Approaching Forty, a Love Letter : Esoerotica

I undulate in hypothetical assertion on if we have met, passed, or spoken.  Although possible whether I wish this instigation to be present in tangible reality I am bewitched on what side of the seesaw of hope the impetus would fall: hopeful or less.  This being the nature of the mind preoccupied with what is beyond control bearing meaning on this present moment, where I am most assured I am clueless as to your whereabouts, aroma, or eccentric peculiarities and why when we do ignite this brushfire it will blaze triumphant in that undaunted form of presence.  

Mercurial laughter a gas of intoxicating waft as once I begin to smile at you there is that notion of how can you help yourself but reciprocate into a widening, an opening to what is offered as if natural and rambunctiously combustible into laughter, wanton debaucheries of wildfire laughter seeping into complexion and sexual frivolity tickling the dermis to percolate as this is the moment.  This is lightning like liquid sky plasma arcing into the spirituality of dragon heartstring wands making magic in the way one human peers into the eyes of another.  This is saying I and you know there is no one, no perfect, no only, but we might be able to treat each other as if that were true, priority not in some worship of sexual monogamy equals success preached by the ego, but love is free choice made in so many complex tendrils and divots and not the truncation of carnal desire encapsulated in a single physical body.  We can fuck in fervent abandon and entwine stories until dawn sewing cloth for winters and dancing nude in springs.  There is a staying warm and being free, security and liberation in duality, this is the grand parade.

There is the mother of woven blanket hopes in the paradigms of fate, karma, faith, and the nurturing fertilizers of kindness, dreaming, and planted seeds that a moment of burgeoning like this could ever be.  There is the father of my rigid metal armor that stoically metastasizes my bronchiole cells into cancerous heaviness to lift the bagpipes of body to breathe the audacity to hope for such planetary alignments.  There is the child in me toying that seesaw inside the lightness and the heaviness for which man to be and I pray your eyes find the feathered truth and taste my body naked. 

I recollect a quartet of women who taught me how to be a lover, the others like nibbling minnows, but these women were the tarpon and swordfish, the majestic surface bursting bullheaded beauties capable of making this body rethink where he wanted to go, who he wanted to be, formational type of scale issues where after I was a molted sun-organism evolving out of the water, processing how to breath the staggering notion of air welled inside another’s lungs.  Falling brilliantly and yet, here writing this love letter to you like the Old Man and the Sea, Ahab and Thoreau in his garden seeing this natural eruption fracture the lines of what I expect to become, not knowing if I will be destroyed, saved, or enraptured, I am trying to picture your face as I have a thousand times before in gray percolated midnights.

I speak to you over the lid of my pillow in the sterile darkness holding courtship in conversation under the guise that one day we may pass out from behind the veil into identities; that you had to complete some lily-pad tie-toe, mud-slop stomp, fire-pit dash as I have to be in a specific moment of encounter.  That no matter how the mirror fissures into the warmest refracted colors that this sail cloth inside me is filled by that notion that brought Odysseus home.  Maybe it is to madness or crestfallen umbrage in the way the die will be cast, but there is unction in those twilight conversations echoing that maybe there will be time.  Maybe there will be time for you and me.  Not for perfection, but for being, simply being.    

This battery of barracudas cannot peck all my flesh.  Hair is a nest of gray.  Sex is tantric and shared, but I know none of it has been you.  I am not sure if I have ever felt reciprocated love.  I think I am getting closer to forty years old, which if I am blessed may be half. 

One of my greatest inspirations to learn how to write was a teacher who gave me a 1992 USA hockey team puck as a Senior Awards Breakfast trophy for my contributions to our creative writing class.  I keep it on my desk.  He taught me about Kenneth Patchen and Alan Ginsberg.  He was divorced and the brutality of it puffed out in his cigarettes while on yard duty.  He remarried in his fifties, was in love and I went to see him play Dylan songs at the Neutral Ground on Danneel Street.  She got a brain aneurysm, died on him like a shark swallowing her end of the row boat.  He had a few years and was back to that nothing.  I remember going over to his house in my college years, the lights low and he offered apple pie out the fridge.  It was cold and firm and I had high school-nothing to say to the man.  He died of cancer a month after my wife walked out on our family.  I was thirty, his funeral and I could not face being dumbstruck again. 

Love can be a god damn son of a bitch.  Everybody has their briars and ponds with ice too thin to skate, but we try.  We slide the puck and we fall and like some kind of American god maybe there is a dark secret at the bottom of that lake we just can’t face, but maybe when I talk to you when I peer into those waters, maybe I can see love, to feel on par, to have my person to swim with, to crack my fist against that ice, tread out that water, inhale that great big blasphemous breath, look you in eyes, and finally know what to say.  

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Love and sex are two forest roads divergent, entwined, like parabolic pathways which ideally overlap.  One soil is deeper depending on how it rained the day or three decades before, building up caked ambrosias and vernaculars of how one discusses human insides.  The caulked window pane places, the epidermal flaking assortments, the bedrooms we leave particles of ourselves, ones we want to return, flee, morn departure in the ache. 

We think about photographs of ecstasy in a mental pornography library, catalogs rapt of tea cup servings of areola, thigh stiff, a curve at the rise in a hip socket arching like a slide.  We feel it again in that canyon where sex and love start discussing terms of “What is this?”  “What are we doing here?  When is this something else, that physical gratification merging wood?  When do rivers converge and leave one gasping inside the mouth of a lover’s kiss like the only air tank?  When does a passionate tongue mean that increment of elsewhere, that glade of emotional flowering where we quake peach, lick fuzz, and drip fruits juices from ravishing to indentured?”

Love is that space of unable that allowance of vulnerability where the body becomes a portal awakening a path of questions that demands being addressed.  Love is midnight, a wolf and a human standing in a street, world alive, and inviting the animal into one’s home.  Love is trying to balance embracing the very beast that you know can rip you apart, but chooses not to.  You trust that balance because becoming a lover is to become a reciprocal being.  You are the wolf in their sheets, biting and howling and you feel as powerless as you make them feel in the incisors behind their heart.  Without the threat of loss, the wager risked, there is no love, only one being or both munching.

