nothing left of lifetimes. Idly, he picks a book from the melting pile.
A diary, the pages a solid mass, The ink bleached away by fastness.
Another person’s memories

Home is Where the Heart is

And when there is no heart?
Look around, crowded with things,
empty except for the hum, harsh static undercurrent.
Cannot think, feel, brain in tomographic slices,
sliced, diced, split and reformulated into neat stacks.
Cut the deck. Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle.
This way madness lies.

Once, you whispered, “You are my home,
Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay.”
How could I?
Homeless myself, you fill the empty in me.
Synesthesia, you are my purple, fresh cut wood, cinnamon, Vivaldi.
Am I as dear as salt to you? Am I?
Now? Ever?
Am I?

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Wrong Number

The pieces are scattered, some on the board, some on thefloor, few under the sofa. She crawls, stretches to reach and retrieve the errant rook, bishop, pawns, save them from dust bunny hell. Staring at the pieces in her hand, the fallen pieces, she thinks, I've fallen too. Is there is someone, anyone to throw me a ladder, a line, a lifeline, anyone to help me climb out of this chasm? Shaking her head, I wish. But there is no one on the other side. No one.

A giant open mouth, crocodile jaws, the walls press in on her, aggravate her vertigo. Vertigo attacks looking up are rare compared to those looking down, yet they do happen. Closes her eyes and replays the game, tries to find the point just before the game board flew across the room, the point just before the calls started, the point just before her life became chalk.

Picking up the phone, she waits for it to ring, moth to a flame, fascinated yet repulsed by the voice of the stranger, the stranger that used to live with the man who says he loves her, loves her so much, loves her like he's never loved anyone ever ever ever.

"I'm telling you this for your own good." Click!

"You don't know what you're getting into." Click!

"You'll be sorry." Click!

"He will play you and use you. I don't want you hurt. Call me." Click!

"You think you're something? You think you're so all that? So special? You are just a worthless piece of trash." Click!

"Listen, cunt, leave my husband alone." Click!

"You don't even have the guts to answer the phone." Click!

"Here's my email. Please. I need to talk to you." Click!

"Wow, he sure has you fooled. You're just another one of his whores, latest in a long, long line of whores. How could you do this? We were so happy!" Click!

"Get out of my life, bitch!" Click!

""I'll get you." Click!

"We have dogs. We have grandchildren. I want him back." Click!

"He'll treat you like he treats me." Click!

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

The words fill her, put her on a slide under the wrong end of the microscope.

The phone vibrates; she waits for the machine to answer and wonders how she will escape.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Valid Passport

She always carries her passport. And it's current.
Because she likes to pretend that she's free.
She's not.
So grounded, so tied to the ground, as grounded as a McVeigh tripwire
that she's not going anywhere. Ever.

Still, every ten years,
she mails a current photo (2" by 2", full face only please)
and her money ($75 fee payable to the U.S. Department of State)
and renews that little blue book
that virginal blue book she's never used.
Because someday, maybe someday,
she just might.

Someday is now.

There are many roads, but all roads lead to roam
and Rhodes and Rome are no longer fantasies
Seven wonders. She wonders.
The Colossus hangs in the gardens and
Babylon tongues caress her under the pyramids of love, speaking lies,
while Zeus and Artemis, those paragons of brawn and brains, sleep in their mausoleum.
The beacon above flickers, searching for an honest man.

Heat rises from the tarmac in visible waves.

She fingers the little blue book.
"It's time you were deflowered, baby. Fasten your seatbelt, it's going to be a bumpy night."
Face, grimy with tears, determined,
pushed into her seat, adrenaline flowing, she breathes.
Gliding through the sweet cotton, open, waiting,
moon reflects the light on the Pacific far below.

Dream closet opens.

Pen's Oil

"Synthetic oil is better, but not for the reasons you said. Its smooth on the engine, minimizes wear and tear. Mileage? Well, that might show some improvement, but not a significant amount, not like the wear and tear factor."

She adds a packet of natural sugar to the teapot, pours some into a cup and nods. "Perhaps some synthetic oil will minimize wear and tear on me," sipping her tea.

The waitress stood next to the table, a pot in each hand. "Sir, can I hot that up for you?"

"Yeah sure, thanks. The decaf, please."

She filled his cup from the orange handled pot. "Creamers?"

