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Archive for March, 2012

|| March 26, 2012 || 4:29 pm || Comments (4) ||

I have read your words a thousand times / All inspired by smashed up love and crime

// Tired Pony, ‘Dead American Writers’

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1) Hello.
2) It’s time again for Doo-Nanny. HELLS YEAH SON.
3) A Canadian is downstairs. The internet intersects with life and it works.
4) I got nominated for Voices of the Year. You can see the piece and vote here, if you so desire.
5) Things are happening. This year aims to be triumph and tragedy hammered together in a manner that might leave everyone wondering which is which. For some reason, I am grinning out of one side of my mouth at the notion of this. Adventure. The first-quarter prediction is that 2012 has a whiff of adventure about it.
6) I know so many amazing people, I swear to God.
7) Over the next few days I’ll be driving around Hellabama in a gold GMC pickup. Wave and holler if you see me; we  can clink beers and grin for a little bit.

Today I feel like ‘amen’ is being breathed all over me, if that makes any sense. I hope you have a day like this soon.

|| March 20, 2012 || 1:56 am || Comments (6) ||

We spiraled further and further into it, and that cliché about becoming this groping, twisting, gymnastic Other was played out, right there irrespective of location and eyes not ours. My heart screamed savage and I moved on you, against you, everything about me just yammering ‘moreohmorrrre’; more of  you, more of us, teeth and skin and breath and sinew and grimacing, gloried smiles.

This is to promise, this is to sin, this is to fulfill with the body what the spirit wants to whisper to the spirit of another. This is to joyfully and wantonly and pointedly possess. This is To Fuck. This is to fuck, desire-driven and with no end in sight.

I woke, dream still dwelling on my skin, to find you in my arms. Usually I am buried in yours, loosely strung up, my forehead pressed to you. My nose was buried in your hair and it occurred to me that breathing in your amber warmth was the cause of my dreams and I wanted to wake you, I wanted to ask, “Are your dreams tangled in me, too?” because it felt otherworldly and driven, this sleepy electrifying passion, and I just knew  (knew!) there was some freaky shared consciousness shit going on. I didn’t get a chance to ask, because as my lips hovered over your ear and parted, you stirred, you rolled, you pulled me to you and before I knew it the dreams had sashayed out of the confines of sleep and we were at one another, torrid and sweaty and gleeful.

….and then the falling away,
oh god thank you
no, thank you

Later in the day, then, you’re working over there, plotting schematics. I’m working over here, plotting words.   It was your turn to pick our soundtrack, and you chose Lisa Hannigan; I called it a good choice. After a while, I rise, saying I need a shower. You rise, saying you need a snack. We meet somewhere in the middle –as we often do, in so many respects– and move easily into a hug –as we often do– that turns into a small sway and then into a soft and slow dance there in the mid-morning sun of our living room with its beautiful furniture and tragically ugly carpet. You smell just so you and my lips seek out the place I love so, the one where your shoulder meets your neck and the softness belies the quiet strength that I so admire in you. You carry it so easily.  I brush my mouth across that spot and you shudder. There is a thrill in being able to elicit this in you still, all these years later.

“Your lips are so soft,” you said to me the first time you lifted your mouth from mine, “I knew they would be.”

You are something spiritual to me that cannot be defined. You ushered a sense of peace into my life –the first true peace, I’d say, one that didn’t have a levy against it–  when chaos was like a swarm of bees that I’d been living in the midst of all blasé-like, as if brushing one’s teeth or going to the grocery or collecting a paycheck in the center of an agitated mess of bees was just Another Natural Thing That We Do.

Lets just be real honest: I’ve never had much attachment to this world, or my place in it, even though I go at living out my said place with my teeth and guts and much rowdy laughter. You, though: You make the mortal coil this waltz of a thing, and I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve prayed fervently to God (and selfishly! oh so selfishly.) that he would take me away from it first so that I’d never have to live one single minute without the promise of your hand in mine at the end of a day.

This world, Gabriel. This world is so dead-set against love winning nowadays. Thank you for facing it down with me, for laughing against the savage cry and hue that would try to drown us –the song that we make together– out.

You are so much my hero that my heart can hardly bear the weight of it.