One and done…

So what are you afraid of? That I can’t get enough? That it’s not your face I’ll see in moments between you and me? That the permissions you gave will haunt your dreams? Should we have kept it all hush, hush? Bury the fantasies. Or, did I give you ammunition for your assaults on my reverie.

Forget what you know or think you knew about me. And all about her! Forget her, forget the promised scenes, spit out the taste of the way her names rolls from my lips in secret ecstasy. Her scent on my tongue in your morning kisses. 

The touch of her skin seared in the locked memory of dead days gone by. The smile in my eyes, the laughter in the wind, the moan in my pillow, the twist in my sheets.

Somethings you can’t take back! You can’t pull the leash on what you realeased and you can’t cry or beg or pray or plead. What’s done in haste fulfills the need. 


Lucky number six…

I’m sure I could have fucked her in the parking lot, but for once I showed some restraint. You know how people always say, “It’ll happen when you least expect it!” Well, I’ve never truly believed that, until last night.

Because I wasn’t aware of the change of chemistry in the air around me and lucky number six. I only felt the thrill of changing winds when she whispered, “I have wanted to kiss you for a week, now”. That’s the moment I knew; the Earth had tilted on its axis and shifted in my favor.

The first time I saw her, she was sitting alone at the bar. Normally I’d only size her up to see which of us had the upper hand in the room. To my surprise she didn’t even glance my way. I was a nonissue to her. Confidence oozed from her pores–an unfamiliar quality in my encounters.

She was a force in the room, a six-foot tall, dishwater blonde, covered in exotic water colored tattoos. My complete opposite and not exactly what I’d call “my type”. I was for once without the power of being the prowess. I was the prey.

Her flirtations were subtle at best. We shared a few drinks and laughs that first weekend. I inquired about her tattoos, made jokes and carried on in my usual fashion. The fact that her mind was on my lips never truly occurred to me.

As I took a seat next to her on the patio the next weekend, it was simply because I enjoyed her playfulness. As the night wore on, those subtle flirtations grew in intensity. “I love your outfit”, “your hair”, … to “you’re fucking hot”.

I chuckled at her, chuckled… I’ve never heard those words in that context. Maybe I was giddy or more nervous. I blew her off, waved a hand of dismissal and laughed some more.

The night progressed and led into an evening of small touches, lingering glances, an undercurrent of erotic advances that led us to a back alley behind the bar. Standing face to face looking at the moment— I moaned into the crook of her neck—fire in her eyes said the words before she did, “I want to kiss you”. And I’ve never been one to deny someone of their hard fought wishes.

There are few words that can accurately describe the feeling of another woman’s lips touching your own and so for the sake of saving inaccuracies I’ll describe how the night sky that that was filled with inky blackness burst into a bazillion shooting stars, a full moon, a lunar eclipse and every single night sky anomaly— all of them combined in that one unforgettable kiss from a woman who wanted it.

Quiet Contrary…

I’ll tell you how hard the soil is. When I pour onto it, nothing sinks in. It sits on the surface and spreads away from me but never reaches you. 

Some days, I use a pick axe and tap it, just to see if it will give. Other days a sledgehammer. In quiet moments, I believe I can hear the trickle of long ago buried spring, sitting just below the surface. In mayhem, it is drowned out by incessant cries of the here and now. 

I used to plant wildflowers, yellow ones. Large, undulating sunflowers, poisonous poppy, fields of bluebell. I watched them turn their faces towards the sun, drink it in and bask in its glory. Why I falied to notice them wilt, I am never sure and can not say. 

Even the souls of my feet refused to sink into the cracks so clearly visible to the naked eye. Hardened by the drought, scraping along the edges of a field not tended. A seed of hope can no longer grow, choked out by time’s harsh truth. 

Forgetful Me…

I’ve almost forgotten the way she felt against my skin, the taste of her desire and the hitch of her breath in the moment my lips touched hers. 

I’ve almost forgotten the smell of her skin, the texture of her chocolate hair and the look on her face the moment my fingers slid down her skin.

I can’t seem to find the color of her eyes imprinted on my mind from some forgotten space in time, some old abandoned room, some three stories up too high.

I can’t recall the laughter in her smile, the turn of an unfamiliar phrase, the cry of unmentionable desire or whimper of repressive self denial. 

Where once there was a spark, there’s only an ember of a flame. Some days I can barely remember the sound of her name. 

Memories turn gutter-trail gray, soaked, and drift away far from the tight grasp of youthful reverie. If only for a moment, I could grasp them in the palms of time, curl the fingers and hold on tight, I’d never shut my eyes in the hopes to stall the dawn of another day that I’ve almost forgot. 


