Friday, July 30, 2010

Only after a few.

I love you like a plane crash.
Those jet engines digging into the earth
and serving up everything for the last time.

I love you like a fucking car crash
glass everywhere and me hanging out the driver's window. Alone,
bloody, and even dead.

I love you like a firecracker or a nuclear bomb.

Everything is always exploding.

I love you like that.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Sometimes, a monster is loosed for want alone. It will take you and it will eat you and it will give you pleasure.

I want flesh.
I want to fuck.
I want to be deep inside of you.
I want to cum in you and keep my hard cock pushed in there, filling you.
I want you and I will have you.

When your duvet or covers or sheets are pulled tight tonight, and you are drifting off to sleep, I will creep in there, into your secrets.

In that place you will be free to take me like the lover you have always wanted to be.
You can have anything you want of me, as I will of you.

Your fingers will drift below your waistband and with self-muffled sighs you will imagine that those very same fingers are mine; my cock, my tongue and my heat.

And when your hips buck as you cum, you will say my name and gasp for it; clenched fists, curled toes and open mouth.

After it all, dear lover, you will shudder and shake and return to your senses and drift away into sleep.

But I will have had you then like that, using your own body to fuck you and make you twist.

Sometimes, monsters be loosed.

Tonight the jailer has opened the doors and the monster is out there. He is hunting you.

Check under your bed.
Close the closet doors.
Leave the lights on.

Friday, July 16, 2010

"She is the paragon of paragons of beauty, the reply to all desires, the bliss-bestowing goal of every hero's earthly and unearthly quest."

It had been a long ritual. I cleaned out everything that meant anything to me. Under the seats, the buttons on the roof, the rosaries from Mexico and the Philippines hanging from the rear-view mirror, the clothing and camping gear and carpentry tools from the back, the Jesus and Mary stickers carefully lifted from the rear window using dish-soap and my bank card; even the small things like my favorite tapes which I had constantly played in you: David Bowie, Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra.

On Saturday morning we took that final drive and I spoke to you softly; the radio stayed off as I wanted to hear what you had to say to me. Your V-8, 350 5.7 purred and roared at all the right times, when I asked you. You have never let me down. When we pulled off the collector and onto Highway 1 East I opened you up wide and was willing to take any ticket, any punishment; just for you. I opened you wide and was hitting 180km by the time I passed Canada Way and we swerved in and out and I thought we would die together as we lived. You have been my shelter, my home, my work-horse, my escape-pod, my darling in white. I have driven with you through the Rockies and slept in your lap, I have worked to feed you the things you need. Your new catalytic converter and muffler, your new tail-pipe. I love you.
You hauled me and my small number of belongings through Alberta and into Vancouver to begin my new life in Canada. I worked you hard those hauling days. And you took me back through Alberta and back again to Vancouver, too.

As we sped toward your final destination, our last drive, I began to weep and shake hard. I pulled over once to explain death to you and I knew you might never understand but I did it anyhow and I just wanted you to know how much I love you; so much.

We pulled into the wrecker and I did the sign-off, tears running down my cheeks and a hole in my little heart. They had to ask me several times for the keys before I complied. They knew why I was crying.

I couldn't watch you being driven off but I did sneak a small look as you rounded the corner and I blew you a kiss and hoped to God that you saw it; I think you did and your tail-lights were gone.

I left my favorite Elvis tape in your cassette deck.

I left you a love letter in your glove box.


Sunday, July 04, 2010

Not infrequently, the supernatural helper is in masculine form.

Many years ago there was a young man with a broken heart, and a soul which could never be still. His spirit was strong, but never silent enough to hear the sounds that trees make when the wind kisses them. He was attached to worldly delights and measured his manliness against them and defined his godliness through them. The young man was well known in the small kingdom he thought he ruled and was sure that the women and flowers were pretty for him alone.

One day, while inspecting his possessions and counting his coins, he was approached by an old man. The old man walked slowly and was dressed in rags, yet there was a peace in his face.
"Is this your fine house, sir?", the old man asked.
The young man did not answer, but instead continued counting coins.
"I will give you a wish if you answer me, boy."

The young man told him that it was in fact his house, his land, and bade the old man to stay as many nights as he needed.
The old man smiled and said,"I knew you would be kind to me."
"How did you think that", said the young man, "when we have shared but mere words in exchange?".

"I am the future you", said the man in rags. "I have met the women and the money and the possessions and the hollow-nothing."
"I have returned to warn and encourage you".

The young man wept hard and fell to his knees.
"I have nothing", he cried.
"You never had anything", said the old man.

The young man became old.
But his love became grand and wide.

Being a man, he thought, is the greatest profession.