words.

The Scent of X

It's a thing I can't describe
    nor can I find
    where it hides
All I know is I've had it once
    maybe twice
I remember its touch
    and its smell
    maybe its taste
All lost in the haste

The pain of living is all around me
    in friends lost
    and cheeks turned
    and long dead dogs
    summers forgotten
    and begotten
In our minds
    for the true pain of living
    is found in it
    and
    its absence
Whatever that is.

I stand before you
seeing the after
and feeling the now
lost in the past
I look to the next
for what had the past
and has the present lost

dear terrorist,

more than hate you, i should thank you. you make the news i read more interesting. i don't fear you. statistically i have a greater chance of being killed by a hippopotamus. you flavor american sensationalism more than britney, or mc donalds.

you are what you hate, just another form of entertainment

Drowning in a sea of humanity,
I struggle alone,
Barely keeping my head above
The water below,
Pulling me down, Gaining, and climbing
At my expense
Cut throat life, and cut throat death,
Man's inhumanity,
The only warmth I feel,
The burning hatred,
And the cold regret,
Must I drown alone?
In this sea of humanity.
 

it must be spoon fed
i should stop writing now

put pastel blotches
and a picture of something

greasy and crunchy
easy to chew

can't work the brain
questions hurt too much

twenty four and at the doldrums
same faces
same places
familiar but fading
from memory they go
into the distant
youth is wasted on the young
and so it was with me
bridled with age
and unspent years i sit
sadly, looking out
from within
my self made prison
introverted maze
i have the key
rusty but here
to afraid to unlock
to afraid to go
i sit and wait
wait for something
wait for nothing

reach in to reach out
hide to be found
run to be caught
listen to be heard

love, only to be hated
give, only to be feared

Mediocrity is a hard thing to dodge

It stalks all men

Stalks them ‘til death

And lodges them therein with their innumerable,

Unnamed, and forgotten kinsmen

Mediocrity welcomes you

Offers you comfort

Her embrace numbs

Like a drug, and soothes like mother’s embrace

Hard to dodge

Stare long enough at anything and it won’t make sense anymore. This is because what we know as sense is only an illusion. Like any illusion it’s mystery dissolves with due scrutiny. So it is with sense. The universe just is. No adjective can properly describe it, nouns only name the objects it holds, and no verb can remotely explain it’s action.

dichotomy
dont harp on me
think i cant see
all the lies inside
and tears ive cried
content in sorry
happiness borrowed
from a lost tomorrow
sold for emptyness
kept to keep it hid
the truth behind
a made up mind
kept me blind
and heart in bind
no love to feel
nor knees to kneel
arrogance and vigilance
pride and predjudice

Head held down by a black boot. Eyes looking around, a look of fearful indignation contorting the face, and body bound. The boot pushes down harder. A Kalashnikov with a bayonet appears in the scene. The boot has to work harder, the head and body struggle to move. Then the bayonet, with its curved front, tightly angled point, and straight blood grooved back, moves forward. For a second it just kisses the neck, bending the skin, before the skin breaks in a spring of blood. A small red circle for a moment and then the blade disappears in the bloody contortion of the neck. With several bobs of the rifle, the sawing completes as the blade reappears, fresh in cold blood, the boot releases, and death sets in. My hand finds I still have the mouse in my hand. I move the cursor to the play button, hit it, and the head is again held down by black boot.

What am I going to do with my life? It’s a question I am forced to ask myself more and more lately. What is my answer to be? Should I cop out with the simple “live it?” It’s just so hard to know anything for sure. And oh am I jealous of those with faith, a substance of which I have seldom tasted. I just don’t know. But I do. I know time will pass at its constant rate. My perception will alter with my mood and emotion. Preferring, naturally to obscure my perception of the passage of time  with amusement and happiness, thus sliding me faster and faster to the certainty before us all, awaiting with open arms and a cold embrace.

So what am I going to do with my life? Live it, I suppose. I will strive to be happy and content in a world, which I understand more than I’d like. Whose faults and frailties stand towing above me, shining insanity and chaos, while those around me bow to this new correctness, this new control, this new oldness. The same order preserved preserving those who are preserved by it. I feel as if I’m too smart for my own good and not smart enough to be of anyone else’s. Lookup “smart” in a dictionary to get a feel for the curse it truly can be.