He nodded. She took a handful from her pocket, dropped them on the table and turned to the next booth. "Ma'am, would you like some more coffee?"

He continued."Perhaps. Don't count on it. You need more than oil to minimize the wear and tear on your moving parts. Lots more." He broke his muffin in half, then in half again. "Would you like a piece?"

"No. I'm fine."

"You are that." He picks up a segment and eats it. "Muffins are an oil-based cake. Real food oil, canola oil, corn oil, olive oil. Not synthetic oil. Not margarine."

"True. You can't make muffins from margarine, from products containing trans fat."

"No, you can't." He nods, still chewing the segment of muffin. "No. Muffins are muffins. Why did you say we have to talk?"

"Because we do."

"Talk, not do?"

"Talk, not do."

"Oh." He takes another bite, swallows his coffee and stares into the empty mug. He swirls the grinds up the side of the mug, but cannot read what it says. "Oh."


"Well. What about? We haven't even seen each other in weeks. I thought we elected to forego discussion."

"I think we need closure. I think I need closure."

"Did somebody die? You disappeared, not me. We need closure? You need closure? Psychobabble. Closure. Huh. You are so full of it." He breaks up the last segment of muffin. Crumbs litter the table.

She licks her forefinger and picks up some of the crumbs, then sucks them off her finger.

"I thought you didn't want any."

"I don't."

"You don't want any when I offer you the whole thing, but you pick up the crumbs? The garbage? You can have it all and you take trash."

"Uhh... excuse me, sir, ma'am. Would you like anything else? Or will that be all?" The waitress stood, uneasy.

"No, just the check. We're done here. Thank you." She places the check on the table.

He glances at it, pulls out his billfold. Selects a ten and a five, hands them to the waitress. "Here. No, keep the change."

She listens to this with half an ear, thinking. Why was she picking up his crumbs, his leavings, his cast-offs? If the wear and tear left her worn and torn, were crumbs all she deserved?

He stands, glares at her. "I don't get you, I don't get you at all. Why did you call me? Why bother? Why engage? So you can keep me hoping? You like holding the leash, don't you? Yeah, psychobabble, it's what you do, put labels on things, on feelings. You'd rather label than feel. All the time, analyzing, defining. Fine. I'm going to throw it back at you now. Why?"

"Why? I don't know. I thought you'd want to know why I dropped off the face of the earth."

"Six weeks you don't take my calls, answer my email, nothing. There's a reason? Besides the usual chaos of your life? Another reason? What story are you going to tell me this time? I know you. I've known you how long now? What is it, two, three years already? I know what's going on. You think I'm stupid? Do I really need to hear this? Do I?"

"I dunno."

He drops his napkin on the table and walks out.

She licks her finger again, presses it against the table. Pour tea into his mug and drinks.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008


Struggle for the word, the just right word
you would stamp on me
on my forehead spine bottom of my foot
on me.
I try them on, try them all, see if I can wear them
these words
these words you use to name me
to name us,
if there is an us,
a concept that makes my mouth dry, my tongue stick in its place
unable to speak any words now at all.
So so precise because choosing the wrong word
or even
the not-quite-right word, the less-than-perfect word
would be, for me, an excuse for tears.
Try them on, discard, try again,
prefix hats and ending shoes, adjective bracelets and adverb hair ribbons.
And slowly, slink a piece of silk satin over my hips,
my calloused hands pull it up,
settle it on my shoulders, smooth it on my torso, zip it up.
This word I will wear as a shield buttress gossamer nightrail


Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Robyn translates...

odi et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris? nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

i hate and i love. you ask me to explain, but i cannot, it is beyond my words. i am thrown against walls and battered. i am taken to heaven and exaulted. i do not understand this, this madness. i cannot understand, but i feel, oh god i feel and my insides are pulled out and eaten by dragons.

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

What Kind of 3 a.m. am I?

Waken, sudden shock.
Reach for the phone to call you
fingers cannot dial.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Tazo Haiku

He drinks my tea, hot
not iced, when I am not there
to feel me inside.

Tony's Shirt

There is a small tear in his shirt,
right at the shoulder where the thread broke
or perhaps missed
and I itch to fix it.

That tear/rip/open seam fills me with lust
two inches of flesh exposed when he moves his arm
to sign another manuscript.
The arch of his neck reminds me of you
as I listen to his voice but never hear the words,
staring at the pulse at the base of that thin neck.

