tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37052873862275872012024-02-19T23:03:53.564-08:00Fifteen MinutesUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-27344059176701439812018-03-26T08:53:00.002-07:002018-03-26T08:53:14.270-07:00OlderI feel different -<br />
Older<br />
<br />
I rest my spine against the red clay<br />
And thrust my hips to the sky. <br />
<br />
I sweat those unsweet memories <br />
In salty, unfiltered beads<br />
And they explode, pensively <br />
Causing volcanoes<br />
And growing molten flowers within the dunes<br />
Glorious in this Crimson yearning <br />
<br />
I let go of nineteen,<br />
Naivety,<br />
And whiskey-sours <br />
<br />
I smoke weed to sleep soundly <br />
And listen to Labrador snores<br />
In place of crickets. <br />
<br />
I realize that pain is beautiful<br />
And meaningful<br />
And <br />
-painful. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-65704479240722553292014-12-29T12:43:00.000-08:002014-12-29T12:43:12.823-08:00Three Little WordsMy Mother never said I love you until the day she thought she might die. She was lying in the gurney crying. Not sobbing but just enough that I could see her holding back, trying to articulate things she hadn't said all these years in just a few tears. I had seen these tears before. First, the day our German Shorthaired Pointer died. Then, at my Grandfathers funeral. Maybe I was going to die. They were rolling her out of the room and she muttered "I love you." That was it. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-12628130140460646132014-12-02T13:32:00.001-08:002014-12-08T11:29:11.550-08:00<br />
<br />
I just read <a href="http://thoughtcatalog.com/bianca-sparacino/2014/11/how-to-ruin-your-life-without-even-noticing-that-you-are/">this article</a>, and it was one of those moments of clarity, because what I was reading was what I have been feeling for quite some time now.<br />
<br />
The basis of this article is that the majority of the world is going through the motions, perhaps without actually enjoying what they are doing in their daily lives. You're career path, social group, romantic partner-- perhaps it's all "fine," but does it "make your cells dance?" ( I loved that line from the article itself.)<br />
<br />
It all makes me question: if I died today, would I feel fulfilled with my life and what I had accomplished?<br />
<br />
You see people who are suffering from life threatening illnesses, such as <a href="http://www.upworthy.com/on-november-1-she-chose-to-die-with-dignity-she-voiced-her-final-wishes-here?c=reccon3">Brittany Maynard</a>, who find out about their disease and if they have 6 months to live, and they drop everything. They realize what truly makes them happy, and the dreams they want to fulfill-- and <i>they do it. </i><br />
<br />
They go out into the universe and Belly Dance, or visit the Taj Mahal, or finally go meet Mickey Mouse at the Disney Castle. They use their fine china and crystal wine glasses, kiss their lovers, hug their children, and <i>live. </i><br />
<br />
But don't we have that choice now? Why do we put these bars around ourselves that constrict our every day happiness? Is it in the name of practicality? So we can properly save money for that <i>one day </i>when we will <i>need </i>it? <br />
<br />
For me, since I have graduated college, I have assigned a ball and chain to myself called Student Loans, which has become a daily stress upon my life; an obsession of sorts.<br />
<br />
My good friend Sallie Mae left me with 65k of student loan debt for 5 years of college at a state college, in which I earned two degrees: A BA in English and a BS in Elementary Education. I graduated at the top of my class in both majors, but the market for teaching wasn't as booming as we were taught to believe. All the "Baby Boomers" were staying in their jobs, because the economy was down, and they needed more time. <br />
<br />
So I landed a job in Technology Sales-- and I can't complain, because half of my friends didn't land a job at all, and even for being a completely different career path than I was prepared for, the company itself treated it's employees with fantastic benefits, and it was a young, fun environment, where I could actually enjoy a Cube-Job.<br />
<br />
In my first year and a half I was able to obsessively save my pennies and limit my personal spending to the point where I had paid off almost 30k of the loans by setting a $1500 payment each month, and applying my Tax Refund to the loans as well. I started with the loans with the highest interest rate of around 6% down to the lowest rate of 2% to reduce any additional payment as much as possible. <br />
<br />
I have now been at the same company for 3.5 years and am down to 14k in loans. I'm not ashamed to say that I drive a used, beat up 2000 Honda civic, shop thrift shops and sales for my wardrobe, and save wherever I can with my goal in mind to fully pay off my loans by the age of 28. ( I turn 27 this coming January)<br />
<br />
I know this goal is completely do-able if I keep consistent with my plan-- it's practical.<br />