It felt as if her whole body tightened. Brining the bulkiness of her physical being into a greater communion with the unseen. Her fingers pulled tight like fine gloves in the bitter cold. Her skin fitting better and

If you chase two rabbits you catch neither. Why can’t it be enough? Why must I press on and take until the taking ruins the having? Why is having not nearly so pleasing as wanting?

I sit here at the helm of my empty machine, so full of nothing, silent escape through digital flow of sound and light, illuminating the essence of my meaninglessness. Shrouded in mystery for the uninitiated, the esoteric realm, the hidden share, my rhetoric, my dream, my pain, and my escape. I feel the world through tactile click, I see in protocols, and services, and adapters, buried in acronym.

 Emerged from the clumsy chrysalis of adolescence she stood before me, innocence in her hands opened, wanting to shed its burden, to bloody her hands at the alter of womanhood. God, the way she looked at me last night. To see through those eyes, eyes that haven’t seen the maddening things the world hides from the young. To touch the softness of her, to taste her unadulterated flesh, to separate her hair with my fingers, that long flowing ribbon of hair, oh what a charm. Her name was America, she was a young flower at only 19. She heard the quietus of my empty rhetoric in the kitchen of dreams on the night of the passing of the two thousand and first year. My gaze met hers, and I felt her depth, which grabbed me, pulled my attention at once from the abundant emptiness of the world around me. It shook me. Her voice rang sweet and her words came fast, full of polite fury. And the things she spoke of, the incendiaries she used to advance the burning of youth’s innocent veil, oh the fire that rages in her! What are her motives? Why did she talk to me?  

 The words fell like hammers on my soul. He told me what heroin was like: Imagine you’re two years old again. Your mom comes and wraps you up in a blanket just pulled from the dryer and holds you. Its that feeling of safety and total comfort.

 “A canticle for leibowitz” do you have it?” the pause of computer usage “No, but we can order it for you.” give me your name and number. I did, without thinking. I returned to that stacks, perusing literature, the work of Henry Rollins, she approached, “can I call you sometime, maybe we can get coffee sometime?” I appreciate interesting people, I must be open to everything, I agreed, she introduced her self and told me she’d call to set up a date, did that mean like a numeric date or the western tradition of courting. Not that the latter would be bad but she just isn’t the kind of girl Id consider taking as a mate, not that I am shallow which I am and which I why I wouldn’t have her. Is that bad? Am a too blame for the level of attraction which lies within me???

 Religion is the greatest drug ever, the cleanest high and the purest fix. You see it in the docile glazed eyes of the faithful.

 Music is the greatest thing ever. A better medium that the crude words I throw around. Rhetoric to the beat, such a fantasy to the ears, a marvel to behold, and to be held. 

So there it was, or perhaps better phrased, then it was. The passing of the two thousand first year or our Lord. Enjoyed in the house of my good friend John. Of the hundred or so people there, only one was a cute girl. And by some twist of fate she ended up talking to me. America was and is her name. A petite, young, and ever so curvy poem of life, a flower, smart and witty. With hair long, so so long, far longer than the normal custom of the day, hair flowing like a long ribbon down the soft skin of her back, down past her shoulders, those sensuous domes of kissable flesh. Oh it pains me to think of it. Being so close, on the cusp of something. Am I to be her friend or something more, is she to be my lover or something more, my mate or something more. Are we to be one, or something less.

I saw her standing in the kitchen. She stood in a circle of odd but good men. Men who do not adhere to the normal tradition of dress and style. Men who rebel for something, perhaps the sake of rebellion, but they are not the point of this tale. As she stood there, listening, I stood not far off watching, just watching her interaction with them, watching her reactions. In not long I had worked up the courage, with the help of Mr. Jim Beam, to interrupt their petit salon and break in with my to the point economic cop out for anything approach. I laid it out, what exactly I said escapes me, as does the topic of the debate, but my approach, perhaps laden with false facts and bogus statistics did the trick. She noticed me. I withdrew.

