I Don’t Want to Be in Love Today

It may sound traitorous,
But I don’t want to be in love today.
Want just me and myself to sail away.
To feel the breeze instead of on my knees,
To be apart except for in the heart,
To be like one yet spread apart,

Even when I love it…there are storms.
Even when I’m with you I’m always torn,
I’m a loner whose living unnaturally,
I’d give it up,
Because I love you naturally.
But with that said
I don’t want to be your love today.
Just pack my things and run away,
And it is nothing that you’ve done
But I’d like to be just me originally,
To be,
Alone like a person,
Even though I’m half a person without you.
Somehow it seems the best thing to do.

You’re not like me.
No you’re desperately in love,
In a way I cannot be,
Because I like to be alone with me,
Does that change a thing?
When I sing my songs about you?
When I only want to dance with you?
If so what shall I do?

Don’t tell me I’m not a lover,
If everything isn’t about him,
I love and I do miss him,
But I miss me myself alone too,
So the wisest thing to do,
Is temporarily to try  to be,
Alone with me.

*Poetry for an introverted lover.

Stark and Colorful Silence.

Churning emotions bubble forth,
Too much silence in the noise,
Everything stark,
Colorful only because of yearning,
Pulses pounding turns to pressure building,
Thudding, laughing, with the beat of blood,
And the heat that pierces through much and mud,
Leaving him and I and us together,
Alone,
Then together,
Breaths speeding in unison,
Bright red, yellow like wheat, and black like ravens,
With that subtle sort of blue that highlights the dark,
As scream through our hearts,
As the crowd listens.
As the sweat stains sheets and clothes and sofas,
As they laugh.

As they die.

Everything stark in perfect clarity,
Super heightened superficiality,
Fuck it and enjoy it.
Means everything, but ignore it when
The Light Comes Up And
The city is full of empty noise,
But for a moment there is an excited silence between,
Lovers…between…enemies…between breaths.
The spaces between the pulses.
The spaces between the buildings.
The silence between the screams.

So What Is The Difference between Love and Hate?

Leather Bound

“Leather Bound Babes?”
He reads the title and laughs like a mad man, utterly unable to ignore the contorted figure on the cover. She just chuckles and pulls another book from the book store’s battered gunmetal grey shelves.

In that quiet back corner of the book store they were surrounded by bodice rippers and rippling bare chested cowboys. Titles with subtly obscene and obnoxious names surrounded them, and reminded them how many innuendos included the words “come” and the phrase “Doing the”. For all the joking and the laughing, they shared a mutual love of the romance section. Their gentle jabs and riffs arose from a place of pure affection, not petty scorn for a genre. Her life had been where the book had been her one constant companion in the face of scorn, and of course she read those silly titles to feel a love once deemed impossible for her to find. His love of the genre came from sneaking in his mother’s stack of books from the library or thrift store after he blew through his own. He read page after page not caring about it being “kissy kissy stuff”, as he told her.

“Sometimes I wonder if these male models have faces or anything else besides chests.”

She laughed. “What more do they need…well-” she whispered, “besides fourteen inch dicks?” They both chuckled and glanced around to make sure no wandering youngsters could hear them. “Apparently that’s all women want.”

“Is it true?” He teased.

“Oh god no, but it is a nice thought. Just…” she motioned towards the field of covers surrounding them from the front and flank. “very ultra common.”

“Well, it sort of suits the genre, no?” he said.

“The books aren’t bad. The covers often are, but that makes them more fun.” She picked a bright purple cover with a couple leaning against a ranch fence from the shelf. As she scimmed the pages she saw, from the corner of her eye, him watching her closely. “What’s on your mind?” As she spoke her eyes fell on the phrase ‘engorged rod’. For some reason that one always tripped her up and made her laugh. Something about it seemed so retro and so visceral and yet so not descriptive. She just found it…oddly hilarious.

“It’s cool that you’re cool with this,” he said.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“A lot of people would give me shit if they knew a big burly guy like me liked this stuff.” Sadly, she agreed that people would be so stupid.

“People are shitty, but you are perfect.” She leaned up on her tip toes and placed a soft kiss against his full and soft lips, which curled into a smile as they pulled away. She lived to see that smile.

Her boyfriend looked like a friendly neighborhood lumberjack with the beard and broadness to match. For the New Year, he’d begun working out regularly, pushing himself to the limit and then farther. The result was his natural broadness gained tone and got a bit broader, a bit harder, and he really looked like one of those men of the mountain. But he didn’t play any B.S games about what he should do as a man. He could fix a truck and then drive it to craft store, would be the first to suggest salad for dinner, and ,dare she say, he cried at the same points in movies she did. The night before they had watched Beaches. It was a mess and they ran out of kleenex. Actually, that was why they’d gone out and they decided on the way to get more books.

Like they didn’t have enough books.

“I’m not perfect,” he said as he turned to the covers. Dozens of chiseled bare chests stared back at him and his face knotted a little. She wrapped an arm around his own, a small comfort in the face of his own insecurities. He never wanted to be jacked, but she’d sense he’d been somewhat unhappy with his build. He didn’t lose a shit ton of weight,  and replace it with lean muscle Chris Evans Captain America like muscle. He gained muscle and it just layered under his chubby bits. He wasn’t as fat as he thought he was. He had a bit of tummy, a nice butt(which she grabbed often), and the sort of meatiness she found comforting. Why didn’t he see it that way? His eyes absorbed those cover images with half covetous jealousy, and she pulled him closer. Through their winter pea coats she felt his warmth surround her and she nuzzled against him.

