Swim the Depths

is there a need for more scuba diving rather than skimming over the surface.  Aren't we all superficial until someone dives in. 

At some point we stop being children, taking in all the information. 
Think of all the things everyone tries to teach us, where we take it all and make some determination. 

Is this how I’m going to lead my life?

How do you take someone into the rat race we're in? Give them that time.  A place deprived of lifes bombardment.  There comes a point when too much is too much.  We have to purge to survive. 

Life with another person can bring you to this point, in a divorce or break up.  Others don’t fit into the formula of further existence. 

First stages of a relationship are what you think that other person would do for you.  Over time the formula changes, the other doesn’t fit into the scheme. 

A superficial relationship is one taking a person to where they think they need to go.  He has money, he fathered my children, has great sex, he’s fun to be around, but none go into the formula of your core.  A perfect individual is one who relates to this core make up. 

Time, changes the picture of your life. Each day experiences influence your make up.  A wife raising a child,  stops getting stimulation.  she gets to a certain point.  A man going into a job, travels, experiences different environments, grows with everything seen.  Returning to her, shows him her limits.  Raising a child can be so rudimentary, only a few variances occur.  Day after day there are things but at some point a wall is hit. You can stop or you die.  Doing the same things is the beginning of the end.  Fight the familiar parts of your life, accepting anything that is new and different is stimulating. 

Hooking someone, like a fish in the water, pulls him from where he wants to go, out of the depths of the water.  You have to stay in the water to survive but being brought up to the surface you see an entirely different world. The deeper you’ve gone into the pressures of a level, the harder it becomes to move up.  You develop a capability to swim at a depth, and it's the only way you can survive.  Moving up to the surface, where less pressure makes you expand farther than you are adapted to.  You'd like to go there but your adaptation prevents you from existing there. 

Surface swimmer can’t go down to those depths either.  They can meet at middle ground but neither can venture for long in each other’s world.  If you don’t listen to your gut, swimming at a depth you're built for, you will break down, sickness, disease, illness all infect you.  Your decision to be some where you shouldn’t be, shortens your life.  Pressure blocks your ability to flow.  Age makes it difficult to override.  The incorrectness of your life path.  Your heart fails when you’ve gone too deep.

Coffee with cat

Height, shape, size, all aligned in her.  Blue jeans fit around her proportioned hips, a slight curve over her pockets. The smooth cliffs of her shoulders, her front not over stated, like the freshness of buds of a spring blossom.  Long strands of hair pulled back, dark with nothing astray.  Tip to toe the blink of all of her stood out in her presence.

This reply, marks an image of the flow coursing within her river.  Leather heels click upon the linoleum walking back to the counter from the back.  Below the La Cimbeli machine, the surface of the counter at the waist of her jeans, the brown leather belt accentuating the border of the dark gray tee shirt.  No waves ripple under the surface, her skin taint just below its surface.  The view plenty to see, as the right and left, work of the coffee machine progresses.  Every glimpse of the height of her middle behind the apparatus of her job, gives me plenty to write about.  In a V shaped cone, coffee pikes in, ready for grinding and another espresso.  A click of the lever, coffee grounds drop into the heavy metal press.  Split seconds the widest part of its cone, lines up with her eyes.  Further description is blocked by a couple between us.  As they move over, the V of dark beans is outlined by the white alabaster skin of her face and neck, the swoping neck line penetrated by the point of the cone bottom.  She snapshots my brain with a burn that will last.  My coffee is cold and the brown bag of my muffin is collapsed.

Prolong the day

Prolonging the day until the time comes; the bright light of death.  Hold off, it’s not time yet.  All the years have gone by, taking a little each day, some, more than other, depending on the indulgence, drinking, smoking, eating, drugs, athletics, exercise, environment, sun, cold, or jobs.   With stress or environmentally hazardous, all contribute to the early demise.

Time to look; it’s not too late to keep yourself on a path to a longer life.  Think of bombarding rays from an alien planet trying to end all existence with each deadly zap.  Not a dominate foe, his instrument of destruction is low voltage so each little jolt hardly noticed, cumulative it accelerates the door closing.

Work long hours, stressed with the need to perform, and no matter the consequences appear to be the only way to get the money, to live the life away from this environment.  I have to work like this; they pay me to do it.  By the time you get away, your tank’s so low, you’ve got to shut down to charge up.  Each refill never seems enough.  To justify the time, you need to overcompensate for the time away.  Play hard work hard.  What toll does it take on you? 

He worked fixing cars.  Skin on his hands, never pink and soft but dark with grease, seeping into the valleys of his finger prints, recessed below the soap he’d apply.  With no barrier, chemicals penetrated the epidermal layer, into his blood stream, coursing through his body, ultimately to his liver.  Everyday it filtered, cleansing the daily grim, until the residue removed by the amazing system, left in excrements.  If not in his hands, in the air these toxins came in, taken into his lungs thousands times a day.  Vital gases travelled across air sac membranes, directly into the blood stream, detrimental or vital made no difference. At the end, the livers filter became contaminated and broken.

 What ever goes in must come out.  Your choice is to find away to get what’s needed with as little extra as possible. 

The Coffee Shop

She leans over the coffee bean cabinet, 15 silvery chrome knobs, fastened to the plexiglass trap doors of each bin.  Lifting one for inspection, her eyes dip down into the chocolate brown beans, breathing aroma of the roasted mix.  Behind her back, fingertips pinch a white muffin bag and a black cell phone.  She’s ready to dip into the bag for a bite or push of the buttons to answer a call. 