Later would find me in the same kitchen talking to an old friend. As later found me so did she and she began to talk to us. We chatted for sometime about illicit adventures and mishaps, painting tales of our colorful pasts. Pasts perhaps bleached with drug and vice, but colorful nonetheless. As we talked that evening, I began to suspect that I had raised her eyebrow so to speak. Before she left, I told her I thought she was very interesting and that I thought we should talk. I offered her my number, to be polite, for she was escorted by a gentleman that evening. She corrected my mistake by offering hers. Which I gladly accepted. She made me promise to call.

Days later, I kept my promise, inviting her back to John’s. A place she was familiar with, which I figured was a bonus.

The greatest gift I will give the world will be my last desperate dying exhale. The embrace of my death rattle will wash the evil and grievous frailties from this world. From the depths of my shallow and empty life will rise the

-----

seeking a pain only dreamt of in the abominable pits of hell, his bent masochist desires rallied in his mind, overwhelming all resistance to morality or logic, only the choice was before him and it was already made by the cruel hand of fate, or predestination, the lives were his waiting to be taken. His life was his and would wash the blood of his masterpiece.

the prickly insanity crushed upon him like jagged shards of obsidian thrown from a black on black volcano. The ripping of his mind charged to the point where his whole consciousness dissolved into a feeling of the most intensely sharp and unrelenting pain of existence, the end must come, the pain focused farther as the previous hours events replayed in his his mind, sharply stabbing and reminding that only 60 minutes earlier his life was his, totally undone from the hideous shrieking of the reality he had created, he recalled the sensations of his acts, the pistols recoil, the scent of burnt life burning his nose, the smoothness of the knife's silent voyage into innocent flesh, the horror focused again and he was dropped to his knees "why god, why god did you make me? what have i done?" he looked through his teary eyes at his hands, his weapons, the manifestation of his will, still bloody and trembling from the transformation, the twisting contortion of conscience, and the lust for death's stench extolled with every movement and thought
 

numbers dont go high enough to count my blessings
there arent enough words to say what i mean
too much good and too many details
leaves me awestruck
slackjawed
and
struggling to think
of the simple things
like the wind in your hair
or the sun on your face
it kinda just
passes by; we, none the wiser
sit oblivious
focusing on tomorrow
and the
rat race
we run
i look to today
only the now
hearing not the distant drummer
for once is writ, and becomes then
untouchable to all
a memory to fade
but we have this now,
this moment
and all those to come


the time is come
my love
to pass by childish things
move past the worldly bonds
build the house ecstatic
not made of wood
or earthly things
forget the fates
and how they spin
live for life,
and nothing beyond
live for death,
and hasten the good


ive heard the crys of the distant few
silenced by the lies of the many
trapped in a world where my blessings
kill, enslave, and make whores of all
no choice but to be a tyrant
built into the machine, a gear
turning
turning
turning
killing
killing
killing
until i am the slave,



ive not the answer, or even a tale, nay not one
i come only with a question, and no more
ive not the question, only the curiousity
to know that the question is out there
not to speak of the answer, if there is only one



prolific, meaningful, inspirational:
what does that mean?
why are they so special?
why should i read there words
pop culture is a fickly beast
the bible says
it is better to hear the rebuke of the wise
than
the song of fools;
i've had them both, and honestly
i prefer the song of fools,




i tell you
ive been looking for
an answer
to a question
i can't define
trying to write a poem
with no words
having dreams
in sleepless nights


speckled splotchy shadows
and
sunrays all above
the pavement smooth
and turns so sharp
the drop the slide
wheel turning
the gears shifting
the pedal goes down
back pressed into the seat
again
and
again


if you don't see wonder
in a tree
or in a blue sky
and fluffy clouds
or in the sea
and the red sunset
backup
look with a childs eyes
and see the wonder
in simple things


sometimes when you least expect it
is found the strength and the will
given by another's hope and faith
when you yourself doubt your way



i tell you
im happy again
baggage shed
shoes tied
and ready to run
not from what i fear
but to what i love
to that place
in loves embrace
where im free
to just be me
and not hide
deep inside
from angry eyes
and empty lies
i tell you
im happy again