Love busts, forcing one to digest season, accept the unsettled, and give self-permission to close dissecting what transpired rather than expect the other to participate in closure.  We feel a chunk of humanity, an uncanny morsel identified as native rare and the point of participating in the Circus.  The audience infected with popcorn butter hand in bag to mouth churning until staring at the remnant un-popped kernels forlorn.  There is monotony to ritual, of seeing what is expected, the boxes people fit in, the puff of the kernel, digested, tasted as per usual.  This one didn’t taste that way.  One tries to understand why or how.  It hurts, simply hurts, in the gut pent forest of being a human.

We delve into what is in a given or a series of moments to tap behind the veil, that fantastical second form of being, all the surface cake batter and developing polaroid flapping in between the fingers of it all.  We feel a ghost, a broom sweep, however brief or elongated, an impactful personal connection.  Not always a linear cumulative mass, but the potential a human being shows.  A certain inexplicable way one wishes to be acknowledged, an inkling one did not become insane for having sensed, to not feel like the humanity of the situation got commercialized like a credit card swipe or some wrap-it-up thirty-minute television situational drama flashback way of living. 

Characters replaying roles, lines of do not cross, of delectable appetizers and entrees of certain death.  I know I am going to hurt you; I have seen how this plays out in my head, fair warnings to paint the picture before it paints itself.  Monogamy and commitment starvation camps process vampiric thirsts to escape, to extract a self and find bloody oxygen outside of obligation to show up in what the other thinks you are or wants you to be.  Rather be alone, even if lonely than embalmed behind the cornea of the other.

Opening up has a temporal scab nature, figuring out crossroads in a recycled serendipity taste test.  Beading love and seeing a being on a native level, to feel on par, to say, “I felt on par.”  To sit in those words, wear them.  Take the cap off the telescope, see the shrapnel, trauma, and nature; each needs to see the other first before admitting feelings.  Seeing each other the way a subject poses for a sculptor from the tendon out to the skin.  Love is allowing oneself to be witnessed.  The small and deadly poison of reading a post script “I am starting to have feelings for you.” A winless gambit, a tripped explosive, stuck with the bomb when the timer goes off.

Cars collide, hit and run, palm over eye socket, mouth attempting a cell phone.  One sped well out of range. Hope inside a bubble about the way a person makes one feel to simply talk, to feel alive around a specific human being as possible in dual appreciation, to feel on par.  Sections of an internal factory activating, interfacing in contemplation about what love is, not in confines to a specific human but to explore loving the universe through art in varied mediums and try to drink that daring cup of being present and stare the bigness and fullness of what maybe life is. 

Inspire one to the audacity to whisper the word safe.  Oozed and melted like a molted crab out of the water unsure why one even tried natural language.  Repackaging and hardening a shell.  Reputations to maintain and stories of identity we tell ourselves.  Cracking that inch of dawn and balancing the submission to a departure in a confounding pang. 

Fear of ever attempting love again, to open the room.  Sex is direct and easy.  Pre-packaged intimacy illusion, peaceful penis, vagina, skin, lovely consensual play, but the masks, the galleries of masks we build…  We begin to believe love requires delusions that are only feasible in temporal mutable seasons; permanence is a subjective cog in clockwork hearts subject to rust.  

We go down a path of barricading love, not because of pain or hurt, but because love itself becomes an illusion.  The biological opiates and tricks we engage of picking any specific person are arbitrary and circumstantial; the acrobatics to perpetuate distortions of monogamy after such summersaults even more so and often poisonous to true growth if done with blinders.  If that spirit felt was figment, a distortion of whimsy then maybe life is that quotidian and plastic and maybe life is just brain circuits firing images on a screen, this whole realm of spiritual connection of greater universe atheist bones war with the what-is-in-the-marrow.  Love becomes leukemia in such ways. 

Engaging in the entire universe becomes the only mathematical solution, because if this was created out of nothingness, a platter of tangible reality to craft art or the spark of intimacy or sex or life and that was such light graphite to lift off the page, then this Jedi-monastic distancing artistic meditative pool may be all there is, the closest truth.  Even sex giving that orgasmic act to another human being, seeing feminine shiver quake vibrating one after the other or that halo-like reverberating orgasm of releasing manhood, if that doesn’t go anywhere, meaning if there is no potential keyed locket to an infiniteness of the universe beyond that available in certain parting cloud rainbow like sparked cataclysmic intersections given rare chemistry and physics, like some biological combination humanity keeps attempting and failing and succeeding even on some base level of the random hookup to peek behind the curtain of holy shit what the hell is this, my god I must tongue new language…then what?  What point is there, just the animalistic detour, however fun and hedonistic, joyously entertaining?  Eventually the crestfallen nature of endorphins whets the stones that nests inside us all to inquire before the vibration’s bell curve flat-lines.

We meet people; we approach.  On eclipse occasion we feel that infinite window open inside our vertex, and we question, “What just happened?  Was that something more, not was that person something more, but the whole deal the pathway, the opening the room that happened in that combination in that moment is what we sense through that corridor the something more?”  We process the iterations believing and doubting and realizing the interconnected nature of all reality if we are lucky enough to muster faith in such a courageous perception.

People are conduits, not destinations.  There are no musts, no mandatories.  Sex and love, the whole bath is a numbing agent to specificity for the ecstasy of universality, but for brief windows we are challenged to see the entire universe through a specific human in a seasonal light that the stars, fate, whatever you want to call it set into one’s path not because of a confinement or an encapsulation in who the other presents, but the portal, the thoroughfare, the flowing river to the sky aspect, the wanting to show the other the rainbow bridge in one’s self on par to offer at least some season of what you were put here to create as an artist, provide, allow the other to be and create, and possibly love as a divine being, maybe to ride each other in that violet indigo stellar rain for a painted inhalation and exhalation if mutually elected or maybe love and sex are nothing. 