“Do you know what I like about you?” she asked.

“My charming wit and lackluster personality?”

She shook her head, then beamed up at him with all the love in her heart.

“You’re very real. You aren’t a ken doll. You have meat, and substance, and a unique feeling. I like you in my arms, and on my body and…in my body.” She watched his cheeks beam firetruck red, a better sign of how effective her words were than anything he could say. “Truthfully very few of these guys do it for me, but you…you’re real to me, for me, and your flaws are perfect.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say, and so he kissed her again, sealing his mouth to hers. In seconds a deep meaningful kiss descended into raw meaningful passion. They were consumed by each other, breathing in a moment in time that would never be exactly repeated. A quiet couple solidifying one part of their love surrounded by books that often subverted the cozier notions of love like reading together, shopping together, or simply not being those perfect people.

“Ahem?” A voice startled them.

The couple instantly parted, both flustered and feeling a tad exposed as a store clerk rounded the corner. As she struggled to say the socially appropriate thing he cleared his throat then said “Sorry, this seemed the best section for romance.”

“Well,” the clerk chuckled, “Romance is the section not lust.”

“Judging by the look of it, ” she said glancing around them. “Not exactly.”

To Kiss A Girl? Poetry for the Idle Mind.

What does it take to kiss a girl?
Must you be filled with desire?
Must you be ruled by primal compulsion?
Perhaps you must feel brave and full of things,
No one could ever give word to.
What does it take to kiss a girl with,
Diamond eyes,
And fire lips,
And fuller hips,
And a laugh like vinegar,
But that never makes you wilt.
What is it like to kiss a girl?
Is it soft like feather down,
Or warm and spiced like warmed cinnamon,
Or mulled wine?
Is it spicy like raw chilis against your lips,
Or tantalizing like chocolate covered chilis
Repeating the nature of artisan delights,
That excite…that burn…
That leave you quivering and aching and…
I do not know.
I wish I did, but I do not know.
But if I did know I’d imagine it’d be
Slow…
Warming until it explodes…
At once sweet like sugar…
And creamy like the finest custard,
I imagine it’d be a lot like this poem.
I imagine it’d be a new kind of perfect.
*************************************

Oh I should mention my books are out now:
Suffer too Good

“If the last round left me with only pleasure to think about…this round would leave me with only him on my mind. Mike promised to push me when we started this, but he could be full of more surprises than I ever knew.”

Dirty Honey

“In the world of lust and the taboo there is fear, but there is also unyielding passion. Eve may be an accountant by day, but Carver has opened her eyes to that world of bondage, submission, and connection that shows she’s far more than the chubby girl her co-workers know. The world doesn’t know their deep dark secrets, and they’re beginning to push how far they can go before someone figures it out even if it means risking everything for a public thrill.”

Out of Control

Low bass rumbling through our chests
Threatening to make them burst as,
The sound vibrates through our systems,
Fills our veins until they ache driving us to,
Strange and beautiful desires,
Taking sense and turning to,
Compulsion,
Swaying hips entice you and you,
Grab me in the dark,
You press me so close I feel the beat of your heart,
My breath hitches in my throat,
My skin yearns for everything they wrote,
The adrenaline fed by blasting beauty,
Urging me into a lustful frenzy,
Pushing me further and further,
Into going from saint to sinner,
The words leave my lips as we,
Dance until all we want is to,
Find some dark corner and let lose,
But we settle for this,
Compulsion.

For W. on that night I’ll always remember and the first time we danced together.

“I watched her feet move
Her hips they sway
Does a hair flip
And starts to say
‘oh my god it’s my favorite song’
I pull her close and she sings along”

Beating Back the Tide: Or my summer poetry.

Beating back the tide.
A child with wet open palms laughs.
Another quietly hums her way through playing architect in the sand.
And I am here,
Wet and warm and open like a half healed wound.
I shall never be closed again.
The humor is lost on me,
But I am here.

Beating back the tide.
Someone somewhere asks if I’ve had enough.
“Child with dark skin and kinky hair.
When will you stop being angry?”
When you stop saying my passion,
Is anger.
The humor is not lost on me.
But I am here.
Alive.

Beating back the tide.
Someone somewhere asks if I’ve ever tried harder.
The onslaught of rejections is smaller than,
The mountain of passive hurtful silence.
Words on a page run like old coffee down a drain,
Staining the sink in heart shapes,
in teddy bears and barbie dolls,
in blood splatter and sweat stains.
More art there, I wonder, then inside.
The humor is just irony.
But I am here.
I hope I am alive.

Beating back the tide.
My tight neatly trimmed lines blur into,
Uneven screams of terror that are quickly dismissed as,
Selfishness for wanting and pleading to not be as poor as,
Those who came before with their beauty and their lessons drilled into,
My head, disrupting old familiar patterns on quilted brain,
Synapses digging into tangled thread caverns,
Empty prayers to gods no one else believes in,
about a god everyone believes in.
A tricky silence.
Quiet sobs.
Am I?

Beating back the tide.
He quietly laughs plopping in sharp cheeses.
Ooey gooey garlic blends with favorite butters and love.
Carefree dog sits on the sofa, staring out at things only he notices.
The squirrels run away even if he doesn’t bark.
I like that about him, & whisper “good dog”.
Hands get tangled in clothes and hair.
Lines get trimmed with kisses.
A moment of forgetfulness.
A moment of peace.
I am here.