techno savant
poet financier
digital cognoscento
thats what i am
a million labels
and just one soul
tell me who you want me to be
and that i am
for what i am outside my mind
is what i am in your mind
label me as you will
thats what i am
a million labels
but only one soul


ive heard the beat of the distant drum
ive tried to wash the lines of fate
with fresh spilled tears
to no avail
ive been broken at the sound
and bent all around
told what to do
and told when
not anymore
im not playing thier game
its my game
i made the rules
i pick the prize


ive been chasing anothers dream
running in two directions
standing still
hiding from the truth
of where i need to go
to find that thing i love
to love my self
its not a hard thing
but its easier to lie
to myself
than listen
to the simple
silence
of the truth


the weight ive dropped
silenced my hopes
killed my dreams
broke my spirit


happiness is a kind of energy, thus it stands to reason it is bound by
the laws of thermodynamics. therefore any short-term gain in happiness must
be bought by a decrease in the medium-term in order to keep the net level of
happy/unhappy in equilibrium in the long-term.



ive been to sanity's edge more than once
and for more than sightseeing
its a cold edge
the wind pierces to the bone
im alone at the edge
no one in sight
no one to see
the burnt landscape
no life
not a blade of grass
only the cold wind
whistling
piercing to the bone
i look behind me
to see
nothing
the same
nothing
i see before me
i can't say how i got here
to this bitter edge
nor where ill hence go
all i feel is the wind
cold
it pierces to the bone


i feel a malaise
and i dont know why
i feel a void
but don't know whats missing
i hear a silence
and i listen still
i look to the future
but can't escape the past


wannaknowwhyitalksofast?
imafraid.
ilackconfidenceinwhatimsaying.
idontthinkyouwanttolistentome.
whydoisaydoyouknowwhatimsaying?
idontthinkanyoneunderstandsme
anditscaresme.


im tuned into a higher state of sensitivity
feeling more
feelings i was afraid to feel
feelings i hid from and lied
to myself about
to appear strong
to protect my mind
listening to the same tunes
listening for the first time
listening with my heart


in terms of beethoven
i'm feeling like the 7th
i wish i were back to myself
back to the 9th, back to the 4th movement
oh, to be back to myself again
back to the 9th



if i knew what to do
id be doing it
but its just not that simple
i look
i think
i pray
for an answer
to a question
im afraid to ask


it hurts to be so far
from what i love
not knowing the course
of the unwritten fate
between us
only feeling
the void
of your
abscence


running to vice
running from the problem
the problem will catch you
and the vice will leave you
with diminished capacity
to resolve the problem


i prefer to write with a pen;
the smooth scratchy
over
the tactile click
it is for me
although i like to type
i prefer the pens quiet dance
the sliding,
feeling the texture of the paper
in every stroke;



by what right are you able to read my inane babble?
love
your mother loved you enough to carry you to life
your family loved you enough to carry you through youth
love is the key
why then does it not stand to reason that love built the world
the universe
everything
why do we need empirical proof to believe
when the answer is all around us
and you know what the answer is:



ive been lying to myself for some time now
am i to begin believing the truth
that i have discovered
or have i simply replaced
the old lies
with shiny
new lies
id be lying if i said i knew


my fondness of you grows
and like the wind blows
i wont pay any mind
to your new nose
or to pimping hoes
perhaps to sucking toes
or kissing elbows
all to whom who knows
my poem no longer flows


click click click
go the keys
babble babble babble
goes the mouth
scratch scratch scratch
goes the pen
and thats about all they do


im not sure how i feel about you
part of me is falling in love with you
the other part is saying its safer to wait
and see the plot unfold
when i hear your voice
i fall deeper
when i feel you kindness
i fall further
when you understand
i fall completely
its a tricky thing
not one i understand
not one i even try to
all i can do is
just wait
and
see




I
i cannot find the words
to express, relate
or otherwise
communicate
the complex simplicity,
blessed serendipity;
coincidence, karma,
or providence,
perchance.
II
"the two betwixt
the latter fixed
from heart so cold
and innocence sold
brought to thee
from life to flee,
caught and freed,"
my soul decreed!