His glasses, hanging there, pull his shirt askew,
reveal one or two freckles and
I wonder if his wife kisses those freckles
as I kiss yours. I wonder.

Monday, June 2, 2008

It is the lark. No. It is the nightingale.

Low tocsin cry
it is the train-or perhaps, a tugboat.
It blows, I never heard it blow like that,
blow so much, so slow can't tell what it's from,
echo of an echo of an echo.
Blow across the top of a half-filled Abita,
punctuated by the cackle of dying trees.
I stop to listen, parched.
It stops me here, between the in and exhale.

Look up. You can hear it, you can.
In the sometime, you will hear it
you own faint whistle pitched to you, only to you.
That tinkling bell,
sudden chime of broken glass which comes before?
Is it a warning?

The cry will fade, when you cannot make it go away.
It is out there and you will stop
and listen.
You will.
When it's time.
When it's time.

Safety is Leaving the Nest

Is it safe to swim here?
Is it safe from biting fish, quacking ducks, hungry gators and ferocious sharks?
Is it safe to swim here?
And if it is, why would I want to?

Quiet enough to hear the noise.
Never heard bird call before
and I know birders. I know people who fly
all over the world to hear the birds.
"See! Can’t you hear that?" they say
Its clear as a bell to them, the individual twips and chit-chits and oh god the poo-ries
and the leekas-leekas-leekas. I hear nothing. It all sounds like so much white noise tweets.

But a quiet inside lets me pull apart the strands,
unweave this fine fabric of car tires on asphalt, snapping branches,
wind shifting my hair, voices across the lake, all the way across the lake
I unweave this blanket until
I hear the too-wits,
alligator ripples
sudden plash! of a branch dropping
ripples go clear across
I follow them with my eyes, envious. Will I cause ripples?

The low bird, this archeopteryx, sits there staring.
Eye to eye, it dares me to say the word
to say one word.
I don’t.
I know I will lose this match
and that is okay.
Its not a win/lose situation, not really,
It is a dialogue, for as long as it is.

It is blending again
No, not blending, not even reweaving
It is a bloody pastiche,
the individual pieces next to one another
louder, attracting attention

Saturday, May 24, 2008

Work, Not Play. Play, Not Work

Working, always working.
She sits there, typing with one hand and writing with the other
Ever stop? Does she ever stop? I should be bored, watching her.
But I’m not.

My foot nudges her. A frown, gone.
Concentration feels me blow over it.
And then that smile. I love that smile.
Oh god, did I say that? Did I?

Here. She rises, hand creeps across the table to me
Here. I need a break.
Clasping my hand, eyes lost behind some mist, she dazzles me.
Everything she does mesmerizes me.

Slides up my arms as she straddles me
around me, that mouth on mine, kisses me
sighs, face hidden in my neck, heat flows off her
Volcano, nova and I am caught in that wave

I cannot remember when I breathed this deep, this much
needed this much oxygen. Every inhale feels it.
I need a break sweeting deep throaty words tickle my ear
slow breath as she kisses the front of my neck, that hollow

Stretches on me, I swear I can feel her stretch on me
turns in my lap leans back leans way back
If you take them off oh god her fingers hooked through the top of my shorts
if you take them off I can’t move I can’t but I do

Raise myself enough to slide them off and she is on me
in her own world does she even know
or care
that it is me under her touching her holding her loving her?

Does she?

I know. I know every inch twinge twitch quirk
I know her. I am here, anchoring her
while she floats in her pleasure state
trusting me to keep her

Reach around, hold her. Feel her jump
Forget I was here, love? and I kiss that curve behind her ear
Moves on me, does not answer, not a word.
but I know that too. Her answer.

It’s okay, love, I’m here still ignores me, leans forward, moans
and all I want is to bury myself in her
and feel her pleasure on through because of me.’
She pretends she doesn’t hear or understand, but I know better.

Do you want to shower? Hmm? Half asleep on me
if I loosen my grip she’ll fall. Pull her tighter
Do you want to shower? Break’s over. Slumps on me, relaxed.
Stand, holding her, walk inside.

Laying next to her, straighten her clothes.
Stay. Holding a hand to me, her perfect wrists
lead to that hand, fingers thin exclamation points between mine.
Stay. I turn her hand over and kiss her pulse.