In the corner the image of the roaster sits, no other piece of machinery has this indentity, a combination cement mixer, oven, turn table, all in one.  Out of the burlap bag marked Brazil, green beans are scooped into the coned top, sliding into the heating chamber for roasting.  Like a front end loaded washing machine, each bean tumbles to a deep roasted dark brown. Seconds before they're burnt the attendant lifts a large silver ball knob, then allows the baked beans to cascade onto a spinning round cooling table.   The fine edge where their  not done, to one too burnt, can be reached by the roaster handling the machine.  If he doesn’t use all of his senses and experience to get it right the finished product will be unacceptable.  Everything depends on his proficiency.

The flavor of the bean, the two rooms, the tables, the glass windows out the front, the individuals that sit, the girls who push the buttons on the cash register, the coffee pouring in the black and white ceramic cup sitting on the table next to me make it all different.  You don't find as many orders for drinks with five parts to describe what you get.  For me just Sumatra, Kenya, Brazil or other exotic locations are just fine for the cup next to me.

Everyone in this place has a reason to be here, they keep coming back, all the parts are good, attracting each individual to want to spend moments here, rather than any place else. 

 

Madeline

Her hands play the keyboard; fingers glide like the legs of a tarantula, gracefully the thinness of her digits, move from one side to the other, down till the contacts strike the circuit board, sending impulses to the screen.  A smile across her face flashes with her flurry of letters, waiting for a reply from the other end.  Closer to the screen her eyes move, an index finger touches the mouse pad, moving the cursor to the next spot.  She knows no one watches her, unconciously she picks at her nails, her cuticles, consumed with him, inside the screen of her laptop.

 Am I wrong, what she sees, eyes frown, a hand on her forehead, as she reads. Clenched fist, bent elbow, palm resting on her chin, clasped fingers over her mouth; not believing what’s there, her hand opens, touching the surface of her forehead. 

Both hands jump down to the keys, five seconds progress as letters move across the screen with each stroke. 

I've written sixteen lines about her, without knowing who she is. Does she remain anonymous to me?  Do these moments remain hers?  If I said something to her would she be invaded?  Am I stealing her privacy from her?  If she never knews she will never know she lost it.  How will she react to what I’ve done?  Would she even care?  Would she be flattered that someone had taken the time?  Let it go. 

Dropping my cup in the dirty dishes container next to her, excusing myself, she looked up from the screen.

“I’m sorry but I must tell you, I’ve stolen some moments with you.” She was flattered not offended. Asking about what she was doing, she said.   It wasn’t a relationship; it was about linked in, a network of acquaintances. 

“Are you a writer?”  “I guess I am. “

“My name is Madeline.” ” Do you go by Maddy”  “that too.”

“I’m John, thank you for letting me write a half a page about you.”

She's more than before, a name, a face, a smile, of a girl that strikes a chord in me.  A river of beauty that you could swim in. 

Fingers of a tarantula, a little rough, they bend and move as the sculpture in the pond of the Como conservatory.  They are not straight, rigid, angling in.  Each joint flexing opposite, flicking, extending up till they touch down on the surface of the plastic. 

Maddy is more than before.  Short blond hair, red rimmed glasses pulled up on the top of her head, a black sweater clinging tight to her shape, highlighting in contrast against the jacket over her shoulders.  As soft in front, as from the side, I got lost in her, too much to handle.  I had to go before I was too much for her. 

“Thank you for the moment and the half a page.”

 “You're welcome.” melting with the sound of her voice.

 My back burned from her eyes looking at me as I walked away.  Now wishing I took one last look back to get another glance, maybe a smile just for me.  She trenched a dendrite in me; she lingers to return at another time.  A time for a serendipidous event.  Her shiny surface was as bright below as what I saw.

 

A different speed

For a friend, I purchased a gift card at a local coffee shop.

After the cashier activated the Christmas gift card, placing it in a holder, she had to put it in an envelope.

This challenge presented itself, the speed of the envelope the card had to go into, was not equal to how fast she had been all day.

Fiddling with the exercise, she figured to complete it, a down shift to the next clip had to occur.

Within second she reevaluated what she was doing in order to get it done. Moments added to the total time since she slowed down. Once finished, she looked relieved, handing the envelope with its contents to me.

I smiled, saying. "It seems the envelope was not at the same speed as you were."

She felt my sympathy and smiled back, saying, "I think you're right on that."

Stella, Stella

Shut your ears tight against this blarneying Irish liar and actor. Read no more of his letters. He will fill his fountain pen with your heart's blood, and sell your most sacred emotions on the stage. … He is treacherous as only an Irishman can be: he adores you with one eye and sees you with the other as a calculated utility. He has been recklessly trying to please you, to delight you, to persuade you to carry him up to heaven for a moment (he is trying to do it now); and when you have done it, he will run away and give it all to the mob. … Oh dont, dont, DONT fall in love with him; but dont grudge him the joy he finds in being in love with you, and writing all sorts of wild but heartfelt exquisite lies — lies, lies, lies, lies — to you, his adoredest.
G.B.S.

The Hero's Luck

Lawrence Raab

 

When something bad happens
we play it back in our minds,
looking for a place to step in
and change things. We should go outside
right now, you might have said. Or:
Let's not drive anywhere today.