<br />
The only issue is that after 3.5 years at a an office job where I only feel about half-fulfilled, I have begun waking up less-than-enthusiastic about what my life has become. Sure-- I do a lot of other fun things in my life. I go out with my friends, I play with my puppy and cat, I play guitar and write music, I write.<br />
<br />
These are all fulfilling things, but somehow I feel as if something is missing. For years I have had this uncontrollable urge to travel the world and all of my life, I have felt an intense connection to nature. I started doing some research about working in nature, working on farms, living off the land and living sustainably, and wound up finding an organization that I could absolutely connect to: <a href="http://wwoof.net/">WWOOF. (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farming.) </a><br />
<br />
The thing that is particularly cool about this organization is that it is World-Wide. You can choose almost any country you are interested in living in, and you can almost certainly find a farm in need of help. During this process, you reach out to the farm, schedule your trip and then work on the farm depending on their needs during the duration of your stay, in trade of room and board (usually including meals/ general needs). Every farm and situation is different, so it is important to do your research and find a farm that fits your needs. <br />
<br />
I found one in particular in Italy called <a href="http://www.podereamarti.it/homepage.html">Podere Amarti</a> that drew my attention as it is not only a farm in the middle of the Italian countryside, but the farm is Vegetarian and is also a Meditation Center including Drum Circle and Trance music-- all things that are already a large part of my life. I have reached out to the farm and have plans to one day visit.<br />
<br />
But I feel as if I cannot fulfill my dreams until my loans are completely paid. I feel that it wouldn't be responsible. <br />
<br />
I was talking to a few of my peers at work about this personal dilemma, and they came up with a simple solution: Start a Go-Fund me page. <br />
<br />
Easy enough to create, simple enough story to share, but would people contribute to my own personal dreams? Something about it feels selfish to me.<br />
<br />
I've never felt comfortable asking anyone for anything. I enjoy working hard and reaping the benefits of the work. I also know that if I continue to work hard, I can achieve this goal of paying off my loans completely on my own. The problem is, (and the cliché too...) "I'm not getting any younger." <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-38474897379047682292014-09-02T08:49:00.000-07:002014-09-02T08:49:42.324-07:00Locked OutThe rain reminds me of you<br />
Maybe that night<br />
The mist gathering on our skin<br />
The beer balancing on our tongues<br />
Spoke to me in diatribes<br />
Told me our future in ready lies<br />
Sang siren songs in rain filled seas<br />
Oceans upon Oceans<br />
You and me<br />
<br />
It's too easy to imagine<br />
your eyes are too deep to unwind<br />
and I know you without knowing you<br />
feel you without my senses<br />
insanity in melody<br />
unable to drop you<br />
a smooth coin in a fountain of hopeUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-90744676100952142172014-09-02T08:45:00.000-07:002014-09-02T08:46:36.360-07:00Labor DayNorah's white dress was lace but the grass stains on her naked knees were lime green. It was Labor Day in New Haven, and Norah tied her hair into a side braid as she walked down to The Noodle House. It was a bad day, but the coconut curry noodle soup was always good.<br />
<br />
Norah's sunglasses reminded her of every state trooper she'd ever seen and rested softly upon the slight notch on the slope of her nose. She thought it was convenient, though the bump still emanated a dull aching pain from the accident one month earlier.<br />
<br />
She wondered how many other mildly-pretty women had been kneed in the face on a multi-rider-waterpark-ride. She remembered the blood streaming out of her nose and into the wading pool; her hands cupped under her face, catching the crimson liquid, and then the ice bag pressed against her face as she waited in line for the next ride. One knee to the face was not going to ruin her entire day.<br />
<br />