-


i did seek the words,
but did not
ask, demand,
or otherwise
interrogate
,




to taste you lips again
to hold you close
things taken for granted
into my memory implanted
never to be taken away
valediction for the day
caught on rhymes
of other times
and seen the face
silent embrace
ive lost the words
and the will
to fight the sensible
i've fallen
and lost the path
to that place
whence i hid
before set free
by the love of thee


i must unbelieve my lies
i must unspeak my words
i must unwrite my verse
i am undone lest it be so
and
i am not



rhetoric
a poison for the ears
a tool of control
and a tool of the free
to silence


all our yesterdays are only worth one tomorrow


every author has his or her favorite themes
i have doubt
and uncertainty
loss and the chase
and questions
so many questions
but now i want to point my questions
in a new direction;
to you-
where are you?
and i don't mean location
spiritually,
emotionally?
who are you there with?
do they support you,
or break you down?
are they friends?
or just the people who
keep you from being alone?
where do you want to go?
are you taking steps to get there?
and of the path;
whom must you step upon in your steps?
and finally;
what will you do once you've gotten there?
is the grass really greener?
or were you lying to yourself?
these aren't easy questions to answer
and the answers may tear you apart
but be warned
even the best lies are short lived
the truth is the ultimate
the truth can be beaten to the ground
and stamped upon
slandered
spat upon
but it is still the truth
and its all you have;
so i ask again:
where are you?


fall enters quietly
sapping away the warmth
hiding the sun
and killing the spirit
bringing malaise
and chills;
the spring hides silently
under the winter
waiting
and
wanting
the sun
and the life;
the fall has color
the winter none
but dark
white
the fall brings breeze
and the warmth
of fellowship;
i lust for summer


even when i write crappy verse i like it
just to cleanse my mind
and see the words come
it helps
make me not be crazy;
not to say im going crazy
or not to the point of insanity
i have no doubt ill always be able
to do normal stuff
like
grocery shop
or
drive my car
or
do multivariate regression
or
code html
or
amortize loans
or
allocate assets
its just a feeling
i get
a little crazy
reacting to this strange world
i was born into
if the world is normal
i am crazy
if i am sane
then the world
and its order
is crazy;
i've not slaughtered millions
nor have i waged war
or kept the equal down
perhaps it is not i who am crazy?
but who am i to say?




you sit with a silent anticipation
licking your lips
checking the mirrors
roll the shifter in and out of first
revving revving revving
waiting
waiting
waiting
for the green light
your fingers caress the wheel
like a lovers nakedness
other hand griping the shifter so tight
each stitch makes a single discrete impression
waiting
waiting
waiting
and then it hits
the pedal to the floor
the clutch released
pressure from the seat into your back
head thrown
redline
hit the clutch
pedal still to the floor
speedshift to second
clutch dumped
the tires voice their concern
but you ignore them
waiting
waiting
waiting
for the redline
and there it is
clutchshiftrelease
third gear
going fast now
fingers grip the wheel tighter
the shifter held so hard it hurts
waiting
waiting
waiting
for fourth
so fast now
another speedshift
the car lurches forward
he's in your mirror
breath
smile
and
watch for pigs

what will the next 7 seconds bring?


everytime i talk to her
(or you if the her to whom i refer is the reader)
my heart flutters
and my breath quickens
and
i am reminded i have the power to change things
i set my course
and it is my impetus
which moves me
im not sure if im falling for her
but it sure feels like it
my friends think so too
it hurts to be away from her



brain friction
its a battle raging in my mind
it makes for verse
not about anything really
just what im feeling
a struggle
questions and answers
so many answers
they all seem reasonable
thats what drives me crazy
i know its all subjective
what is true
what is real
what is this
but the ravings of a child
being forced into an adult world
i just don't fit
i see whats wrong
i can't do anything to change
those who have broken it
claimed to have fixed it



its a saturday afternoon
im sitting on my computer
listening to music
the beatles as it were
writing writing writing
just for the sake of it
still trying to figure
out what to even say
making lines lines lines
of words words words
why am i doing this
why do i do anything
why why why