The sea rises, the mountain collapses.
A car swerves toward the crowd
you've just led your family into.
We all look for reasons. Luck
isn't the word you want to hear.
What happened had to,

or it didn't. Maybe
the exceptional man can change direction
in midair, thread the needle's eye,
and come out whole. But even the hero
who stands up to chance has to feel
how far the world will bend

until it breaks him. He can see
that day: the unappeasable ocean,
the cascades of stone. A crowd
gathers around his body. He sees that too.
someone is saying: His luck just ran out.
It happens to us all.

The Fall

Gypsy was a furry, wheat-colored collie, who lived and played on a ranch – several hundred acres of hills and woods, full of good things like rabbit trails and streams. She loved it there. At the ranch house she was given a comfortable bed and good meals. Her Master, who owned the ranch, made no unreasonable demands on her. She knew that her job was to love her Master and to be faithful to him and to obey other commands – to follow, to come, to lie down. And she also knew that she wasn’t supposed to chase the chickens and the rabbits. Actually these were easy for Gypsy, because it was in her nature to obey and to love her master.

But one day when Gypsy was prowling on a hill far away past the spring house and pasture, two things happened at once: the Master called her and a rabbit dashed across the hill. Gypsy turned and raced towards the Master, as she had always done. Then she stopped. It entered her mind that she didn’t have to obey. Perhaps the Master didn’t understand about that rabbit. Anyway, these were her hills. The rabbit was hers, too. Very likely it was all lies – that story of everything, including herself, belonging to the Master. How did she know that the food in her dish came from him? Probably there was some natural explanation. She was a free dog and that was the end of it. These thoughts went through her mind swiftly while she stood irresolute. Again came the Master’s command; the rabbit crossed the hilltop. Gypsy whirled and raced after the rabbit. She had made a choice. She was free to choose.

Hours later she came home. She saw the Master waiting for her, but she did not rush gladly to him, leaping and frisking as she had always done. Something new came into her demeanor: guilt. She crept up to him like a snake on her belly. Undoubtedly she was penitent at the moment. But she had a new knowledge – the knowledge of the possibility of sin – and it was a thrill in her heart and a salt taste in her mouth. Nevertheless she was very obedient the next day and the day after that. Eventually, though, there was another rabbit, and she didn’t even hesitate.

The Master still loved her, but he trusted her no longer. He put Gypsy in a pen and took her for walks with a rope around her neck. All her real freedom was gone. But the Master gave her from time to time, new chances to obey of her own free will. Had she chosen to obey, she would have once again had perfect freedom to roam her hundreds of acres. But she did not. She always chose, if she were out of reach, to run away. The Master, knowing that hunger would eventually bring her back, let her run. He could have stopped her. A rifle shot would have ended her rebellion once and for all. But she was allowed to live. Perhaps she would someday choose the way of obedience and true freedom.

One day, during a journey by car, Gypsy and her young daughter Flurry were taken to the edge of the woods. Always before, Gypsy had limited her disobedience to the ranch. But now, coming back to the car, she suddenly felt the old thrill. She turned and ran away. The Master called with a note of sharp urgency. Flurry, in her innocence, came at once. But Gypsy, her ears dulled to the voice of the Master, continued her rush into the dark forest. After hours of searching and calling, the Master sadly abandoned the lost dog and with Flurry beside him, went home.

Flurry continued to live in freedom, always being obedient to the Master who loved her and took good care of her. She was happy to be in his service and she loved the look on his face when she did something that pleased him. She obeyed gladly of her own free choice.

But lost Gypsy, as long as she still lived, wandered the woods and roads as an outcast. She had lost her way home. She became dirty and matted with foxtails and thorns. Stones were often thrown at her and she was always hungry. She had more puppies who, like her, were lost and inclined to disobedience – as were their puppies for generations to come. The kind and benevolent hand of the Master was unknown to them, except as a tale.

But this is the way Gypsy chose, and continued to choose, until finally there was no more choosing left to do.

 

Leaning In

By Sue Thompson

Sometimes, in the middle of a crowded store on a Saturday
afternoon, my husband will rest his hand
on my neck, or on the soft flesh belted at my waist,
and pull me to him. I understand

his question: Why are we so fortunate
when all around us, friends are falling prey
to divorce and illness? It seems intemperate
to celebrate in a more conspicuous way

so we just stand there, leaning in
to one another, until that moment
of sheer blessedness dissolves and our skin,
which has been touching, cools and relents,

settling back into our separate skeletons
as we head toward Housewares to resume our errands.

So Close

They didn’t know what each wanted, agendas out of synch, one in love, the other just a friend. One made a decision, while the others stayed noncommittal, one wanted something the other just went with the flow.  Allowing himself to be taken away, his ego, so big, tells him, nothings wrong with the ethics of it.  She let him come back into her life.  Her need met, the one she can not survive alone. Time was never reached where she could find herself, always someone had to be part of her agenda.

 It was a matter of time, when it was over, leaving him to wander and wonder how it’s suppose to be. Desire departed leaving him with nothing more than to finish his mission.

“She will not be a part of my ego need, like a nice car in the driveway.” he says.

 
How can two exist after all the need is gone?  No one wants to fall into more of the same, it didn't work before, why would it work now, just more of the same, with the same outcome.
 
Then the ego desire for her body, the unity of two, surfaced. Knowing he can give things she’s not had, things she doesn’t even know she needs.  Leaving it go, this place will occur that produces a new. Just head toward this place, be there when the genius, jumps aboard, taking you to Olay, Olay.
 
A flowered walking path, transition pieces all in place so he stops going from a predetermine conclusion to euphoria. Her feminine essence needs to be the driving force; other ways will just not work. She leads and he follows.