Maybe love was for a prism of colors hazed in liquid sunshine ephemeral flittering between a space of shifting clouds soaked in the reactive sweat of bodies in proximity.  Maybe love and sex were nothing but mist.  The lucidity maddening, not the pane of feelings, but the potential, how clear one thought one saw a human.  One feels that audacious pin prick, where whoever they are, whatever this was strikes with native amperage that jolts veins in a way one struggles to dissipate.  You feel foolish and stupid, childish, and naïve like a son looking up to the black sparkling canopy with his father and the elder saying, “No son they are just stars.  We are just skin and bones.  There is nothing more than this.”

It makes one want to give up natural language to explore and attempt to discuss that honeycomb quagmire of what that does to insides, the struggle to dismiss, like trying to cease the vibration in a sun.  The light has to starve itself out into a cold sterile place.  Drinking what being human is and that last phantasmal coffee taste of release a bit bitter, but savory long on the tongue and ultimately swallowed. 

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Into a circle of fifths the sound of it like a lock of turnstile cogs

Clicking and clockwise release in a moment of touch razing the land of the horizon

Into an emulsion of body parts, skin and flesh swelling in erogenous eggshell

Talk of paths and career duties, responsibilities to destinies rush like blood hounds

Leek and roasted garlic soup at a table a bottle of California red

Tongued tales of older men in their fifties lusting her thirty-something body into submission

Of giving herself for a receipt of turncoat confessions

To take photographs of gray-haired testimony, distances that daughters keep from daddy

Flooded in hurricanes lost in the black-speckled mold of crimpling paper dark-room

Developed and drained so that the mark of the water line keeps her hair

Grown short and pinned up to keep the ends form dragging in the muck-tuck

The hibernating nature of turtles in January pre-frozen but chilling

Allowing food to rest on the surface, neck in

Rather not move the body until the sun tilts the zenith in angular allowance, safe

That a body can feel the exhilaration of being embraced but not taken

Not stolen or sacrificed to an adage of mathematics of owed credits

For seasons of artistic crafts pottery molded and oil paints on the canvas avoided

For when does this ever dry, the pliable nature of an ebullient smile and sweat-milk cleavage

Being interpreted by men and by family and by bodies passing bodies

Alert to the juxtaposition of what it means to be wed or with child or in time

To have accomplished love or presence or togetherness

Of any of the grand cataclysmic pursuits of human affirmation

That this is who I am and I am doing, I am here and behold

As I reverberate through this universe to sound the harp of the goddesses nakedly bombastic

In the harmonic shake of a bitten lower lip, the tilt of pelvis

For a clitoris to rub beneath clothing as a man brushes the short-pinned locks back longer

Above an ear and turns her feet from below his thigh on a sofa upward to curve into her

Grasping the moment of Odysseus past the sirens and sailing

Into the huffed sounds of a delicate moan the arousal instantaneously orgasmic

In her loins to climb the arc turn to spread her hips and mount over his

Rubbing in release that every part of him feels good against her folds

Words have evacuated in a space of ember glow lamp light serene phasing

In undulating backdrop of her body over his, throbbing for his geometry

To recognize the levees breaking beneath her panties, the flotsam of her sweater

Into bra jettisoned for a grip of his hands upon her teardrop breasts rising and asking

So he takes her upstairs into his bed like a cloud of white, he is naked to match in seconds

Pacing the application of condom, one of five for the evening

And a sixth after breaking dawn she is pulsating the effort of a witness

The slate of being in a moment that taken view of a day drained

Labyrinths run for Minotaur migraines daring her to chop off her skull

To give into the fireball of capillaries insurgents to be here in his bed

Asking for nothing but her to give into the pleasure of his hands

Gripping her limbs tracing her arms and massaging her thighs

Not into submission to him but to the vine of stimulation like Jasmine

Rounding her garden flushing her labia engorged reckoning with the waterfall

The fluids rising in the room, her folds so wet she apologizes to his sheets

Knowing this is a grown man who does his own laundry, paid for this building

This staircase himself, no help and this is for her to be here

He is allowing himself to be vulnerable to hear the spearhead of emotional connection

Rest upon his penis underneath the sheath of that condom breaking not spermatozoa

Like some cannon of Valhalla, but feeling her from the inside, listening to the directions

Her body is scripting in the echoes of his mind seeing her signals in the motions of her mouth

Her cheeks and forehead, eyes closing in the intensity of orgasm after orgasm

And those snowflakes of fear behind her lids of what if he is like them

Praying to attempt to notice his uniqueness in the angles, the mathematics of how his penis fits inside her

Of the way he grips buttocks and presses a pillow behind his back as she folds over him

And he finds that measure deeper cradling her with the sheet folded over her back to keep her warm from

The rush of chilled air from invading this space as their bodies nest 

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Out here in the Southern woods two hundred miles away, forest, brush fires tittering, tent stakes and long leaf pines wavering in the crepuscular gray.  She and him on a bare blanket, a circle of flagstones heat for the temperature of night falling, gliding panties down across thighs like dilating heavens.

Orange sun lemon drop swirling pink mist as the horizon licks the orb clean.  Secluded water melon patch lush burst vines in the alcove of night approaching a horizontal spine.  The sway of trunks flush in autumn clutch brushing the folded troposphere soiled hands gripping lips with old Mississippi Blues guitar hands.  Tested crackled callused range of experienced fingers rough from the path and tender at the tip, delicate to pluck the chord aching to be struck, a melody of reverberation, vibration, bass guitar and harmonica sass tongue hum, Junior Kimbrough and Muddy Waters, north hill country blues dirty and juke joint, a fat opossum all-star on the lick, the crossroads ghost of Robert Johnson ready to make love in rhythm to hum with bulbous lips Hoochie Coochie feathered duet, the setting kiln of fire in the spread of the sky goddess, puffed and shaven of the day encouraging in twilight rain sponge, modal and undulating in a wave of sky buttocks arched goading the lunar gyration to be gripped with workman hands, strong, firm, and dominant.

Moon thrusts, thrusts, and seeks the song of his mouth, to find repose in the rhythm, to surrender sun to the vulnerable bastion of the lunar to wax across shadowed cloth eternal glorious illuminated reflection of the thigh gates stripping sensations of oxytocin engulfing zone to brain of the universe like cerebral lighting veins across the sky from parting legs to goddess strewn and crackling thunder struck clenching her fingers into clouded sheets of Earth pillow soft and wrenching the rain to explode upon the forest, a deluge of sensation as the rumpus tongue strokes and strokes and strokes, blues country testament ballsy and rhythmic building, building, until the face, the night sugar sweet trouble of moan goes farther and farther past boreal orchestra into dark-skinned Mozart cunilingus.