fighting to love
sleeping to wake
fleeing to stay
struggling to relax
changing to remain the same
this is how i feel


lines upon lines
no closer to the answer
lines upon lines
no farther from the truth


how do i feel;
not to be confused with what i feel
but rather how do i feel
what does the process entail
what inputs produce what output
in emotional terms
am i simply a machine
processing what i see
or am i more
are we more


i feel alone
but im not
i feel scared
but have nothing to fear
i feel content
but have no certainty
i have lost the words


ive seen sanity from both sides
as a place to return to
as a place to run from
if you've not been there these words mean nothing to you
if you have you know what im saying
then again
i wonder if anyone
knows what im saying


i think of you
and
it makes me smile
you're beautiful
you make me laugh
your strength inspires me
your spirit moves me
you make me
happy
i just want to smell your hair
and hold your hand
and be close to you
its a simple thing really
and not one you step into
or ease yourself into;
you fall,
all at once;
you fall
completely;
it's a kind of madness really.


stand up
rhymes don't come
just words
and not any sense
just a flow
dislodged
irreverant verse
pulsing through my fingers
no reason
only doubt
fear
the mind-killer
killing
hope, and struggle
giving in
to the relaxed failure
i have become


is free will an illusion?
do the choices i make matter;
i drive to the same inevitability
irregardless; fate has but one reward -



convertibles
laying unconverted
wasting away
sitting sadly
beneath an eager sun
and waiting wind



im a tomorrow man
i put it off whenever i can
until i find
my life left behind



i am yesterday
whence you came
with point of malice and of blame
your guilt you cannot tame
all this verse;
a waste, so same.


writing wrongs
filling wholes
nonsensual
unusuallike
ill stop until later



my fingertips like cannons brought to bear



word and fury through silence to tear



too smart for my own good
too stupid to be to anyone else's


the same, not different
bland, and boring
banal, and plain
the things i fear my drivel is
just words on paper nothing more
i want to move mountains
leave the world better than i found it
every cause is meaningless


a poem yet to be written
words now unsaid
the holy ground
where angels lust to tread

love, its so fucking simple,
why has it taken me so long to figure it out,
not to say that ive figured it out,
but now i know, its the answer,
to the question ive been afraid to ask,
its all that really matters
its the only thing that does anything
more than hate
more than fear
more than lust
it covers all
rights all wrongs,
its just that fucking simple
its just that fucking simple
its just that fucking simple

i have time
its the only thing i really have
why do i rush
why do i save
my only surplus crop
waste it
use it to grow
don't rush
don't race
don't fly
just walk
let the wind blow in my hair
let the sun shine on my face
let the music take me away
i have time
its the only thing i really have
waste it
 

looking glass singing
brandy
is my mother's
favorite song;
i may listen to that song
some time,
when,
if the fates choose,
my life stretches past,
and think of her,
its really sad
to think about;
but that time may never come.

what have i become,
a predator,
or the prey,
how i pray,
to know,
where
how
and
why
i stand
sit
kneel
lay
prostrate to the force
pushing
pulling
draggin me
to where
when
how
did this happen?

The clock ticked laboriously, edging onward to that blessed uncertainty, the obligatory fusion of the young and the brave. The hand moved slowly, gradually, with a decidedly fluid motion. “Her hands,” she thought, gleefully to herself, “won’t be moving that slow.” With that she slapped her knees lightly and stood. Looking about her apartment, gazing past the material burdens strewn around, she thought further about the clock, and glanced for the time. “Ten Twelve,” she thought aloud with a hand perched with attitude upon the graceful downslope of her upper right thigh,  “eighteen minutes to go. But perhaps she could be early.” Slipping back into silence she felt the slowness of time and the slow beckoning of the futures fold.

It was maddening, it had been so long, so very long, she ached for the softness, longed to rid herself the feeling of loneliness or to at least hide from it. Hide in the smell of her hair, the smooth soft curves of her shoulders, and the loving seduction of her voice, her every word. “Oh the sweetness of the electric charge of love. No words could do it justice,” she said trying to convince herself but with doubt she continued, ”or do the words escape me.” Although friends were always about, the loneliness never left her. It was as if no one spoke the same language. Stuck in a world surrounded and drowning in others but totally alone, and then found by one who not only hears and listens, but understands, and with every word paints the masterpiece of their desires, her desires, upon her very essence.