Find the energy; redirect it, to a place that will bring everything in line with what is needed. Keep your focus on the conscious world around you; each others proximity is amazingly close. Each must capture in a true moment of realization, what is suppose to be.  Why did these two come together at this particular moment. They passed so close neither could avoid. Alignment occurred, results happened. Search and it will happen.

 

Details

Silk stocking he wore ran over the polished leather of the sleekly designed shoes. Only dots puncturing the suppleness, highlight the decent from the bow to the toe. Nothing protruded, obstructing the slide of his foot on the outside.

Taking her shoe off, running her stocking over the well tanned periphery, losing herself in shape and fit of his foot inside. She loved this texture of him, one of many he possessed.
 
If you're going to wrap your foot up for any length, why not put it in a place like this.

Others design for the masses, why not caress yourself in luxury on the inside and out.

There is no rule about, what's in.  It's all about how you see and feel the piece you wear on your foot.
 
Women do feet, men forget the fringe.
 
Does a six pack eliminate the thing you put on your foot?
 
It's just on the threshold of what you can do for her. 
Every little detail, a reflection of the items within. Once you find one that knows these things that can make a difference, don't let her go.

Men and woman must know all the differences, its the beginning of all the other details you possess.

Do you want a man to take care of all your details?

Just a part of you

You've got all these hurdles, these sets of criteria, you must have, to get to this point. The point a man gets the ownership of a piece of you. A claim of the curve of you, from your waist over your hip, cascading down your bottom to the smile at the crease at the top of  your leg.

Deep down, after all the other parts have been meet, the ultimate, the essence is this spot. There is nothing that has to be, it has no lead up or climax. Just the feel of your skin,  fingertips playing your notes, tingle with the terrain of softness, dragging them over you, gently, the surface clear and expansive. No angle, just slopes, like fresh snow on a mountain top, the powder of you is skied by this touch over your slope.

Whipped cream over angel food sponge cake, the best.

 

Improved by only a kiss.  To go to this place, blaze a trail to the summit or heavenly valley, where all pleasure  is real, the destination where you never wish to leave. Garden of Eden for the two.  Don't ask me to take a bite of apple, it will lift me away from the place I wish to be, with you.

 

Could you let me in if I asked?

 

Would letting me in, be temporary?

 

Nothing's permanent! How long could you ever let this place be a possession of another? You hold me in your spell, a gentle grip, by this traversing of you.

 

I can't go to that place unless your willing.

 

I don't want the remnants of what is left after you leave, the deepness of the curve, strength of your muscle, crease of a step taken. Those smiles like the top of a heart, they roll up and over, inverted from behind.

 

In an embrace, my hands would go down, cupping you in each hand, like goblets full of fine wine. Your bunch of grapes held in each hand , never letting any fall off the vine.

I imagine plucking your fruit, with a kiss, the juice bursting in my mouth, quenching the thirst for you.

 

I must have this part of you, nothing else matters.

I would never wish to have this, than forever.

Just a touch in a night of bliss would be a dream. Dreams don't last, a day interrupts the world that's chosen for this moment. Day or night, conscious or not, I would wish your goddess be within my life.

Do not come if you are not ready to allow yourself in.  No longer tease me.  I don't want to live a memory of you.

I no longer wish to ask for this part of you. Please let me know the point it occurs so I will not have to lift my hand, only to take you in. No word must cross your lips other than yes.

 

Softness of warm butter will spread over your luscious muffin, so I can savior you well past the time it takes to move my knife over you. After the moment passes you glow from within, repeating over and over until the glass full of you, empties into nothing. Each sip of you as lovely as the first.

 

All those that have another, can miss this insight, blinded by the having rather than the desire. Be there for me, this feminine essence. Don't keep me from the other side. All that is you, is what any man desires. Prove to me how masculine you can be but keep from destroying your essence while being present in the world, men run. Know your place is all about you. Appreciate the goddess in you, find a way to maintain it forever. Get ahead living in a mans world, but keep the her in you. There are parts, no man can change, don't be talked into being anything that you are not. Turmoil erupts each time you must find your way on his side. For you to have a life, you have to find a man who doesn't want the border crossed. The edge, meets without crossing. Keep the feminine that he desires.

 

Long hair, soft fixtures, terrain with undulating texture, can't help but catch my attention. If you are going to do that, then be aware that I'm going to do what I do when you walk into my sight.

Paper Worth

Sunshines lights the table surface.

On the right a $20 sits,

like the table it refracts the light,

seeing only the texture,

not what's printed.

It could be any amount,

representing a little work or a lot.

You're worth more

With each pieces of paper

On the table next to you.

My worth adds up to

More than pieces of paper

on a table.

Time to go

Everytime I saw him, he smiled and said, "Time to go."
It was my duty, the control over me.
Deny an order meant I'd be rising my head seeing that lucky stiff in the sky above rather than fly over looking down.  Of all the fucking jobs in this world sitting behind a 30 caliber at 100 mph wasn't all bad. 3-5 flights a day got me back in this shitty LZ every night, laying in a hole in the ground filled with snakes and rats. 
The only way out of here is by the help of those that took me here. 
How the hell did I get to a place like this?
Someone's going to pay big time for putting me in a place like this. 
No ones going to ever put me in this position again.
I'm never going to be afraid after getting out of this!
The vibration in this place never stops, somethings moving all the time.
Gotta get high to fly up above it, a construct that gets you through the maze you are in, with no corridors to walk through.
This place, open to the jungle, the humid heat, smell of putrid varieties of nothing good, and the blue sky like the one back home in Iowa.
Just get me back, to the softness of life, my lips pressed against hers, the touch of me on her, take  away all this outside shit, go into your garden, enveloped by you, your world so close I don't have to stand alone. 
Get me out, back into the depth of us.