"Fuck you! You're an asshole's dick, and I never loved you anyway!" She remembered screaming those final words at David before slamming the door behind her and tripping down the porch stairs to the sidewalk. She wondered if David got hit by a car today, running down the street, trying to win her back-- if she was okay with those final words. But she also knew that potentially, no one but David may have heard them, which would grant her years of pity and sympathy for losing the one she "loved."<br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-68971204248381851222014-04-05T06:02:00.001-07:002014-04-05T06:02:03.938-07:00Honesty for Robberies<div><br></div><div><br></div><div>I imagined you walking in</div><div>The shadows on your silly grin </div><div>Your words resonating hot with sin</div><div><br></div><div>There was oil in my blood</div><div>Or maybe something slicker </div><div>Tried to thin you off my mind</div><div>But you're only getting thicker</div><div><br></div><div>I hardly even know you</div><div>But I feel you like the sun</div><div>I could stay right here forever</div><div>But I really have to run</div><div><br></div><div>It's that humanistic fever</div><div>Denial of the truth </div><div>When your turn off the receiver </div><div>And try to seem aloof</div><div><br></div><div>Honesty for robberies</div><div>There's passion in the pain</div><div>Your eyes avoid my contact</div><div>But I feel it just the Same</div><div><br></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-57047623309934019572014-02-11T08:21:00.003-08:002014-02-11T08:21:57.445-08:00She Gave.<br />
<br />
Laila’s eyes widened as she pulled the skin on her face up and back, forming a temporary face-lift. She moved close to the mirror examining her pores, too large, her eyebrows, un-groomed, and the wrinkles that were slowly fading into her life one by one. <br />
<br />
She watched the water pool in her small hands and splashed it onto her face, letting the cool droplets fall back into the sink. There were turquoise toothpaste stains speckling the basin, surrounded by stray brown hairs that had confettied out of her head each time she had brushed her hair. <br />
<br />
Amy was supposed to come over for wine later that day, so Laila opened up the cabinet and grabbed a wipe from the Clorox container and wiped down the sink. She used her fingernail to scrape the stubborn toothpaste that seemed to become more of a design than a mess, even though she knew that Amy was likely to flake out on their rain-date. <br />
<br />
She looked at her phone. It was 7:10 am on Laila’s 26th birthday, and as she shuffled out of the bathroom, and down the hall, collecting her purse, scarf, jacket, a banana and a salad she had prepared last night, she thought about how she didn’t want to go to work.<br />
<br />
She felt like everyone else in the world. At least like everyone else in the world that she knew. Maybe there were those fortunate few who had perfect lives with jobs they loved, and every day, they woke out of bed with a big, ugly, smile on their face, ready to take on the day. Laila swore, that if she was ever to wake up next to one of those freakish fucks, she would absolutely murder them with the closest bedside object. Another reason to add to the list of why one-night-stands are potentially a bad idea.<br />
<br />
The thought of her double monitors nauseated her. The black bezel framing her entire world in neat, ongoing, excel tables and red and black PowerPoint presentations about profit growth and territory planning. She was tired of her three-thousand-dollar rolling swivel chair, and how it made her ass increasingly more flat each time she sat in it. She thought about the sound a keyboard made and multiplied it by fifty-five—the number of keyboards she estimated to be able to hear in any given moment. They were all drones. She was a drone. A part of the while-walled, cube-separated, double-monitored, Dunkin-Donut munching, elitist group of corporate America.<br />
<br />
But, once she arrived that day, after the usual forty-five minute commute and typical talk-radio drama, Laila settled into her cube, crossed off Monday, and decided that her desk calendar gave her hope. Today, it was her birthday. She was officially in her “Mid-to-Late-Twenties,” which was semi-traumatic to any woman (or at least it was supposed to be). However, today, Laila was sure her mother would call her--at the very least to wish her a Happy Birthday. It wouldn’t be a long conversation about how she was doing, or what she was wearing, or where she would be going out to eat later, or even the weather, but she thought, a “Happy Birthday” wish would be just enough. <br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-16289670046464397072013-11-24T14:50:00.001-08:002013-11-24T14:50:21.410-08:00JoeyI named it. <br />
I name it Joey. <br />
I named it like you'd name a stray dog that just showed up at your door,<br />
All mangy and half covered in dirt. <br />
It needed to be called something. <br />
<br />
Joey was this kid I grew up with. <br />
Wore one of those beat up baseball caps that was so <br />
faded from the sun and his own sweat that he forgot <br />
what team he rooted for. <br />
<br />
This kid-- <br />
Joey-- <br />
he would wait for me on the bus, <br />
and every day he'd talk my ear off about the hardships <br />
Of life, <br />
then empty my pockets and lunch into his backpack and <br />
Call it a day. <br />
<br />
It got to the point where I'd stopped caring. <br />
I'd just hand it over. <br />
<br />
He Grew on me over time. <br />
It was ritual. <br />
And even though I hated the kid, <br />
I had to accept that he was Around. <br />
<br />
That's Joey, alright. <br />
<br />
Except now, it costs me <br />
more <br />
than just my lunch money <br />