“Stop daydreaming, the time what is the time? Ten Fifteen.” Her skin crawled with a cold chill. “I want to be under the covers. I want to be held,” was her lonesome whine said with a quick nod of the head. Amused by her own childlike disposition she smiled and threw herself back down on her bed. The fluffy softness of her comforter instantly grabbed her, and being filled with down released a puff of coldness at first but instantly responded with a warm tight caress. It was like falling back into snow, a warm July snow. She gazed up at her ceiling and smiled and took a moment to be thankful for her life, the many blessings: family, friends, her education, her health, just everything. And the clock she looked at the clock, the anticipation, and then rose from the warm groove in the bed and walked to the door. Following a path well-worn on the floor, a path that often reminded her of humankind’s tendency to form habit, to wear a groove. Clearing her mind of the thoughts that haunt her, she approaches the door raises to her tippie-toes, in her socks, and peeked out the middle square of three windows in the door. Her nose rested, uncomfortably, on the sharp square trim under the window. Nothing, just the normal blankness of the view from her door was all that greeted her eyes. The outer world was wet today and cold with sharp breezes. A soul drenching white sky shone bleakly upon the city today. All clouds just making a bland contrast to the stark white drear of the day. She rested her back on the door and spread her hands on it. She could feel the cold through the door and knew she would meet the cold when the warmth of summer arrived shortly. She didn’t mind the former in lieu of the latter.

“The clock woman, look at the clock. Damn the clock. Get your mind of it. Her, I mean, her,” she corrected, smiling sidewise, amused by her own libido. It had been a long time. Not since being touched, but touched. Moved. Brought out of the darkness and into the light of a lantern held by fellow traveler. Aided and comforted. In the language of simplicity and hope, loved.

Her poetic musings lay silent to the sharp bang of a visitors hand upon the door. Her heart raced and an excitement moved from within her outward through her body at the speed of light filling her with a joyous relief after crossing a see of anticipation. She ran to the door, quietly ran, she must disguise her eagerness. Hold back. “I’m coming,” was cried aloud with a sweet air of hospitality. And with that she reached the door, raised on the sock feet to the window and peeked. All doubt and fear and loneliness subside as her eyes are filled with a view of her smiling guest. Filled with the soft curling ringlets of her crystal blond hair, not her real color, but radiant and flowing, with a brilliant glimmer that shone in spite of the drear upon the world. Filled with the gently curves of her face, shining smooth skin, and blue, ocean blue eyes. As her eyes came to her lips she paused for a thousandth of a second. The red burned her eyes for she saw the trembling passion in them, the red hotness was there and waiting. She had brought her lips, burning coals, hot from the blaze of her mind. Her fists clenched and her legs tensed making her slightly taller as her glance moved downward and she licked her own lips and smiled. Finished her glance as she saw her whole body in the last bits of that second. “An hourglass to make me unaware of the flow of time, how ironic,” she thought as she slid the bolt open and dropped from her toes with a bounce. She stepped back and opened the door. She was taken back by her. The view from this angle was much nicer. The overall shape of her body was delectable and would fit well pressed against her own she thought as she took her all in. Her dress, totally inappropriate for the weather, was a sky blue with cloudlike blotches of white and made of silk. It was short and flared just above the knees. It wasn’t racy by any means but still showed off the body it hid. Teasing her eyes with the incompleteness of the vision at hand. Forcing her imagination to render the details of the delectable softness hidden within. She thought for a moment of the silk of her dress always dancing on the edge of closeness and yet often not touching. The balance of sensation, the fleeting communion of two pieces into an ephemeral whole.

“Hello Ana, you look fabulous,” her guest said with a sideways bend of her body and a slap of the wrist. She used the kind of fake charm you see on a used car lot, but only for humor, for that was her way, and underneath lay nothing but the purest and cleanest intentions.