The End

A genius, a landing that couldn't survive,

to stay for ever

Living thru it, how do you leave it go

The fire is still alive not ready to burn out

No helmets to prevent you from igniting

Plenty of input to drive you crazy

Lost in nothingness of being ahead

Take me to this place

The place I'm moving toward

I can't get held up, no arms in the sky

To stop me

You don't know, no need to protect me

I will go to this other place

Pure to move me on

Open to what's come in

That brought me this far

It will continue

Yes it will, whatever it is

But perfection only last during your genius,

after it's only what you were able to do

A ride not to last

Just to have,

keep the fire burning

Coals are red, on the edge

To fade or light

To more, a little more

Until its pulled from you

The light the life

 

He ended in the spinning turning brightness of the uncontrolled burn of of fragrant alcohol exploding in a cylinder, pushed past the point where the last flash goes from in to out. First I felt the light, then the heat, then the sound of all those things you can't read about. What's your choice, inside a racing car.

You missed the spectacle by not being there. You missed this episode, ruined for anything else. A planned view of moving steel, on rubber spinning in dirt. Just another trip around an oval, until the radical particles come together into a convergence of mistaken outcomes. You knew it could.  He missed that point by just a split second, and this time what happened lasted just a few more seconds.

Each jar of the hardness of his vehicle catching on the firmness, tacky gravel, momentum throwing him into a spinning curve ball, spraying escaping fluid into a ball of flames, causing that last breath he inhaled the final heat played with his life. It's when control escapes, all the factor explode into moments just before the end. This is the end, my friend.

Tuesday at the coffee shop

She’s two, a miniature of her mother. With a fake snake in her hand she glues her eyes on all the pastries thru the glass of the case at her eye level. Red coat from her hook was chosen without regard to her blue polka dot dress or the purple pants underneath. At what two places in time does it occur, the point she begins to care and then returns to the abandonment of not caring about what she wears.

The door is worn at the bottom edge from hundreds of feet pulling the resistance of the closer to exit the shop. A layer of paint would prevent the wood fibers from slipping off onto their shoes, but all the character would leave with it. Each visit, from each person, has left a mark on the place, a collective wear, never enough for one person to say I did that.

At what place does it matter that the entrance of the place has to be clean and painted. Like a well worn bomber jacket, it wouldn’t be the same with a fresh coat of paint. No one comes in looking like they just left the shopping mall with the outfit that sat on the mannequin in the window.

A newspaper and water in one hand, a coffee in the other, one finger lifts from the coffee cup to pull the handle. Catching that spot on the door to open it enough to walk through without spilling any of the liquid.

Like Tom and Jerry batter on a Xmas drink, she tries to get a sip of Ethiopia from under the whipped cream. Her bottom lip jumps over the top removing the creamy sweetness to the interior of her mouth.

How unconsciously the experience of this place jumps into each patron that waits in line. A suburb starbucks with a drive up window would never take in all this has to offer.

She needs to get the coffee fix, the requirement to make it through another day. Its part of her day, as she glues the cell phone to her right ear, first with her hand then her shoulder. Landlines used to tether her to the house; now anyone can grab her anytime, requiring their attention, even when buying coffee.

 

Loops of Hair

Brown hair, long to her shoulders, bangs cut straight across her forehead, she holds 30 strands, pulled from behind her ear. Played nervously with her youthful hands, curled in a loop, two fingers hold it as she rubs the circle of hair with her thumb, squishing its roundness, contorting its shape, stroking its glossy sheen. Baggy fresh blue jeans, do nothing, a red top, sleeveless clings tight on her form.

Walking up to the counter, she stands next to me, I turn my head to the left. There was no way to miss seeing the swooping neckline, a valley of fabric gently flows down from the tips of her shoulders, a quarter of the top of her breasts have no cover. Youthful color, clean of the suns damage, accentuates her view. A single layers of fabric cover them, firm, showing no arousal, minus the bra of a lesser beauty.

I need a clever comment from her, to add to my story. Should I say? Painting a picture with words, I’m a journalist, you are my next entry. Can I learn more about you. Prove to me that you are more than what I see. Your reality, for a moment, shifts from you to me. A picture is developing inside of my brain, all the colors, shapes, movement’s pass through the processor, printing out on the paper through this pen. Will you assist me with this? Your input is graciously appreciated. Your influence could change the entire view of my story. I will do this the next time.

When we did speak, during that brief conversation, the octave of her voice was one or two below what you would expect, adding to her exotic tones, like the tattoos on her ankle. Fingers with nails trimmed short, had no jewelry. She liked playing with her hair.

Drink your Potion

I drank your potion, the unknown brew, you’ve worked on.  I will do this for you, discovering what will happen, so you will know. 

Moments, minutes pass to find out I am shrinking.

Time passes, I’m now three inches, small enough to fit in your purse. 

