these are the times

there are times of special
meaning. transformations that
take us not by surprise
but by the hair, dragging
pulling into the vortex
of feelings, whirlwind of
reluctant change. and the more things change
the more they stay changed? can't
find my way through old
names, feelings, proverbs, wisdom of
peoples, when however wordy
it is my life I am
attempting to live, create
and my life, contrary to this firmly embedded
assumption of mine, is more, is
way more than
words. and here I am, dosing myself with
plots, to keep from kicking and
screaming, slowing down the
necessary replication of cells
of thought. because when the solutions
finally emerge, they're simple, they're
thoughts that I've seen before, had before
only too quiet to get
through. And so, finally, I realize
this time, this body, this mind
and hope, again, that there's something left
of time, so that I
can do my best, before getting hit
by a falling
star of frustration

[like a brick from a window
on a spring morning
fated and random
depending on language
and spaces you leave
in between]

sometimes we kiss, and

Sometimes he
keeps his eyes open, when we kiss. I wonder why,
observing this from beneath
lowered lashes. Does he fear
missing a trick or being tricked by
some duplicity on my part? my concealed
boredom, or malice or maybe
indifference? or is it - perhaps - a hunger to
inhale it all? or does he seek
my awareness, connection I deny
shutting my eyes? I wonder at this.
I wonder if. I wonder now, of
course, cause when we kiss
the wonder of this (being this, having this)
just takes my breath away, and yes, his gaze
does it too. And while I love the heat
contained in it, I do like it best
when his eyes slide to a close - not quite willing
that loss of sight, but sighs make up for
a lot, and yes, yes, yes to those trembling lashes
- the gentlest caress.

way to the heart - dialogue of special gender awareness

R: [eyes closed in bliss, savouring] There's some truth in that "way to the heart goes through stomach" proverb.
M: I think it was "way to man's heart" actually, dear.
R: [blinks] ...
R: Whatever. [digs back into her food]

post-it note built on mis-take

please don't misuse
the miss-yous. They are what
is meant to be a beauty of the later, of
joys to come. 'longing is the virginity
of happiness'. please don't misuse
as musings of longing should be the
active, the pre-eve of wonder. please don't mis-,
understand that. please. I will erect
a sign for myself, a sign for others - all
because missing and misuse
should never, ever
be confused,
my love i miss you, but i won't
- to mess up, i refuse.

I send him out for sweet sweet wine and think of scare of falling
I send him out for dry wine, and I wait the sound of calling
me on my phone, I'm not alone, I'm getting used to skin to skin
to mouth to mouth moth to the flame then I'm remade, all in the name
of words translated, words that flow and change beside my pillow.

I am an explorer -- now chilled to the bone
done nothing, yet feel like I've just run a marathone of
unending stairs. here we declare non-
declarational statuses of
bonuses. as fits the benefits, there are sours and sweets
and fits of freakouts, breakouts of
allergic shivers that to those in the
know spell no
like a language forgotten misbegotten mislaid
somewhere on the road I
try to relearn, reload, reclaim
the my-ness of it, the sweetness of mine, but
caffeinated exhaustion meets me with
cold fingers fisting into
stones of bones.
heaviness seeping through
nailing me down, down, down and then
I give up on myself for a little while
with a helpless smile, or that confused frown
paving the way there -- maybe, maybe
there's another day.

of shopping trips, or being tripped by shopping [intro to my life with M]

Instance one: he goes for black tea. He comes back with croissants and goat cheese. He forgets the tea.

Instance two was even better -

And then he comes back from an ordinary, run-of-the-mill morning [relatively speaking*] shopping trip for sausages and possibly croissants, brandishing:

Exhibit A: unknown object which, after investigation, turns out to be a pack of beans ["damn, I thought they were sweets!"]

Exhibit B: tooth-cringingly sweet chocolate pralines, which he insists on feeding me;

Exhibit C: oh wait, tooth-cringing title belongs to the baclava, feeding remains unchanged [sweets before breakfast! blasphemy!]

Exhibit D: an unknown fruit, which is possibly an avocado, because "it was just there". To my exasperated: "What am I supposed to do with it?" I heard:

- I don't know. Love it?


Well. Indeed.







*It was breakfast we were making. There were eggs and all. It was also 4:30. p. m.