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.
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.
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.
-Sid
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.
This shit is fucking great for building walls.
I like Aspen, it's soft but strong and has a low flammability rate.
The T&G ply just fits in so nice over some squared studs.
It's an automatic hoarding wall; and even cheaper than factory flat-edge.
You couldn't even fit a piece of paper through those joints.
Not even a fly's wing.
Today after some serious fucking around with a 12x12 timber support, I drove home mad with thoughts of all things carpentry. I drove home listening to the Frank Sinatra cassette, "Some Nice Things I've Missed", loud on my stereo.
The traffic was pre-cum at 4:00 p.m. near 1st Beach, not quite there but showing promise. I always drift to the days we used to be insane together, then. I wonder about you now and think you would love carpentry.
On Monday, I'll drive in some duplex nails for you. I'll bury the top head in Aspen and dull the point.
I wouldn't want to split the wood.
There was a postcard on my floor when I came home the other day. The postman had slid it through my mail-slot and it landed picture side up. While I was taking off my work boots I examined the front and wondered who could have sent it to me. The entire front of the postcard was black except for the words, in gold and longhand, "Roma by Night". I thought it was a funny little joke.
When the boots were off I picked that postcard up only to find that it wasn't for me. It had the right address but was addressed to someone named James.
It read:
"I would have sent you a card from Paris, but Paris does not sleep. Have loved every bloody minute... Off to Barcelona tomorrow. Let you in on a secret, if we had gone to Paris instead of San Fransisco, you would have never returned.
-Love R."
The word "returned" was underlined three times.
I think it was the saddest thing I had ever read.
Postcards always say everything clearly.
I love the ways you make me
shake.
I love the ways you make me
break.
I love the ways you cook my head.
I love the ways we fuck in bed.
I love the ways that you love me.
I love the ways that I am free.
If you ever need a man to hold,
if you ever feel your love is old.
Voila. It's just me. A simple man, your levee.
There is something so simple about construction and carpentry that always makes me return.
I love the feeling of a half-dozen 2x4s on my right shoulder as I leap from concrete post to foundation wall; always 6 to 12 feet from the ground.
There is something about building.
I love the feeling of hammering in duplex nails, or using an impact to put in 6 inch wood screws, even when 3 inch ones would have done the job.
There is something about washing it all away in the home-time shower and laying on the couch, still wet and naked and thinking of your lips.
I love how you make me feel like a carpenter; your man in uniform.
There is something about my hammer, my leather tool-belt, my square and chalk-line, my tape and pencil.
I love that you love me.
There is something so simple about building things that makes me a man.
There is a screw in my cutlery drawer. It is a wood screw, a Robertson.
I saw it when I was looking for scissors to open some brown sugar.
I wondered how it got in there and then I remembered how careless I was.
Always mixing things up and placing them poorly.
There is a screw in my cutlery drawer and I can't recall as to how it might have gotten in there.
It's like you. In my little heart. Out of place but there for certain.
I left the Robertson there and thought about it for days.
It's still there.
It's like you.