At night, lying next to you, waiting until you slumber, I crawl up your arm, to your breast, stepping up its side, kneeling in front of your nipple.  Falling onto my chest, I collapse onto the soft pillow of your pinkness, my arms stretch down the sides. Opening and closing my small little hands on the base of your nipple, where it meets your skin, the faint touch repeated over and over again, opening and closing, acts like a pump lifting my body up.
Blood vessels inside your nude nipple open, engorging with the warmth of your inner liquid. My ascent, tips me over, making me roll, tumbling to your valley below.  Sitting up, I slide out from between the softness, down your stomach into the depression of your belly button. I stop to bask in your warmth, like sitting in an inner tube on a sunny day at the lake.  Straightening my body I roll out onto my front and crawl down to the grassy curls along the edge of your ocean cave. Venturing through the course strands of fiber my face rubs along them, around my nose.  Your scent explodes as each fiber touches my surface, your fragrance is overwhelming. For a moment I stop to hold the memory of you, forever.

Walking my fingers upon your skin, around each follicle, I make it to the edge.  Upon the lip of your clearing, I pull my body along, half way over the edge.  Reaching above my head I touch the red rock, pulsing with energy, its radiating heat makes it difficult to keep my hands still.  Lifting, then replacing them down on your temperature, I can hardly stand the fiery embers.  More and more, it rises with each stroke, each movement. The dome heightens until I can touch the heat no longer, in a split second it pulses, throbbing violently. The peak passes, your tide rolls in, I dive in, to swim in your flow to the opening of your dark cave.  Lit by a flashing redness, I reach inside to find a chamber open.  Pulling my hand back out, the lotion of your love coats it with more than enough.  Wringing it from on my hand, I spread every drop all over myself.  Reaching in for another supply, I cover every millimeter of me.  Glossy from top to bottom, my arms dive into the mouth of your cavern, spreading the walls, going inside the depth of you, touching and caressing each sensitive parts along the way. 

I can come out or I can stay, whatever you would like me to do.

Steppenwolf - Herman Hesse

And this beautiful flower, strange to say, continued to be nonetheless the gift that Hermine had made me. Hermine continued to stand in front of her and to hide her with a mask. Then suddenly the thought of Erica intervened—my distant, angry love, my poor friend. She was hardly less pretty than Maria, even though not so blooming; and she was more constrained, and not so richly endowed in the little arts of making love.  She stood a moment before my eyes, clearly and painfully, loved and deeply woven into my destiny; then fell away again in a deep oblivion, at a half regretted distance.

And so in the tender beauty of the night many pictures of my life rose before me who for so long had lived in a poor pictureless vacancy. Now, at the magic touch of Eros, the source of them was opened up and flowed in plenty.  For moments together my heart stood still between delight and sorrow to find how rich was the gallery of my life, and how thronged the soul of the wretched Steppenwolf, with high eternal stars and constellations.  My childhood and my mother showed in a tender transfiguration like a distant glimpse over mountains into the fathomless blue; the litany of my friendships, beginning with the legendary Herman, soul-brother of Hermine, rang out as clear as trumpets; the images of many women floated by me with an unearthly fragrance like moist sea flowers on the surface of the water, women whom I had loved, desired and sung, whose love I had seldom won and seldom striven to win.  My wife, too, appeared.  I had lived with her many years and she had taught me comradeship, strife and resignation.  In spite of all the shortcomings of our life, my confidence in her remained untouched up to the very day when she broke out against me and deserted me without warning, sick  as I was in mind and body.  And now, as I looked back, I saw how deep my love and trust must have been for her betrayal to have inflicted so deep and lifelong a wound.

These pictures--- there were hundreds of them, with names and without—all came back.  They rose fresh and new out of this night of love, and I knew again, what in my wretchedness I had forgotten, that they were my life’s possession and all it’s worth.  Indestructible and abiding as the stars, these experiences, thoughts forgotten, could never be erased.  Their series was the story of my life, their starry light the undying value of my being.  My life had become weariness.  It had wandered in a maze of unhappiness that led to renunciation and nothingness; it was bitter with the salt of all human things; yet had laid up riches, riches to be proud of.  It had been for all its wretchedness a princely life.  Let the little way to death be as it might, the kernel of this life of mine was noble. It had purpose and character and turned not on trifles, but on the stars.

Time has passed and much has happened, much has changed; and I can only remember a little of all that passed that night, a little of all we said and did in the deep tenderness of love, a few moments of clear awakening from the deep sleep of love’s weariness. That night, however, for the first time since my downfall gave me back the unrelenting radiance of my own life and made me recognize chance as destiny once more and see the ruins of my being as fragments of the divine.  My soul breathed once more.  My eyes were opened.  There were moments when I felt with a glow that I had only to snatch up my scattered images and raise my life as Harry Haller and as the Steppenwolf to the unity of one picture, in order to enter myself into the world of imagination and be immortal.  Was not this, then the goal set for the progress of every human life?

Assembly Line

In the sauna, the villager newspaper sits. Picking it up to pass the time in this heat chamber, I read he second page about the closing of the 125 acre plot of land where the Ford plant sat. Next to me a big bellied man says, "Is that about the Ford plant, I used to work there."

“Did you know Rich Gabbert?”

“Yes!”

My cousin worked there the same time he did.

This common ground could be key to him opening up. Living near the plant, I saw an entirely different view, a view from the outside. His story was so different than mine.

 His brass ring salary, overrode any decency in being a worker there. 30 years of prison, 10 hours days Monday – Friday, eight hours on Saturday or 58 hours per week, not bad pay working everyday for a year made almost $80,000. Where else could an illiterate make that kind of money? 

 He said, a fellow worker, a farmer living 60 miles away, could never make that kind of money on his spread.  He’d drive three-hours a day to work the line.  Getting up at 4 AM to be at the plant by 6, work until 5 PM, drive home, do chores, eat dinner before collapsing, resting for another day. Not a once in a while thing, every day for years, hours and hours of the same thing, over and over. All for the money!  It brought him the nice house, the truck in the driveway, but his brain was deadened by sameness, day after day. Did he ever have a chance to say, “Is it worth it?”