She and he like wolves, her howling into the echo of firelight.  Him muffled and grunting, guttural canine rough-patched and tongue-tied with the mouth of the world.  Fencing duel, wet like walrus tusks prodigious jaw adept at motioning with her movements.  Pert breasts kept under blouse, sweater and the chill of November clawing to rip fabric and his eyes peer into the darkness bolted against her skin the nest-like muff rustling his mustache.  Everything is open in the dark.  Huffing-pant ex and inhales like a beast is rising out of his arched back lycanthrope devouring her.  Beads of fear and ecstasy drip in the cold heat of the vampiric-hour that the fear of the unknown of what might rampage careening out of these woods with the no one but them becomes an animalistic voyeurism.  The bucks stamp hoofs to rut antlers against trunks.  Bears knock over timber to slam honeycombs from branch to the ground to lick honey and stinger after stinger.  He doesn’t speak English anymore, only tongue and mouth, a hirsute upper lip and the taste of her on this tongue in a beast that still looks hungry. 

Surrender pause echo silence to staccato inhales held, inhaled and held with no audible release but the eek muted vibration of tasting opioid brain waves undulating like entering a hibernation of mind burrowing into the cavern of a body, exiting the skyline, the blanket over roots and held in the quiet of succumbed tongue given felled parry to his rapier in her inner space, the swell of the clitoral wishbone’s radiating tingle in nature’s ocean where sound no longer exists.  

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Angelina tilted her head to her conspirator Bradley.  She gave the signal, flashing a septet of stud earrings in her left lobe.  Hair was a jet black, lipstick vulva red, skin ivory with a pelt bead of sweat eyeing the wallet in the front side of the stranger’s tuxedo pants.  Angelina eyes grazed the raised bulge in the mark’s groin fabric.  Her partner on the other side of the room glanced at Angelina through a mirror admiring the curves of her torso, swan legs, but also his black stubble and clean cut quaffed hair peering steel into the mirror on the adjacent wall.  Bradley could look without appearing pensive and sterilized visualizing what it was like for his body to press into Angelina’s dirty, naked, and tight.

Angelina approached the wallet-endowed, pretended to bump nonchalantly as he puffed on a tobacco island in the muddle of the barroom.  Angelina had both hands on his shoulders, whispering in his ear, “I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.  Do you want to get out of here and fuck?”  The cigarette fell from his lips stumbling in his left hand, wedding ring gleaming as the orange glowing stick careened off the metal. The tube of smoke rolled onto the brick floor of the tavern barreling under the smashed snuff of Angelina’s stiletto heel.

In the flash a wallet was exchanged round the back, slid into Bradley’s palm.  The movement of Angelina’s mouth a half inch away from lips the scent of perfume redolent flexing like fish hooks the mark looked at her cleavage and was pulled to the stairway down to exit.  A cab paid by her, hands sowing discordant seeds in the back seat, no words but blood and plots. 

A hotel lobby, elevator, room seven hundred and seventy seven, an electronic pass card and a master suite.  Mahogany and leather, crimson paint, dimmed lights and a door locked with the manual barrier impeding intruders.  Angelina pushed the man to the bed sheets, legs wrestling like pythons nailing his wood to the mattress, clothes still applied. 

A bottle of Southern Comfort, a Merlot, and five more bottles of spirits sat on the night stand.  Angelina pulled up and said, “I want you to drink.” Angelina opened a drawer and pulled out six shot glasses, poured a separate spirit into each and a swirled a glisten of wine into her own cup.  The man downed each, pausing slightly for Angelina’s approval in between the fourth and the fifth, knocking over two of the bottles when reaching for the last.  The liquid washed the carpet.  Angelina extended a pill of ecstasy in her palm.  Gulping and grinning, his black tie strewn on the chaise lounge, the man removed his jacket and tuxedo shirt.  

The man smiled mead-laced and cock-strong proud of his indulgent prowess.  Angelina set her glass inside the drawer and pulled out two pairs of handcuffs, slowly attaching his left and right hands spread to the head board.  The bondage perked the slothful inattention. Angelina recused herself to the rest room, “Let me freshen up and I’ll come back in here and fuck your brains out.”  The man thought about his pants still on his body, how much he wanted them off, an insatiable desire to take Angelina, the hubris to know he still could, his besotted dick still hard underneath the cloth.   

Angelina came out the shadowed doorway like the devil’s smile.  The man’s eyes blinked like a hoarder collecting masturbatory material. Bradley appeared behind her like angel wings of a taller man smiling at a spider caught in a web. Angelina was completely naked, breasts like apple teardrops succulent and flushed.  Bradley’s jacket parted, hirsute chest exposed, the man’s wallet in his left hand the right gripping Angelina’s hip. 

Bradley spoke, “We know where you live.  You are on camera and your wife will know.”  Wrath brewed in the man’s eyes, mouth a hellacious growl of female canine as the referenced wench gripped a red ball with black strap round the man’s head gagging his maw.  Angelina said, “Eat, suck on it.  Now you are going to watch.”

Bradley took out a knife, slit the man’s pants exposing his purple flushed veiny cock, curved erect excited and rattling like a Soviet saber.  He held the blade giving a look indicating what would happen if the man moved or attempted to make too much noise.  Bradley used the tattered fabric to wrap the man’s ankles.  Angelina leaned over the man’s legs brushing her breasts against his legs draping her nipples and honing her mouth over the head of his penis, but pausing a half inch away extending her tongue to open air.  Bradley mounted Angelina from behind spreading her cheeks inserting his thick penis into her anus. Angelina pressed her forearms in like a Sphinx over the man’s body as he basted in lechery. 

The man wanted to both slap her and launch his own penis those inches higher into her mouth.  He looked at Bradley and wanted to be him, flip roles, and dominate on top like animal instead of this compliant shackled sloth. 