to take care of him. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-13994878583418252482013-09-12T18:10:00.000-07:002013-09-12T18:10:12.775-07:00sometimesSometimes, all I want to do is write. But then I sit down, and I realize that we're all the same. Every last one of us. We wake up, and we fill our coffee mugs, and look outside before we decide what to wear. Khakis today.<br />
<p><br />
Bathroom, shower, brush teeth, come hair, remind yourself: Don't forget to put on deodorant.<br />
<p><br />
Oatmeal packet? Check. Work badge? Check? Phone? Keys? Wallet? Check. Check. Check.<br />
<p><br />
Then you're out the door, into the wild world of concrete forrest. Magma highways leading to places we travel every day, but crave nothing more than to get away from. The metal cages we buckle ourselves into for our daily commutes, and then...<br />
<p><br />
The cubicles.<br />
<p><br />
Your three-walled-home for fifty hours a week. That comfy ergonomic chair that has flattened your ass so much that every time you see those J-Lo jeans in the department store, you're instantly disappointed. The dual monitors; your eyes into the world. A world full of Excel and Outlook reminders, and needy, complaining, numb-skulls every bit as drained and numb as yourself.<br />
<p><br />
These are the roles we assign ourselves. The Normal Life.<br />
<p><br />
You grow up, you get a job, you buy a house, get married, have kids, and pay for it all-- until one day, you die.<br />
<p><br />
Those are the rules.<br />
<p><br />
And if you don't-- well then, you're an outcast. And you'll never amount to anything. (Whatever that means.)<br />
<p><br />
The thing is: we're all fucked. That's what it comes down to. We're all brainwashed into thinking that if we don't follow the plan, we're a failure. And that something bad will happen to us, or we wont be happy. But we're not happy because we're all so bored following this plan that we might as well try something different for a change.<br />
<p><br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-17860486557561120062013-05-13T08:23:00.003-07:002013-05-13T08:24:11.184-07:00MasqueradeCassidy walked through the red velvet curtains that covered the doorway, the train of her dress brushing the floor behind her. She blended into the scenery, almost camoflauged; the dress, a silk crimson that hugged her body and cascaded from her hips to the floor. She looked around, adjusting her mask. He was here somewhere, waiting for her. <br />
<br />
In the background, she could hear music, down-tempo electro and laughter from voices she knew but could not see. As Cassidy made her way through the crowd, she noticed a narrow, dim-lit hallway ahead. On the walls we're small candle-fixtures sending flickers of light, just barely bright enough to see. Cassidy remembered the note he left. "Follow the flicker." Cassidy walked slowly, running her finger tips against the walls. It was quiet, and the sounds of the music and laughter faded as she continued to walk.<br />
<br />
"Come here often?" a voice in the dark said.<br />
<br />
Cassidy backed into the wall feeling the body come closer. She knew the voice was familiar, but all she could make out was the black mask that outlined a face and the eyes that penetrated deep into her. <br />
<br />
"Jake." she gasped<br />
<br />
Jake slid his hands down Cassidy's arms and pulled her wrists up above her head, holding them against the wall. <br />
"I'd like to peel that dress right off of you," Jake said, his lips grazing Cassidy's earlobes and tracing down her cheek to her mouth.<br />
<br />
Cassidy felt his lips, soft, slightly open, just barely touching hers. She opened her mouth, moving forward, craving his body against hers. His lips on her lips. <br />
<br />
Jake pulled back just enough to still feel her. He wanted to make her want it. Wanted to drive her crazy. He looked into her eyes--almost black in the light. Begging for him.<br />
<br />
Cassidy was breathing heavy as Jake shifted, holding both of Cassidy's wrists with one hand and slidng the other slowly down her body, over her bare neck, feeling the silken dress over her breasts and down her stomach to her thigh. Jake navigated his hand to the slit that ran up her thigh and pulled the material aside. Cassidy felt Jakes hand slide up her and then against her lace panties. She tilted her head against the wall and moaned and Jake moved his lips against her neck, slowly kissing and biting her as he moved lower. