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Posts Tagged ‘music for the muffinasses’

|| 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.

|| November 17, 2011 || 12:40 pm || Comments (0) ||

Sometimes I have these terrifically detailed dreams wherein I’m pointedly informed that God was whispering in Euclid’s ear and shit like that.

Then I wake up to a world where things like this exist:

I fling myself around the bedroom, flailing, singing, yanking on pants and am not concerned about Euclid, his ears, or what God said into them. Not one little bit.

|| February 24, 2011 || 10:27 am || Comments (10) ||

My insides are really still right now, not expectant, not coiled and ready to spring nor steeled for a blow.

Since you are human, you must know what a treasure this is.

I’m just sitting in the middle of it, enjoying the simplicity of unfuckedupness. Rest here with me for a minute, here in the place where we don’t have to talk and we can just be. Eye contact isn’t necessary. Smiling is optional, but encouraged.

|| October 29, 2004 || 12:55 am || Comments (9) ||

movie house

“They’re going without us.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I want to go.”

“Then fucking go, Cree.” I was incredulous. What the??

“I can’t leave you here like this!”

The ‘like this’ referred to was me, supine on the curb, bootsoles flat to the street’s asphalt, knees (remarkably) primly together. Demure While Drunk In Public Settings is a course that all Southern young women are required to take, even if they never plan to touch a drop in their lives (also paramount is the early-learning regimen of both How To Tell A Bald-Faced Lie Earnestly and Looking Sweet And Only Cutely Flustered In Moments of Discomfort*).

Also, I should mention, I took a painstaking twenty-five minutes –while everyone else was shooting the breeze or talking shit (which really are only slightly different…it’s all in the set of your mouth as you are doing it) –-arranging my hair, braided and at right angles, behind my head. When you’re the right shade of pickled everything’s an artistic moment: I Am Living Sculpture, Hear Me Roar.

Everything else residing between the boots and the hair, well….let’s just say those things were sort of left to their own devices. The knees were on autopilot, performing quite nicely and according to their ritualistic training.

I was becoming one with the stars, motherfucker, and just wanted to be left alone. My senses were so keen that I could smell the mineral content of the concrete beneath my back, feel the thrumming of a miles-away textile plant on my leaden arms.

“There was a ‘don’t’ and then there was a ‘care’. I think I said them together, but I can’t be sure because I am very, very polluted at present.

“Yes,” I lifted my head so that I could fuzzily eyeball his face, “I’m almost positive that I told you I don’t care.”

“I’ll just stay here with you,” he said, exasperated beyond typical levels.

“You know what, Cree? I really can take care of myself.” He opened his mouth to speak again, and I halted him.

“If you are going to stay, then at least shut the fuck up. You can babysit me in silence, can’t you?” His response? He waved the other four on and leaned inside the car to turn on some music

while the merry band of tricksters headed toward a grocery store to stuff cold slabs of plastic-encased beef in their shirts for a little two ay emm breakfast feast. I remember hearing about this later and thinking, “I should be doubly jealous; they got both steak and erect nipples on their outing.”

After an indeterminate amount of time (thirty seconds? forty-eight weeks?), I surmised that it might be best if I explored the whole ‘being vertical’ thing for a little while. I managed to nearly raise myself erect when, whoops, overbalance kicked in on the deal and I stumbled forward into Cree’s magically-waiting arms.

As much magic, anyway, as can exist when said arms are stringing you up by your pits and saving you from violently kissing some ‘crete.

But when I extracted myself somewhat, I noticed that those arms were gooshfleshed, hair on them standing aloft. I remember being suddenly moved by his body betraying his manner and wanting to kiss him because of it. I drew him gently -–my hands clasped on his forearms and his on mine—- toward me, backing into the corner where the ticket booth and front doors met up to do whatever business involves doors and ticket booths.

And when I was suitably pinned in that swooping corner, I pulled him in to me. Our lips were inches apart; we could have breathed in each other’s expelled air had we bothered drawing breath, but we did not. He placed his right hand on my sternum, fingertips lightly resting on my neck, thumb below my chin. That particular move buckles my resolve damn near every time and suddenly here we were, boots jockeying for position and limbs clumsily (in their haste) searching for purchase.

I bit my cheek and he drew my earlobe between his lips, hands working the denim at my waist, pushing and opening all at the same time, damn the physics of it all. I maneuvered his head further downward so I could get my hands in that mass of black hair.

Everything in us both was screaming ‘GIMME!’ and we let fly on one another, the moon above witness to him bringing me to an arching, gasping place where I wanted to both run away from the intensity and stay forever awash in it.

Though we were still running buddies after that, we regarded one another with the keen distaste of ‘conquest’ and eventually the group we hung with shifted, then dissolved altogether.

Every now and again, I will see him in the grocery store, and he eyes me with appreciation and something akin to subtle want. I’ve now become a fondness in his memory; I can see him wishing away my spouse, the years, our mutual dismissiveness after that groping, fevered coupling.

It makes me uncomfortable.

*Of course I failed both of these miserably