Angelina tilted her pelvis, raised her chest twenty degrees and lowered her hand to stimulate her clit as Bradley continued to drive.  Angelina came.  Bradley snorted like a racehorse, grunting and huffing to the finish line. 

The pair stood, dressed, wiped the room for finger prints, and retrieved the camera on the dresser.  The housekeeper found a bloated naked runt in the morning stammering like a leashed Labrador.  

Eso - Wanton World Mythology - 20151007

Long or maybe not so long ago sometimes gods and goddesses would fuck each other.  This is one of those stories; yes god porn.  Kali the destroyer and Krishna the lover.

Krishna meditated on the banks of a creek high in the Smokey Mountains inhaling the mist off the water while watching a pair of bears sodomize each other underneath a waterfall.  Krishna burrowed inside his mind like a picture show his third eye opened hearing the pants of his thousand wives across the world masturbating to his image.  As Krishna was called to do as a Sunday morning ritual Krishna replicated himself to attend to each wife.  Sometimes more than once like a David Bowie sort of thing so that he could have a three way and at the same time make love to himself and probably David Bowie too, because if you’re Krishna why not also get married to David Bowie.

Krishna whisked away with a multitude of virile penises and clits.  He did not always take male form on such excursions.  While there are many doorways of stories we could open this page, tonight will be Krishna and Kali as Shiva waits for the sequel.

In the thick of the Amazon jungle Kali was strewn ten arms, two legs holding the decapitated heads of smiling men whom she had recently devoured.  Their demonic bodies swallowed whole, consciousness imbibed.  Kali always got horny after getting apocalyptic.  Kali’s blue flesh was pulsating a serpentine rhythm reptile-like fixated on Krishna’s heat.  Krishna appeared as a red clay vase brimming with water on the back of a crocodile swimming towards Kali.  

Four of Kali’s free hands began to dance beckoning her fuck-god, tongue out long dripping with the blood of her kill lusting for Krishna.  Kali took two of the heads in hands five and six crushed them into powder raised to her mouth and blew the dust like a perfume she walked through the mist.  Her loin cloth dissolved.  Her skull-bone mala beads shook exposing her blue nipples engorged and soaked in blood. 

Kali breathed in the bone-dust.  A harpy eagle picked up the pitcher upon the crocodile and poured Krishna down Kali’s throat.  Kali burst an orgasm that shook the trees.  Aguaje fruit rained down.  Howler monkeys, tapirs, and macaws swarmed on the feast.

Kali could feel Krishna inside her stimulating her blood obliterating the traces of the toy-ish boys Kali ate to engorge her folds for Krishna.  Kali’s breath mixed with Krishna flowing to each of her muscles wrapping into Kali’s inner clitoris like a wishbone Krishna was granting.  Bulbs deep internal erection, eight thousand nerve endings, Kali multiplied them like the stars when Krishna was inside her echoing a flower that when orgasming pollinated every plant in the rainforest.  Passion flowers, ginger torches, and lotuses bloomed wildly.  Kali’s sweat flung from her indigo skin transforming into butterflies gorging on the fresh nectar in the ovules.

Kali’s body quivered as an eclipse belted the sun into bondage darkness.  The forest hooted and cawed at the crepuscular flood.  Krishna was fucking Kali from the inside.  Kali took a hand left and right to place two fingers each upon her labia, two more hands one above to circle mons pubis draping down to her clit and the fourth into her vagina transforming four of her fingers into a thick, elongated penis.  Kali could feel her own uncircumcised tip in her mind kissing Krishna as the very blood pulsing in her opening.

The ground quaked as Kali came seven hundred times with a ferocity that would take any human woman past death and echo into several afterlives.  There could be nothing left to experience in the mortal coil.  As Kali’s pants slowed the eclipse ended.  The local’s sacrifices were answered.   Kali’s third eye began to glow like an ember.  The red circle on an oceanic face swirled a tempest.  Two legs and arms spread the aperture.  Krishna crawled out of Kali’s third eye with a levitating flute in his mouth. 

Kali’s body fell raptured by the act breathing hot and rapid, genderless, at one with the universe.  Her arms lay spread, limp and taken of their strength transformed into ten succumbed cobras.  Kali’s belly rooted into a Kapok tree enormous and rocketing to the sky breaking the barrier of the canopy.  Kali’s legs stood upon themselves and became a Jabiru stork taking flight shedding a single avian tear falling onto Krishna’s forehead as he played his flute.  The tear rolled bifurcating a drip to each side of Krishna’s neck sprouting a left and right head each chanting Om.

Kali’s loins turned into an orchid at the base of the Kapok tree.  Krishna lowered his central head nestled his nose underneath the hood of the orchid’s sepal down the column to the pollinia gently parting the orchid’s lips.  In this simple touch a star exploded its final fusion in the far reaches of a distant or not so distant galaxy bearing a black hole.  Krishna vanished and Kali’s lust for death, destruction, and the killing of men was reborn once more.

Eso - Public Sexual Announcements - 20150923

No parades or public flare.  If demisexuals had a flag maybe half gray, half a bedazzled glittering fuchsia swirling in streaks of orange.  The percentage of gray varies by person.  Not oppressed; mainly incognito.  The prefix confers partiality, a limitation, a line or border, between asexuality and whole sexuality. 

As an over 35 Generation X’er, high school had no internet.  Even now most videos are nascent millennials contemplating petri dish dating and not the rusted razor blade of post-divorce monthly-mortgage adult.  The path to realize one is missing that component of physical sexual attraction to navigate the universe of the rawest human drive and why, how, and what fills that space is a perplexing entanglement and a gorgeous unravel.  The dormancy of preadolescence and the advent of pubescence appear normal to the viewer.  The need for a focal device to this slant of sexual stigmatism is not apparent.

Demisexuality implies one finds sexual attraction only through an emotional connection.  A common redress is “Oh you have to get to know people first.  Oh that’s me too.”  Ah, not quite.  This is not a choice; forming relationships, coquetry as a man is problematic. 