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-42127208793778217752013-04-17T17:13:00.000-07:002013-07-29T13:40:07.372-07:00Skin and Bones"You were so skinny in that picture," Dylan said, staring at his monitor. "Probably the skinniest ever." <p>April looked over his shoulder at the shot of her in a white summer dress, between two trees. They framed her body in the picture that his cousin had taken five years ago that coming May. He was doing a project for school and needed a model. The photograph was black and white, and April recognized that girl-- a former her, that was younger and more free. A girl who worried about who was going to be the next to get kicked off "America's Next Top Model" or which flavor of Ramen Noodles would be for dinner. <p>"Yeah. I guess. I was thinner in high school," April responded, her hands on her waist. <p>"High school doesn't count. This was when I was away. You were going to the gym every day." Dylan looked at April, then back at the screen. <p>"I'm going to the gym more now than I was back then," she countered. <p>"Well, when you're older, it's harder." Dylan closed out the screen and stirred his tea. <p>Dylan was a runner-- a natural athlete. He had been brought up on baseball, football, and basketball. He competed in track and ran cross-country in high-school. It all came naturally to him. The competition, the sweat, the awards. <p>"You should get back into running." Dylan suggested. <p>April looked at him, sitting down on the sofa across the room. "I have been running, Dylan. I've been running every day. Not that you're home to notice." <p>"I thought you went out the other night," Dylan sneered. <p>"Yeah, after I ran." April pulled her hair back into a ponytail. <p>April tried to ignore the hints. They were subtle, but consistent. She walked to the bathroom and shut the door, staring at herself in the mirror. It was true-- she had put on weight. Nearly thirty pounds since they began dating almost six years ago. She was no longer a nineteen year old size 4 and was reminded of that every time he denied her. <p>She remembered the night two weeks ago-- a Thursday night. Dylan had class every other night, straight after work, but on Thursdays he worked til five and came home to relax. That day, April had left work early to cook Dylan lasagna. She wanted to give him a chance to relax and forget about work and school and the chaos. A night he could focus on being with her right then. April did the dishes, straightened the house and lit a candle that smelt like apples. When Dylan came home he had smiled. <p>"Aw, sweetie. Thank you" <p>April had served him a plate, poured a beer, and sat across from him. "How was your day?" April smiled, watching Dylan take a bite of the saucy goodness. <p>"Oh, you know. Long as Hell. How about you?" <p>April sipped her water. "Good. Not bad. Just busy." <p>April had changed from her tan pants and polo into a flowery skirt and blouse with tan heals. She did her eyes the way she saw on TV and pinned back her hair. But Dylan looked back at his food. <p>"This is really good," Dylan chewed. <p>"Thanks," she smiled. <p>"So, the Met's are on tonight. Wanna watch 'em?" his eyebrows rose. "It's going to be a big game." <p>"Yeah, sure," April said as she stood up, collecting the plates and bringing them to the sink. "You go get started." <p>"Thanks dude," Dylan said in a cartoon-like voice and headed towards the living room. <p>April washed the dishes and prepared their lunches, as usual, then headed to the couch. She sat close to Dylan, fixing her skirt and crossing her legs. <p>"You're really gonna love this game. They got a new pitcher, and he's really got a great knuckleball. You know how they through a knuckleball?" Dylan made a fist and then adjusted his fingers to resemble the pitcher's. "He holds the ball like this... and then," he chucked an invisible ball, "he throws it like that. Pretty tough ball to hit." <p>April watched the screen and agreed. It looked pretty impressive. But she didn't really care about any of that. She shifted her body and crawled on top of Dylan, straddling him and putting her forehead to his. <p>"Kiss me," she smiled looking into his eyes, a deep chocolate brown. <p>Dylan gave her a peck on the lips and peered around her. <p>"Come on, that's all you got?" April said playfully, kissing him on the neck. <p>"Hey," Dylan said, pulling away. "Come on, you know I don't like that." <p>"Baby," April said, running her fingers behind his neck and up through his hair. "Just relax. I want to kiss you," she smiled. <p>"April, look. I told you. I don't want to do this. I'm not in the mood. I'm tired, and stressed, and anxious. I have two stories to read tonight, and I just want to watch this game. Is that too much to ask?" <p>April crawled off and sat next to him, defeated again. Forty six days. Not that she was counting. <p>"I'm tired. I'm going to go to bed." <p>"Goodnight, sweetie" Dylan said, as April walked to the room. She slid off the skirt and took out the bobby pins that held together every strand of self-dignity she had. She had become a beggar. April slipped on the tank top and sweatpants and crawled into bed, hitting the button to the radio. She had laid there wondering again what she could do differently. What she could possibly do to get him back. Maybe she had to just let it go. For good. <p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-56504289537901611212013-04-17T12:33:00.001-07:002013-04-17T12:33:40.092-07:00olive oilMolly moved Jake into the room and pushed him onto the mattress. She looked like a pixie, her short hair a mess, and soft face full of mischief. The bed sunk as Jake fell back, and Molly climbed on top. She took a scarf from the headboard and wrapped it around Jake's head, covering his eyes.