“Likewise, my sweet prince-,” and after a decided pause Ana replied, “-cess.” She went on with a giggle, “Em, my dear, it is so good to see you.”

            Ana’s hand pierced the threshold, grabbed Em’s hand and pulled her in. Pulled her as if on a ballroom floor, as Fred swung Ginger wildly and landed her in his waiting arms. And Em complied. She threw her head back sharply and fell into Ana’s embrace, a fluid fall, and serendipitous stumble into that for which she had always searched, those ears tuned to her voice, those hands designed to hold her own, those lips, that passion. A passion to quicken the pulse and raise the eyelids. The kind that makes you feel dizzy just from the thought, like a cool breeze on a hot summer day, a moment of relief from the smothering heat, what reason and logic can’t explain, only existent in the realm of the felt.

            They stood there, joined, and twirling, lifted from life to that transcendental realm, that place where time stands still and aches to move on. The place of ecstatic freedom, on the delicate balance of pleasure, where reason is trampled by throb of emotion.

When time regained its flow they slowly backed away from each other. And opened their eyes. Ana was filled with warmth and the void within her vanished. She felt complete. Her eyes were refilled with the vision of Em. The perfect graceful Em. Here at her fingertips, it was overwhelming, the object of her passion and desire, here and willing, at her complete disposal. The responsibility crept in her mind. The cup before her overflowed, and she must not spill a drop. Ana wanted her all.

Ana took Em by the hand and said, “Let’s go to the kitchen. I have a surprise for you.” And with that they ran, hand in hand, bouncing, through Ana’s small but large to-the-eyes apartment. They quickly reached their goal and Ana quickly turned and caught Em. Ana Pulled her close and moved to kiss her. Em sighed in bliss as the excitement within Ana was quickened into an immanent manifestation of carnal desire. Ana thought of the coals, the burning coals, and needed the heat like the addict needing a fix. And the heat, how wonderful! Ana felt all the softness of her, each sensuous ripple of her soft fat lips. She backed away for a moment, opened her eyes, met the waiting gaze of Em and melted into the universal oneness with her. Another kiss, but with passion this time. Ana bent her head and devoured Em. Her hands moving to the place where she could give the most contact, blessed contact, the contact that banished the aloneness within her, made her complete! The kiss was so much more than the embrace they shared moments ago. This was the battle of souls fighting to be free of their bodies that imprisoned them and merge into an ethereal unity above the crude physical. Ana felt Em’s grip on her tighten and. Any doubt Ana had about the feelings of Em were quickly fading. But to what end was this journey taking them. Ana wanted Em, all of Em, and for all time. Ana had never known any completeness prior to Em. But here it was, all at once, everything she had searched for, intelligence, beauty, an open mind, and a desperation to fill that mind with knowledge, poetry and books, music and art, Em was amazing to Ana. God, how Ana wanted to be amazing in someone else’s eyes.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” said Ana through the attacking of Em’s eager lips.

“This wasn’t it?”

“No.”

“What then?” said Em under a raised eyebrow. A perfectly shaped, seductive eyebrow angled in the middle above those eyes, the pure blue eyes.

“You’ll see.”

Ana ran to the icebox and withdrew a bowl and a gravy boat.

“Gravy? Is that what I am to you, meat?” laughed Em.

“No, silly, look,” and with that she uncovered the bowl revealing fresh topped strawberries and raspberries.

Em was taken back in joyous shock. She eyed the gravy boat.

“Heavy cream, the whipping kind, with a little sugar, and a little vanilla,” said Ana smartly with a cute finish.

Ana watched Em lick her lips. Those lips, how she wanted them, even after just tasting them the desire to do so again was overwhelming. She trembled at the thought and Em must have noticed for she gave a bright smile, raised both eyelids, and bounced once. This made Ana so happy. The feeling that Em understood increased with her every action. Ana was falling deeper and deeper.

“Can I have some?” begged Em as she brought her hands together in a playful and prayerful pose.

“I’ll feed you,” softly and fearfully inquired Ana, and after a pause, “if you want.”

“Oh, that I might taste your fingertips,” Em challenged.

Ana poured the cream over the waiting berries.