Demisexuality means the trigger is not there.  It is as if god was handing out flints on admission to puberty-island and one was given a bucket of wet sticks to fiddle around in the dark.  There is an animalistic drive to fuck another human body, spread legs, sphincter, mouth, or nontraditional erogenous zone physiologically connected to a parameter of symmetry, connotations of health and endowment to leapfrog optimum genetic half-sies.  That drive is present, but locked in a labyrinth behind an avenue of witnessing being-hood rather than body-hood. 

There are elements age, gender, to a degree the same derivations commonly denoting physical health that attract most humans to one another present.  One can recognize attractiveness but does not feel attraction unless unlocked through a maze of emotional connection.  Finding applicable conversation on the subject, as demisexuals finding one another, has a white porcupine quality to the affair as demisexuals are not seeking each other in some rodeo of lascivious emotional fetishism, rather pleasant in happy logs and burrows. 

One looks at a bar full of women and sees a gray canvas of baubles holding expansive universes cradling bigger internal worlds than any imaginable measurement device could register.  It is the overwhelming bombardment of stimuli that neuters.  The massiveness of that commotion infers the human connection to everything and creates a fog.  

A man could view her as attractive, but to be attracted there has to be this ineffable emotional mathematical bridge that is unwieldly, unpredictable, and a recipe for faulty decision making due to the ostensible illusions of the human mind. 

The reason, logic, or maze-wanderings to trigger attraction typically takes a Red-Bull moto-X type attention to detail of gear, angle of approach, and focus to leap such handlebar salvos without the not-so optimum steel-dervish misfire and mangled limbs careening into spectators.  The entire process is nothing but a series of blind hurdles with a vague idea of a payday.  The voided gray feeling thing has this indefinite dormancy period that could be one hell of a non-sex evening, a few dates, or a month or never.  There is a capricious fickle finger of god aspect to the reactionary ordeal to lift the fog.  This disparity of mathematics brings a Batman-like belt of gadgets to circumvent self-sabotage to appear interested like a burrowing mole to titillate a firebug of emotional connection before a time bomb terminates the folly.  

It is sort of like placing one’s hand into a never-before-entered darkened room logically knowing where the light switch should be, but isn’t, while the party-goer you are attempting to seduce is cat-like in twilight content to fuck your silhouette body in the pitch.  You need a glimpse first, then the darkness.  Otherwise fornication feels like fondling an unfamiliar bus depot transient.  A demisexual may like to talk to you, spend time, be friends, but is not attracted nor wants you to play slop hockey with their naughty bits without a palpable emotional inch of moonlight.  This is not confusion between sex and love; this is a necessary sexual trampoline for the gymnast to perform the vault.  One can try launching through the air summersaulting without one but a libido will likely lie down on the runway and go read a book.  

Covert demisexuality has the side effects of the other person thinking you like them far more than you actually do, because what you have to do to figure out if you could be attracted to them is to try to get to know them on this intimate emotional level that gathers the devils of appearing prematurely overt, preoccupied, or the ick-fest of creepy.  For hetero demisexual women this is less of an issue, but for adult men the alternative of closeted austerity is an inferior alternative. 

If you attempt to date or fuck a demisexual please give her or him time.  Demisexuals are generally turtles.  Please do not treat demisexuals like some kind of porn-house scavenger hunt challenge toying with our vulnerability as a bucket list of carnal conquest like banging an albino kudu to your post-notches.  A demisexual probably felt like a platypus alien-type creature during sexual awakening and are good now without the gawking.   

Demisexual emotions are generally eidetic and once formed anchor in an oeuvre of expression.  Thus when you break up with one please afford her or him a bit more elongated window compared to the non-demisexual former lover as the demisexual is not merely untethering from any actual element such as love or you as a person, but this additional sexual addendum that bears a gravity commensurate with the accreting investment it took her or him to form the emotional connection to you.  The demisexual is also breaking up with this emotional forest seeded and navigated.  This may require you to a pour a delicate pitcher of empathy. 

In the beginning it is not that the demisexual does not like you as a person or that he or she is not potentially attracted, it is that for the most part demisexuals are clueless.  Demisexuals are a clueless lot of bastards who get horny, masturbate, and think about sex within a spectrum.  When primed they will fuck you from your cerebellum licked down your fourchette to your commissure and uncage your soul like a flashpoint and explode reverberating orgasms to echo into the unbound universe.  That is the upside. 

For some emotional connection is like a nuclear plant mutant power. Fucking Jean Gray, Professor X shit.  Some demisexuals border closer to asexual, disinterested in sex; there is a spectrum.  When demisexuals connect with you and this can be independent of you actually connecting with them, demisexuals just have to believe it in their labyrinthine interpretation of sexual reality.  At that point the demisexual has done so much god damn work to get there she or he  are going to repay themselves and/or you, however you may perceive the currency exchange, in throttling your body with an armada-like inundation of carnal bombardment. 

A demisexual may be gentle, rough, play with toys, or whisper poetry into your neither regions spelled out in letters across your clit.  All sorts of amorous indulgences may be available, but to get there, to spark without the flint, demisexuals are an enterprising band of prurient conquistadors searching for emotional gold as the first step to try to figure out if they even want to plant their flag.   

Eso - Sapiosexual - a celebration of the cerebral affair 20150909

Hemisphere 1

The thread stitches a corset in my mind binding the figment image of you like a vortex. The parabolic lines of torso voluptuous, unwieldly, flaring as if your lochs are made of fire, flamed strands floating around the circumference of your face undulating as if under water, but engulfed in the orange reddish curls of a nova bursting in the absolute charcoal liquid midnight.  I can see you there burrowing past the glowing fusion into your thoughts like the belly of a star.  We could be there in a panoply from the mundane quotidian infantry marching away nestled in a conch shell of intellectual conclave.  The way you think like Mozart upon my libido tinged in the perspective of dream from where the reality of you ends and my imagination permeates the barrier where we can touch and I can feel your pant in my reverie.