<p>
The cool, silky material sent a shiver down Jake as he felt Molly climb off the bed.
<p>
"You stay right there," Molly commanded, running her hand down Jake's leg as she walked away.
<p>
Jake wondered where she might be going. It was a long night at the bar, and Molly didn't have her car with her, so he offered to drive her home. When she invited him in, he didnt expect to be pushed up against the back door. She had stood on her toes, against his body, and let her lips linger just lightly against his. He could feel each of them breathing heavier and harder as the tension built-- each second, moving just a tiny bit closer. Her lips lightly closing in on his bottom lip. His tongue lightly caressing her top lip, until Jake grabbed her and pulled her into him. Kissing full mouthed, wildly, letting go of tension that had built for months.
<p>
Molly pulled Jake forward as she kissed, leading him through the living room, down the hall, against the bathroom door, and then into the bedroom, where she had left him there, on the bed.
<p>
Molly went to the kitchen, bringing back with her a small bottle of olive oil. she poured a small amount into her hands and lightly rubbed them together. Slowly, she crept onto the bed and moved her hand over Jake's. Taking his hand in hers, she began to massage the oil into his palm, and through his fingers, slowly massaging them one by one. She pushed her thumb into his palm, feeling Jake instantly relax.
<p>
Molly did the same with his left hand, smoothing the oil over his palms, through his fingers. Slowly caressing each finger and moving her hands up his arms.
<p>
Stradding Jake, Molly slowly lifted her summer dress over her head. Jake could feel the shift in her body and hear the movement of cloth. Jake moved his hands up her thighs, not feeling the silk dress that was there seconds before. Looking down, Molly held his hand, moving his fingers across the lace the ran across her hips. Jake could feel the softness of her skin above the lace and bent his finger tips to slide them inside.
<p>
Molly could feel him now, growing hard beneath her. His breaths becoming more shallow. His hands becoming less patient. He slid his hand below her hips and between her thighs, feeling her warmth--letting his thumb wander lower, rubbing deeper. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-37460565937941782562013-04-08T09:29:00.001-07:002013-04-08T10:02:59.047-07:00cassidyCassidy sat at her desk biting the end of the ball-point pen. Her eyes dove into the double monitors, setting work aside, and wetting her lips with her too eager tongue. She slid her privacy filters on, even though she had the office to herself.
<p>
Jake had messaged her the daily report, and then a second email came through.
<p>
<i>I'd love to feel that silk shirt up against me.</i>
<p>
Cassidy smoothed her hands down her blouse, examining it closely, checking for wrinkles. It was a lavendar, button- down with two small pockets in the front. It was professional and tucked neatly into her black skirt that fell just above the knee.
<p>
What stood out to Jake the most though, was how clearly he could see the outline of her lace bra that seemed to be patiently waiting for him under that blouse. He wondered how deftly he could undo the small pearlesant buttons and expose her-- just the first three, he thought, as his eyes grew bigger, thinking deeper. He wanted to push her up against the wall and feel that shirt against him. Wanted her to move down his body and set him free.
