the wetness

The Wetness

I wanted to write a simple poem
about the wetness between a woman's legs

and what kind of holy moment it is
when the man's hand quietly moves south

over the smooth curve of the belly
into the shade of that other hemisphere

and his fingertips find hidden in dark fur
the seam already expectant in its moistness.

I wanted to write about that moment
as if it was full of incense,

and monks holding up their Latin like a torch
deep inside a cavern of Gregorian chant,

but if I write that, someone will inevitably say what
has that romantic foofaw got to do

with the beleaguered realtities of love
or with the biological exigencies of lubrication

or with the vast, retarded hierarchies of human suffering?

And someone else will add
that the man's hand
represents the historical hunter-gatherer tradition

invading the valley of the woman's body
with the obsolete presumptions of possession,

whereas the woman's body is known to be
the starting place of agriculture,

doing just fine, thank you, by itself,

until the man's hand barges into her Shangri-La,
and tramples her zucchinis and tomatoes.

But to the man, the wetness is a blessing
for which there is no history;

a coin that cannot be counterfeit,

and when the man's fingers reach it,
the wetness ripples upwards like a volt,
a cool wind, an annunciation

and he tastes it,
as if his hand was a tongue
he had sent ahead of him.

I wanted to write a poem about
the wetness
between a woman's legs,

but it got complicated in language.
It is a wetness the man would make for himself
if he could

- if he could only reach
that part of himself
which has been dry for years;

if he could only show
a part of what he feels
when he finds out

he is not a thousand miles from home.
Then he will not have to go

into the country of desire alone.

~Tony Hoagland. from Application for Release from the Dream

there is a story that goes with this, but it can wait for another time ... xxx


a thematic post

From Blossoms

From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat. 

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach. 

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

~ by  Li-Young Lee 



space, man ...

In Praise of Their Divorce

And when I heard about the divorce of my friends,
I couldn't help but be proud of them,

that man and that woman setting off in different directions,
like pilgrims in a proverb

-him to buy his very own toaster oven,
her seeking a prescription for sleeping pills.

Let us keep in mind the hidden forces 
which had struggled underground  for years

to push their way to the surface - and that finally did,
cracking the crust, moving the plates of earth apart,

releasing the pent-up energy required
for them to rent their own apartments,

for her to join the softball league for single mothers
for him to read George the Giraffe over his speakerphone

at bedtime to the six-year-old.

The bible says, Be fruitful and multiply

but is it not also fruitful to subtract and to divide?
Because if marriage is a kind of womb,

divorce is the being born again;
alimony is the placenta one them will eat;

loneliness is the name of the wet-nurse;
regret is the elementary school

endurance the graduation.
So do not say that they are splattered like dropped lasagna

or dead in the head-on collision of cliches
or nailed on the cross of their competing narratives.

What is taken apart is not utterly demolished.
It is like a great mysterious egg in Kansas

that has cracked and hatched two big bewildered birds.
It is two spaceships coming out of retirement,

flying away from their dead world,
the burning booster rocket of divorce falling off behind them,

the bystanders pointing at the sky and saying, Look.

~ from Unincorporated Persons in the Late Honda Dynasty by Tony Hoagland


how does my summer garden grow?



the cult of choosing

This is the sign I hang on my laptop cover when I'm slouched on the sofa, fluffy blanket pulled up to my chin because I like to keep the house 'meat locker cold' during these hot Houston summer nights, and I'm busy pinning on my Pinterest boards.  Oh, sorry, I meant CURATING my online AGGREGATION of tattooed men, drowning women and strange bunnies; Images that declare me INTERESTING, HIP, CREATIVE and WITH-IT ... (umm, maybe 'with-it' is a term past its prime?) 

Regardless of the WORDING, I claim my place in this brave new world of online curation.  I have evolved beyond blogging's infant days when my posts were rambling TL;DR (too long; didn't read) dissertations on my boring life and its mundane detailia (get it - detail +ia = hip new with-it word?) to become a DISCERNING COLLECTOR with an eye for what's TRENDING in the .... umm..... CURATING world. 

And I am FREED!  Freed from my abject self absorption. Liberated from digressions, rhetorical suppositions, LONG FORM writing and  poetry -- EEK, POEMS! -- to focus my CREATIVE endeavors on VISUAL POETRY.  Yes, my blogging friends, blogging as you once knew it, daresay still archaically practice in some instances, is DEAD. Dead, dead, dead. Thank you Tumblr. Thank you FB. Thank you Pinterest.  

Let me assure you my friends that CURATING is no easy feat, no slouch for the couch potato.  Oh NO.  CURATING is a SERIOUS business with TREACHERY, THIEVERY, and RULES of conduct that are more intricate than the geisha's tea ceremony.  Why I tell you, I have been LOCKED out of SEVERAL pinners' CURATORS' boards for my bold pilfering AGGREGATING of stolen  VISUALS. I've been accused of INFRINGING on their AESTHETIC without due CREDIT and respect for their CAREFULLY CURATED COLLECTIONS. I have been unfairly warned by the Pinterest Governing Body to PLAY NICE and STUDY (long arduous considering hours of itty bitty tiny text) the ETIQUETTE of pinning curating lest I be BANNED from the internet's new CUTTING EDGE. 

Friends, what I am doing is IMPORTANT.  Yes, IMPORTANT! I am curating a CAREFULLY CONSIDERED SOCIAL ARCHIVE of the 21st CENTURY.  Why, my COLLECTIONS are NO LESS IMPORTANT than STONEHENGE itself.  Future generations will CONSIDER the pathology symbology of my f**ed up mind CREATIVE VISION.  And wonder.  Yes, wonder.  And possibly weep at its banality beauty.  

Of course, I shall have to go now and pin curate this post ...



Is it over yet ???

After Christmas redux because I ALWAYS feel this way after a Retail Christmas!

Meet Diesel  - My Christmas PRESENT ... well, OUR Christmas present.  
I get to enjoy the snuggles, but Soub is doing most of the puppy mop-ups :)

My BEST Christmas present - happy healthy gorgeous kids.

Our best wishes to you and yours for the New Year!


For Adullamite .....the Lone Surviving Reader

At Blackwater Pond

You know how it feels,
wanting to walk into
the rain and disappear-
wanting to feel your life 
brighten and grow weightless
as a leaf in the fall.
And sometimes, for a moment,
you feel it beginning - the sense
of escape sharp as a knife-blade
hangs over the dark field
of your body, and your soul
waits just under the skin
to leap away over the water.
But the blade,
at the last minute, hesitates
and does not fall,
and the body does not open,
an you are what you are - 
trapped, heavy and visible
under the rain, only your vision
delicate as old leaves skimming
over the mounds of the seasons,
the limits of everything,
the few shaped bones of time.

~ Mary Oliver from Twelve Moons, 1972