 The 13th amendment took away slavery years ago, but people like him stepped into it without thinking, they became indentured to the life and the things that their income could buy.

 Working the line gave you 55 seconds to get the part installed in the truck..

"Mine was the dashboard." he said.

58 times an hour, 7 hours a day. He got pretty good at it, giving him 10 seconds rest each minute.

 What was the best job? I said.

A janitor, the job he got after 25 years, or to be the reliever. Through the day, the reliever would take the place of 10 different workers, for 5 to 10 minutes he'd flow-through their jobs doing that person's task until they'd return. That guy would have time between too.

 Lunch break started at 11:30 – 1230, he said.

"And I had to work those damn Saturdays."

He won those, with overtime giving him more money, but put him, another day in prison, away from his life. He couldn’t get away from another truck coming down the line.

What happens to a man driven so hard to become a robot?

Obedient to his job, so much, he couldn't say, “I'm not coming in because I’m sick?” Sick and tired of doing this same thing over and over again. You could see it in their eyes, standing with the air gun wrench in one hand, bolts in the other, ready for another part assembly please.

Management knew the archetype to hire. How could they ever take a man with a college education? He had to be the type that would waste his brains for the money, erased by this grueling case of sameness.

By Wednesday, the only thing I could do was hop into my truck and hit the nearest bar, for a beer to deadened the grind of another day in my life," he said.

All these things have occurred because of the glamour of the automobile and its assembly.

Before the railroad, men never left the village they lived in. If you couldn't walk or ride a horse, there was no movement. With the advent of transportation, everyone was taken in, having to use of these new methods.

 It was economical, but over time it's progressed into a new lifestyle of money. Why do you spend $20,000 for a car, that’s worth nothing after five years, cause you driven it into the ground? All the drivers, as all the assembly workers, are hidden away in their prisons.

I use to drive people around, like from downtown to the airport.  Asking would you like to go the freeway or the greenway during rush-hour, most would be drawn in to pick up the freeway, just to be there a few minutes early, even though the time difference was 5 minutes. They’d miss a view out the window at the trees and streets and rivers, taking them to another place, into their world of concrete stretches of roads, the freeway gave them.

You have to remove yourself from these people that have that life, the ones that do it for the money, to perpetuate their life.

Where will I put myself next?  There’s no place you can get away from some types of imprisonment. No one will fence me in. They can’t make me feel guilty for not doing the things you have done for the better part of your life.

Success is determined by what you have ahead, not what you’ve got now. Living in the now, holds onto what you’ve got, which keeps you in prison for a little more of your life.

Husky pull dogsleds, love to be harnessed and run.  Done, they love to be bedded in a box not much bigger than they are.  How many people pull their sleds through life, so they can sleep in the confines of their home?

Comfort with your home, means you will never leave. Your life becomes what you have, not what’s coming into it. Don’t become a part of the assembly line. Too much creativity is in a life to desert it for those tasks that you have to do over and over.

You have to ask, could I ever sit in front of the machine, that makes Mostaccioli for Roundy's, hour after hour, days and years.  

I'm sorry, it's not possible. Once you've made it to the top of the mountain, could you ever be satisfied in the valley.

 

 

Bed on the Mountain

At the very top of an overlook, the lower valley surrounded its view, 360 degrees.  At the crest sat a bed, heavy dark wood, with low round balusters with a ball cap.  White sheets and duvet covered its king size.  White marble ran on the floor from under and out ten feet. 

She had no idea where we were going, as we started hiking up through the vegetation of the island.  No, it wasn’t an island, I saw no water.  Stairs lead up the final ascent, no railing obstructed the panorama at the top.

On the surface of the covers, she sat next to me;  light red hair flowed down her bare back.  Crossed legs, looking out onto the beauty below, the profile of her tanned nakedness, contrasted with the billowy cumulus clouds, ever changing in the background just to the other side of us.

Where are we, here with each other, with this surroundings?  Beauty, all around, makes this special place, flash into our being. 

Reassuring her, there is no worry about all around us.  Even rolling around on our bed, falling out to the ground, on the hard floor, then down the hill to the valley below would never happen.  We are on top but secure in where we are. Only our decision will change that. 

Open to the vastness, uncovered allowing the surface of our skin to touch the surrounding air.  Movement of the clouds ebb and flow, from our spot, no part  feels winds movement.  Senses take in every particle surrounding our simple palace.  Sun heats the crust of our skin, baking the oils and perspiration seeping out of our pours, its fragrance waves through the air to inhale.  Everything jumps around us, the view of each other’s freeness, in a picture of ever changing enchantment. 

When a thought comes to mind, I’m thursty, I’m hungry, I’m tired, I’m hot , I’m cold, these needs are taken care of by thoughts.  An invisible servant, that’s not there, takes the demand, making it so.  No hurry, time moves as you wish, pleasure of the changing view as shadows form with the lowering sun is brought in.  Light dims to darkness, to nothing other than millions of celestial bodies.  The darkness, its proximity like the two of us, can be touched like the surface of our skin. The sky is so much, looking out into the massive expanse, smallness creeps in, inward down inside the two of us. 

Can the real sensation of this dream become touchable to us, desiring it, aware it exists, a place you only read about, wishing it were real.