<p>
Cassidy knew Jake loved the color purple. That it did something to him. She remembered the conversation at Happy Hour weeks ago. Sipping on his dry martini, Jake had leaned over and whispered in her ear. "You have no idea what that color does to me." She had on a deep indigo dress-- velvet, with a short black jacket. Her stilleto heels matching as she crossed her legs and looked down at her cosmo in disbelief.
<p>
She remembered how, at that moment, Bill from Accounts Payable had stepped over and spouted, "How are those reports comin along Cass?" He never did understand the point of Happy Hour.
<p>
Jake had interjected, turning towards Bill. "Cassidy is doing a fine job at the reporting, Bill. We are still waiting for that purchase order to be rectified, however. But how about you have a beer and let go for a bit? We can worry about that on Monday." Jake looked sternly at Bill, turned to the bartender, ordered a Heiniken, and handed it to Bill.
<p>
"Thanks, Mr. Emery." Bill half-smiled as he trodded away.
<p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-58407182009328722852013-04-08T09:06:00.001-07:002013-04-08T09:06:43.939-07:00wordsMissing those words you left
<p>
whispered on my lips
<p>
the unfailing mystery of how hard you'd grasp my hips.
<p>
I move my hands down, embracing the showery fog
<p>
The water dripping, slowing, settling down my skin
<p>
taking the path I know your lips would take
<p>
from my open mouth, to neck and breast
<p>
encircling, exciting, the water's pressure biting
<p>
down to my navel, sliding closer
<p>
warm and eager, pooling softly over me
<p>
the shower's ecstacy.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-73083152353277275672013-04-03T06:29:00.000-07:002013-04-03T06:29:04.665-07:00Finding myselfFinding myself in stone walled silence
<p>
There was beauty in your breath,
<p>
or maybe it was the stunning stillness
<p>
or your voice.
<p>
elongated notes, penetrating ears
<p>
like the buzzing of bees through a field
<p>
or the way you toss your hair while talking.
<p>
I remember now, why I left you there
<p>
So concerned with "me's" and "I's"
<p>
That you forgot about my...
<p>
...
<p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-1150709061445776702013-03-28T11:11:00.001-07:002013-03-28T11:11:35.755-07:00BrokenIt's hard to admit you're broken
<P>
When you never quite knew if you were complete.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-53356385618042882122013-03-26T16:58:00.000-07:002013-03-26T16:58:11.259-07:00swallowed the sunLong Island Sound swallowed the sun eyes first
<p>
The sky turning an eerie blue
<p>
holding it's breath,
<p>
counting it's fingers
<p>
one by one.
<p>
...
<p>
The water was green from years of tin-cans,
<p>
Bathing in the sun-drenched water,
<p>
using the reflection to tan
<p>
as the waves weathered their wrinkles away.
<p>
...
<p>
I was thirteen when I saw the sun give up.
<p>
I found that broken coke bottle
<p>
smooth, translucent, a sage green.
<p>
...
<p>
It threw itself back into the ocean.
<p>
I didn't throw it.
<p>
...
<p>
It wanted to be back with the wedding rings,
<p>
and sun glasses,
<p>
and mermaid barbie-dolls
<p>
...
<p>
I didn't throw it.
<p>
...
<p>
It wanted to be back under The Sound,
<p>
Where only the eyes of the Sun could see.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-59919120733207395812013-03-12T13:04:00.001-07:002013-03-12T13:04:06.830-07:00Weight of the MoonShe ran down to the stream,
<p>
her hands covered in rose petals
<p>
her veins exploding against her too-thin-skin
<p>
luminescent under the reflection of the
<p>
pooling coolness.
<p>
The moon was talking now--
<p>
it's poetry stuck to her bones,
<p>
made her heavy and full
<p>
thrusted into her like newborn titalwaves
<p>
only easing to feel her body weaken
<p>
at the thought.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-13028589495105958072013-03-08T16:06:00.002-08:002013-03-08T16:06:26.453-08:00Pregnant SunThe Sun was pregnant with yesterday's uncertainties
<p>
A Bastard child, unfit for today and every tomorrow.
<p>
...
<p>
I was eager like her--
<p>
Glowing, Full, and ready to burst
<p>
A sprouted seed in fertile soil
<p>
A new beginning, I was her child.