We live behind keyholes, hiding, and crouching, pressing sealed oaken door dead bolts.  The whole god damn universe is inside swirling like a magnetic typhoon pounding an anvil tsunami across still water.  The costume of urbanity, politeness, and the coquetry of surface I can feel the mathematics of your introspection titillating my libido like the whip of a rider to the horse.  The veil is bursting chains away of how one is supposed to respond, to act, in the presence of a librarian goddess filing away the volume of raucous attraction a Coriolis cock-wise breaking my lips in slices like a letter-opener blade to an envelope I want to read you.  I want to read the folds of your binding like Lady Chatterley’s lover and be your gamekeeper.

     

Intimate lenses into peephole refractions cogitating pensive analytics proffering an amuse bouche on the table of your eye contact.  The amusement parks mount circus tents erected in the industry of coffee runs after ten p.m. to ignite the night owl into flight on sofa talks of Soren Kierkegaard and Jacques Derrida on how to live in the either-or these hands around ankles riding the silken pages of skin fastening purview into the quotes tattooed across your back.  Your gaze becomes an enfilade volleying gunfire along a line from end to end of this beastly tongue approaching the Library of Alexandria protecting your secrets. 

My viscera seize peristaltically animal and I am marooned here on a wedge of footing awash in the red sea falling around me in your erogenous gaze.  The churn in you liquid fire in the twirl of hair round your finger, bitten lower lip grinding me down in these sadden cloven hoofs as if Athena could disperse me into nothingness with a kiss.  The lithe bend in your smile woos an eidetic vividness I can see your garden burgeoning in the flush from your mind down to your clitoris engorging vulva dripping ripe.  The circus tent vaulted in an apex to the sun for the trapeze artesian to leap above this lion tamer and fall into my arms, whip and chest hair you slipping around me in lightness where the whole god damn earth cracks.  The playground opens up like devil’s canyon and we fall into the bravery darkness of what could be as if when we close our eyes there is everything.  Everything we saw inside these mind theatrics lifting like Atlas and in control of the seasons like Persephone, I can hold and you can inspire and I still have no idea of who you are or if any of this real, just a factory of mental amorous.

Hemisphere 2

We can speak poetry here, an orgasmic festival of what it means to be alive.  Reliable ground and open sky, hungering balancing polarity in a common atmosphere.  We root like varied pots and nook-gardens planted to encompass our personhood.  We have orchids and fichus, bonsai, apples, and sunflowers each at different download bars of season daring how does one let a person in to simultaneously orgasm with you in that spiritual, emotional, and mental place and feel the universe rip apart at the atomic seams and burst together like the fusion true intimacy is supposed to be without revolt?  How could the artist be vulnerable in this personal way like letting a man come behind the stage of your skin to see you as both fearless performer and fearful vulnerable human woman without ultimately treating him like an invader?

How does one picture being in life’s woods, thicket, brambles clustered in a circle, vision available in shooting lanes of sight, slits of light through the canopy overcoming the camouflage of quotidian monotony where the ivy tongued invasive species of life mulch such a busy jungle.  You feel to stay in this pocket of open amongst the chaotic tree beasts and log exchanges to just be in this grounded halo sanctuary.  You know you are a part of the forest; the forest is part of you; everything is growing.  Somewhere inside you know the jungle does not really exist.  The jungle is just an infinitude of other circles, beings feeling alone and together, connected, but swollen with an antsy false isolation to where no one sees each other unless they let the jungle in to grow roots intravenously in their bodily circle to meld the self away diffused into the everything to be exposed and at the same time embraced. 

Sometimes in all the vines and ant hills you see a person though a lightning bolt of vision, you feel like you see them, really see them in a flash like none of the thorns or quicksand was in between.  The mind space separating the chaos from the sanctuary of inside that is the circle muted the world’s cackle to where the only sound one heard was the image of another person staring at you for a lambently flickering sparkle.  You swear you saw her.  You saw it like a jaguar’s gaze from the shadow knowing the beauty and the danger were right there lurking with love and fear like a gush of saliva on an incisor for all the reasons a being wants to bite into the flesh of another knowing the answer is all in the choice of pressure applied, the point at which the biter does so to give pleasure or to take pain.  This is the nature of love, life and a connection between beings.  

This is the sapiosexual forest in which we are beginning to see each other and yet blind.  That line of sight was a road, a path in that fecundity.  You looked like an opening to form a connection that registered somewhere more than I dare say, but in the end felt like getting eaten.  The mind is a house of mirrors, this space a poet’s painted-word divinity evaporating in the realization that what one thinks inside the other’s thoughts is its own bladed rapier of pornography. 

Eso - A Feast for the Senses - 20150422

I put the blindfold on as she finished the syllable.  The cloth bore a Spanish flag, red and yellow.  She pressed her palms to my thighs.  I stood upon my knees shins parallel to the wooden bedroom floor, my heels up and toes pressing.  The form of my torso was at ninety degrees, skin naked, testicles hanging, penis not requested to be put to use yet, ready like the open window.

Before the dark I scan her bedroom, a charcoal painting of Tom Waits holds an accordion.  A crucifix and opposing ideas alive in my mind like two faces staring at each other in the shadows.  A bouquet of tulips sits on the cherry wood dresser in a clear vase pertly green with blue petals sheathing yellow stamens.  The scent from within the buds mixes with a flicker of incense tinted into jasmine lofting spryly around the rims of my nostrils emboldening my chest to rise like a race horse ready to run. 

The taste of oyster and potato soup I made us for supper drifted upon my lips.  The cuts of the shrimp stock for the base in the bouquet of tarragon, parsley, and thyme bleeding in with the celery, peppercorns, and salted crustacean shells brewing to a boil.  The pot bursting as I made dinner the way she likes it, steaming pungent into the corridors of her shotgun home.  Two pots on the stove shaking over the blue flamed gas bright like Venus tongues lashing heat smearing the gray metal into red swirls of umbrage.  The body of the pan begs for a reprieve.  She wants the knob bent to the limit until the broth cannot hold.  Bubbles pour from underneath exposed. 

She likes when I cook with Coltrane on the stereo, Kulu Se Mama or Ole.  In dress shoes and a tailored suit I come home from work with the cuffs of my shirt just past the jacket sleeves, my tie removed hung from the cabinet left of the sink neatly facing the room.  The buttons slipped nicely waiting like good children for her fingers to slip in behind me, wrap her arms around my waist, press her hips into my buttocks and thrust in a slow wave gliding her breasts against my back, fingers like a spider making a web unlatching button after button until biting my ears in full as I bend back my neck just so.