People leave.

Maybe they don’t mean to, but they do. And then again, maybe that was the intention all along. 

At six years old, I learned daddy’s leave. And sometimes they build brand new families to take the place of the ones they left behind. 

Don’t even bother turning around, just keep walking. 

Even brothers leave, spend their lives locked up–in drugs, prison, and bitterness. Can’t even look back, six by eight feet space to walk, no! Sway. 

Boyfriends leave, when you won’t go all the way at 14. They find girls to replace you and they never look back, just keep on walking. 

Best friends leave, when they see you making other friends and all of the sudden it’s not just you and them and they walk away and never even look back. 

Husbands leave, girlfriends, and even moms. They will leave… it’s hard to say if they ever look back. Just decide one day to keep walking. 

It doesn’t matter what you do or might try to say, if they are hell bent on leaving you should let them walk away

and never look back. 


I used to wonder about the ash, the dark grayness of it scattered in my darkest dreams, my visions, the voices, images in my head. 

It was chaos, that I could not change. Until, I found you there. Not exactly you–younger–maybe even your daughter? Impossible? She doesn’t exist. Or does she? In another lifetime or world, even.

Can’t you see it? Long black hair cascading and curling on bare porcelain shoulders–pale like clouds against smoke. Next to her, a golden beauty and without seeing her, I know she’s mine or me? Or maybe younger? Strands of flaxen, top-knotted against the base of her kneck, falling to obscure icy-blue-sky-turned-eyes. 

Walking, no! Dancing like ballerinas, twirling in Saris of purple, burgandy, periwinkle, and gold. The vision of a far away city, on the verge of sunset, painting an already orange and yellow sky. 

The wind begins to blow and that’s when I see it, the ash. Beginning to fall like snowflakes, a warm shower, swinging from the end of a three corded chain, attached to the hands of a man we don’t know- cleansing us? 

Reverent in the circle, with our eyes closed as  the fabric billows around us and waves with the wind. Lilac smells, floral headiness, so heavy we can no longer stand in its presence–kneel, bow. 

Ashes to ashes…

Fully awake…

I used to believe it was me, the flaw. That I drove them all away. Something inside of me was broken, unworthy, unfulfilled, and needy. 

I was certain that I needed to fix the error of my ways, change for him or her or them. Fit into the box, cut your own arms off if they won’t fit the mold. 

Am I tired, she asks? Tired? Am I tired?…

No, tired would be convenient; tired is an excuse; tired is taking responsibility and taking the blame. 

What I am is sick!

Sick of lies, sick of two-faced covert conversations, sick of definitions and rules, games people play, sick of turning the other cheek.

In fact, I’m all out of cheeks and I’m nauseous from turning. My hands are dirty, but I’m cleansing them now. 

My head is bowed but not bloody, my shoulders are sore,yet I’ll ask for more weight. My knees are scraped, my palms are burning, my heart no longer racing, my eyes no longer shining. 

Even so, I’ll rise again! And again! And once again! 

Giving up…

I’m giving up

On you and the dream

The dream that whispered 

You can have it all

All of it was a lie


Broken promises easily breathed 

Road blocks and lies 

And more lies

Until the the thought of you

Makes me sick

To my core

No more, I’m giving up

What Matters?…

Aren’t you tired she asked me? No, she begged me… to understand, that it didn’t matter…

If the whole damn world decided that they didn’t like who I was, if they didn’t like my hair color, or my size, or my new dress, or whether or not I wore a thong or lace underwear or if I liked him or liked her or liked them both and at the same time 

And it didn’t matter if I believed in God or Heaven or Hell or life or death or here and now or the afterlife or reincarnation. It didn’t matter if I laughed or cried or ate too much or starved myself. It didn’t matter if I gave up or kept going if I pushed them away or held on too tightly. It just didn’t matter…

To them…

It only makes me tired, exhausted really–weighted down in heavy chains, 





lost and forever 


Innocence Unnecessary…

And so I say to her, you have a beautiful smile. Because she does. And she does, smile and laugh and it takes my breath away.

It erases everything I thought I knew about her and about me and the past and the future and possibility. Yes, I’ve pictured her in private places and in public too, watched sparks fly like fireflies in the broad daylight under watchful jealous eyes.

Glanced away for a moment to see if they see it, then decide I don’t care and meet right back up her eyes don’t glance away, they stay. For once- they stay…My heart can’t take this sprinter’s pace- she laughs and promises to keep me young–

And I want to believe her, how I want to be with her. Hear her sultry-smokey-gravely tone so loud that it drowns the South–a silent Southern never-gonna-be.