<p>
...
<p>
Each day the longest yet,
<p>
I stirred myself deeper, spreading closer still
<p>
A bulb, unlit yet bright as Hell.
<p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-61433214854683672322013-03-05T18:31:00.001-08:002013-03-05T18:31:46.613-08:00bellyI buried myself in her belly
<p>
bulbous and verbose with purr
<p>
the smell of pure soft white
<p>
overwhelmed by warmth
<p>
...
<p>
she spoke to me in silence
<p>
pure body language lounging
<p>
i felt her there, breathing in rhythm
<p>
mmm hssh mmm hssh mmm hssh mmm hssh
<p>
soft and punctual
<p>
verbatim.
<p>
forgiving.
<p>
and oh-so-alive.
<p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-43263423284015762802013-02-21T17:06:00.001-08:002013-02-21T17:07:23.191-08:00too tiredToo tired to tell
<p>
if the lines that frame my too-thin-lips
<p>
spelled onomatopoeias in framework
<p>
like comic-blurbs I felt myself
<p>
miming in bold
<p>
...
<p>
Each paragraph unparralled
<p>
a speech spoken far too spiratically
<p>
in words that only fingers yelling
<p>
"Come Hither" can say.
<p>
...
<p>
I'm too tired to spell it out for you
<p>
in fifth-grade-solo-standing-style
<p>
too young to perform in solilique
<p>
contimplating in consonants
<p>
too eager to let you walk away.
<p>
...
<p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-7620164693059093372013-02-18T10:40:00.000-08:002013-02-18T10:40:42.850-08:00HighwayYour hands smooth signals
<p>
Follow my highway
<p>
Hip to thighway.
<p>
Slow-sipping at my skin
<p>
Each pore perking up
<p>
Stretching, screaming: Touch me.
<p>
A fond memory of a dream.
<p>
...
<p>
Steam building, uncertain
<p>
a foggy memory
<p>
dancing between shower curtains
<p>
fully clothed in purple lace.
<p>
...
<p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-73018969702550497032013-02-14T12:34:00.001-08:002013-02-14T12:34:58.649-08:00hot disasterI'm hot and headed for you
<p>
A sweet disaster wrapped
<p>
invisible bubble wrap.
<p>
Ready for stardom
<p>
A fleeting image of you
<p>
A burning polaroid
<p>
destroyed in ashes of evidence.
<p>
breathing through plexiglass images
<p>
inhaling stale pixals
<p>
pressing skin to palm
<p>
perplexed in pieces on the ground
<p>
picking up the dial
<p>
redialed
<p>
untied
<p>
and exhaled. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-34068871753005902302013-02-05T16:41:00.001-08:002013-02-05T16:41:38.581-08:00passionate-young-artistBaby snuck into the kitchen cupboard. It was empty, a light oak, and just big enough for her to fit inside without any cans of corn, or cylinders of breadcrumbs, or even a knock-off pound of linguine. The store had cleared out, except for a few of the employees, lingering, picking up tiny pencils dropped by careless customers who neglected to fill out their notepads with manufacture part, aisle, and row numbers. None of them spoke Swedish like Baby once thought. In fact, most of them were adolescents who went to the same schools as her, drank the same fountain water, and swore the same swears. Only they wore yellow shirts, and Baby hated the color yellow.
<p>
Baby cracked open the cabinet door and peeked out just in time to watch the curly-haired teen hobble down the stairs. The lights dimmed, and she heard the door click locked as it echoed through the warehouse bouncing off each mirror and aluminum chair. Baby smiled. She knew Jake could be anywhere. There could be twenty kitchens, twelve bedrooms, fourteen bathrooms, three living rooms she'd have to explore; not to mention the cabinets, desks and pantries-- and the children's area. It could take her days.
<p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3705287386227587201.post-84616527649959509822013-02-04T12:44:00.002-08:002013-02-21T16:59:18.526-08:00Feel UnrealWhere did you go
<p>
When I held your kiss
<p>
but let the rest of you fall
<p>
...
<p>
strait to the ground
<p>
...
<p>
Each sensation unreal
<p>
the feelings untrue
<p>
or maybe the most real
<p>
that you'll ever feel.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0