I hear the ocean inside her mouth as her lips fully surround my lobe.  Her tongue twists inside the folds as all I can hear is my night opening.  Some evenings it feels like payment for visitation, for preparing sustenance on her terrain.  I stare into the granite backsplash and the stainless steel of the range for a haze of her reflection.  She has a thing about not making eye contact or saying a word, as if that silent space would spiral out of control if either of us had to put such directness in the contact.  The separation heightens the sex.  The spiral of knowing without elaboration is lightning.  The place is putting Coltrane to the needle knowing what note comes next without a lyric to ruin the auditory glaze. 

The ears can do so much if you just let them be blanketing the time to this moment, kneeling here in her bedroom blindfold placed into the black.  We could be anything here, no lines, not walls, just infinity breathing like the universe was simultaneously my exhale and her inhale trading in particles. 

She lights a single candle.  She takes an ice cube and passes it across the August night onto my right scapula framing a V up and down through the center of my back.  The rims of the blades drink the coolness as she maps her tongue behind dredging her teeth piercing part of the flesh at the edges.  I think of what it looks like as if I had a mirror for the blood.  I hold my torso firm as I am able rocking in the creak of the cypress floor boards.  Sometimes she uses the candle wax, sometimes the ice.

She slides under me pushing my knees apart, running her hands up my thighs and placing my fingers on the top of my heels.  I bend my back with my chest pointed up to the ceiling.  My arms steady with my fingers like anchored Louisiana pilings.  She puts her mouth around my cock and hums a honey pot.

If I do not break the pose she will continue.  I learn to be as still as man can listening to her beneath me sitting up on an angle as I bend backwards.  My penis is fully erect giving second by second.  I hold out in two ways like aligned ideas.  Two faces stare at each other arms and shaft balance my heart to the ceiling.  Hold out.  If I come it is all over.  If I pull up and out of her mouth she will still have me, but I will know this battle with myself of manhood, of prone vulnerable and strong pressed I will have failed myself. 

In a dulcet tone she speaks a single word, “Release.”  She slides down upon her back to the floor.  I fold forward lifting my hands to my sacrum then down to the earth to the rounds of her breasts.  She aligns her pussy with my cock in the candlelight.  Her hands grab my hip bones as my fingers press the circumference of her tits.  She tilts up guiding my cock into her throng hot and wet gripping me.  She takes her palm and swipes her hand slowly up across my chin through my lips to the apex of my nose.  I could smell she had been fingering herself down before moist and dripping honey comb.  Blinded she wipes me clean with her mark like a soup ladle down my throat drinking droplets of her like dew breaking me.

We know I won’t take this fold from my eyes until she tells me.  When that moment comes I will look into those blue eyes of hers, whatever color her hair happens to be that month, but always those blue eyes.  Those I know I am the only man she has ever looked at like that giving me that, the most precious thing in the whole god damn room.  That is the thing about control it is not always the one giving orders that has it.

Eso - On Rhythm - 20150409

Sorting photographs on the floor into collages for my walls

Of fathers, brothers, cousins, grandmothers, daughters

Doorbell rings with the crucifix around your neck like a rope to the overboard

Deluge of undulating flotsam bobbing ancient waters

Former girlfriend asks, “Can I use your shower?”

Interrogative of the only woman with a key to home

Flag ascends the pole

Pull in pull away the crease in my jeans, codes and locks

Eye shadow like an elixir of cardio pulmonary resuscitation

Electrifying foyers into recollections of cattle brands

Baby done set metal in the kiln with me, found the tone and hit the rhythm

Magnetized in the shrapnel and endorphins of what links a man to his pulse

Ba Bum, Ba Bum, Ba Bum, Ba Bum, quickening

Mesmerized to cannibalize a lifetime into kernels of fear

About creationism, evolution, layers only excavated during summer

Come arctic winter the desolation swath of white eviscerates

The room for the missing links to find breathing as the tide sways in the pattern of moons

Linked with the galaxy

Ba Bum, Ba Bum, Ba Boom, Ba Boom, and the Earth stares at the moon like a goddess 

Seas freeze over as the seal mermaid-dogs of yesterdays

Find no time to pretend in the vacuums of silence

About progeny, god, and literature

Posting quotes in priority your body is here in my home like the end of an ice age

The rhythm of sunrays melting glaciers to make the god damn planet flood

A former lover navigating logistics across the city of New Orleans

Views Lake Pontchartrain like an impassable moat and her only solution

Is to quench her naked skin in the stall I can never scrub clean

I am drawn to you and see the cocaine sun rise and set in your lungs

Like carcinogens bringing cancer in what we each believe eternity parades

To coats of melanin, sexual genetic imprints, and books about shepherds

How long can I live in an allegory before this body explodes?

Where vulnerability parades like that wave passing over gaps in the ice

Swallowing the drown of knowing not

How to be Tiktaalik and walk up from the riverbed

But to know when I lie in the stillness of night the universe has a pattern

Reciprocal forces in a balance of building slow to slow, warming your loins like an oven

The greenhouse effect next to your body

I am drawn in blood to hold, to be held

To offer this body, to whisper as you wish

And forget the origin of the species 

You know where the towels are

Yet invite me into the room to steam and it’s over in a typhoon

Time, the conundrums, the links all of it is vaporized

As you ask me to turn as you enter past the curtain like I dare

And within seconds my shoes are flung to the run

I am standing shirtless with your hands on my belt buckle

Shoving my soaked jeans to the flood beneath our feet

Your mouth on my cock and my hands through your hair

Swallowing me like Ahab into the depths

I grip your ass cheeks lifting your torso to wrap me on wet footing

I press you against the tile and I take you

Ba Bum, Ba Bum, Ba Bum, Ba Bum, quickening

Ba Bum, Ba Bum, Ba Boom, Ba Boom, exploding

In the wavelengths of a supernova I find my rhythm

Drowning everything

Like God, the bang

Decided to start this damn universe

All over again