Sugarloaf mountain, poolside at St. Bart’s, monastery in Umbria all your life you must sacrifice some of your creature comforts to reach a place, so a part of your being, a place so significant you simply have to close your eyes to be beamed back to that space and time.

Perfection of this realness can be controlled, replicated in a space. 

It is so real you feel like you are there, is the dream a real possibility. Go someplace you’ve never gone.

I will take you there if you wish to come along with me.  Don’t get lost in everyday life.

Coldest for a while

Ground breathes its misty vapor,

Touched by frigid fingers

Creeping out of its sewer hole,

On its threshold

Frosty with each exhale.

Black branches,

Void of color, brittle, hardened,

Holding its pillory standards

Until flow from up north

Attempts to jar it into movement.

Each mile driven,

Digits cascade down

To my destination

The gauge reads -9.

Easy to forget,

Sitting in the window

As heat from the sun burns on my neck,

Sunglasses make my eyes dilate to normalcy.

 

Each Day

These days go by quickly, never marking the uniqueness of each.  The writing finished for the last 6 months, spread across the floor from days spent in the summer of 12.

Where did they come from, no one will know, they just appeared and some word went down. 

This writing, read in hours, can you get from this short time a relationship to the real time of the writing.? Do you extract the facts of time in just one sitting, can you?

It is something cultivated over a time, surfacing without directions. 

Why would any one want to know those moments?  No one wants to know theirs.  You get something out of everything you hear. If you can’t find them yourself, does it help to a have someone, who is in touch with it theirs? 

Taking a look at others will give you ideas of what you need to see.

Like a child, ever changing; everyday you watch them grow.  A journal, the child of life, growing with each word, the definition of what is inside, answered with a scratch on the page. Raw words come out, don’t have to be explain, just flow out of the pipeline, straight from the earth of your brain. 

You can use the words to go with or take them to a refinery to extract only the vital portions, so you can burn them in your own machine.

"If you would not be forgotten, as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write things worth reading, or do things worth the writing."

Across the Room

Leaning over the coffee bean cabinet, 15 silvery chrome knobs, fastened to the plexiglass trap doors of each bin,  ask to be opened, she can't resist lifting one, her eyes decend into the chocolate brown beans as she breaths in the fragrance of the roasted mix.  Behind her back, fingertips pinch a white muffin bag and a black cell phone.  She’s ready to dip into the bag for a bite or push of the buttons to answer a call. 

In the corner the roaster sits, no other piece of machinery has this indentity, a combination cement mixer, oven, turn table, all in one.  Out of the burlap bag printed Brazil, green beans are scooped into the cone on top, sliding into the heating chamber for roasting.  Like a front end loaded washing machine, each bean tumbles to a deep roasted dark brown. Moments before burnt the attendant lifts a large silver ball knob, allowing the baked beans to cascade onto a spinning round table to cool.   The fine edge where the beans still green, to one burnt, can be reached if the roaster, the man handling the machine, doesn’t use all of his senses and experience to get it right.  This shop depends on his proficiency. Is the shops personality brought out by the flavor of the bean or the other constructs, two rooms, the tables, the glass windows out to the street, the individuals sitting, the girls pushing buttons on the cash register or the coffee pouring in the black and white ceramic cup sitting on the table next to me.  Not so much here, do you find the drinks that have five parts to describe what you get.  For me it’s just Sumatra, Kenya, Brazil or other exotic locations that gets me my drink.

This place has a reason to be here,  everyone keeps coming back for the good.  Just to spend moments here, rather than any place else. 

Like the color of a pearl you get lost in the skin between her shoulders, down the depression of her cleavage.  Over her left shoulder, light creates shadows on the construction of her chest.  Without touching, you imagine your lips on her smoothness, that first touch of the spot where her neck rises from the cliff of her shoulder causing the dip of her chin to stop its reaction.  Traversing the terrain from one precipice to the other she reacts by ending it or basking in the caress of each light sensation that hits the unplayed notes of this area.  Why does she present herself like this, if not to be played.  The tickles of her hair hanging down, subtle temperature changes all pluck nerves exposed.  Consciously, she’s unaware of all the music being played on her, blocked by the writing in her notebook.  To be the unknown light or shadow, stealing each touch without her realizing one bit of change.  Light waves reach out to me; each gradient shade penetrates the back of my cornea, stimulating a past where I physically touched this area.  No one here knows my theivery, all are concentrating on their screens, paper, or book.  Her right hand reaches over to pull up the edge of her sweater but by the time her leg is tuck beneath her, the sweaters gravity sneaks down.  The downward pointing symmetry is disrupted by the off balance of the left leg and the right hand writing.  An inch or two over the edge of the slope down to her deltoid, fabric doesn’t stick to the velvet layer of skin.  Straps of age don’t cling to any of this young angel.  Demarcation of cream and cotton knit are only inches from mounds accentuated at the tip.  Sliding down the slope of her right shoulder to the left is so steep you’d miss so much on the descent to the floor.  Fighting the rationality of concealment she sifts the edge, but over and over, her body flexes to what it wants, tipping to the air and light.  You can hear it calling," set me free, let me out of this fabric."  If she had a choice her body would say, “Nothing should touch me." Someone in her life said no you can do that.

I had a time, I said you could.  You don’t have to hide, and everyone else agreed, she let it out.  That time, everyone would like to.  For yourself is one thing, but for another is special.  Revealing portions of you no one else has seen.  I knew the pleasure of her pleasure.  All those reaction, what it makes her feel like.  Even if she had it again she would never have it again for the first time.  Image of this moment is captured inside my camera and in these words.