an aloe waltz

i winced through the collection of condensation on the doorway glass and glimpsed evening enveloping the long, wet day. whisking into the kitchen, grabbing a heavy-bottomed glass bottle of olive oil, i turned on the burner, bent for the large, flat iron pan, and busied myself collating an array of colorful ingredients on the black of my kitchen's counter top.
a feast of flavor was my want to create. that no invited guests were yet knocking on the door, or for that matter, on their way, was secondary to the want.
a full house, with lively laughter, children? the color and light of personalities at ease in the simple comforts of surroundings which sooth and welcome. my only wish.

and if you build it, they will come, a mantra, i determined to exercise, that day, in my kitchen. with jazz welling in the background, it seemed my jade and aloe plants were swaying, to and fro, imbibing in the splendor of low-key. of good vibe. of the effects of ‘good guys’ on their particular corner of the planet.
and if you cook it, will they come? and if you open that heart, will it fill? and if you nurture that spirit once hungry, will it grow...grow to love?

unalloyed

tonight, i celebrated 40 years with a friend, saw some old friends who i haven't seen for almost 2.5 years, and spilt beer with another dear friend who gave me one of the highest compliments i may have ever known.

'you're an unalloyed joy.'


unalloyed.

Not in mixture with other metals; pure.
Complete; unqualified: unalloyed blessings; unalloyed relief.
this complimentary friend, a well-disciplined and precise writer by trade, who has 10 or more years on me warms my heart in a way, unimaginable.

one-of-a-kind?
true?
pure?
that words, such as these, could be uttered about my humble grace
astounds
and at once
relieves.
i am
good, strong, amazing
enough.

i am.

holiday soliloqoy

what is it about holidays like a new year's arrival or thanksgiving that put me on an e-soapbox of sorts? (go ahead, there are those of you out there who are saying 'as if you needed an excuse')... :)
i suppose the reprieve from the confines of the 8-5 workday allow the freedom to reflect and consider that which may be tabled during the day-to-day.
maybe it has to do with ritual. and the establishing of some newfound variety thereof, as i personally traverse the complexities of getting older, moving away from groups of important friends and confidantes, losing the once foothold-bonds that seemed impossible to forge.
with each holiday's momentous passing, a reminder of what once was rears itself, reminds, cajoles, possibly, with tangles of memory; and then retreats.
the evolution of this ebb and flow smooths the stone-memory, creates anew, wiping old slates clean.
for those of you who've been a part of my email life these past few years, you may remember my wont to reflect and extend somehow.

i suppose electronic communication connects the distant, but also supports a maintenance of distance, too, if you're not careful.
the seeming connective correspondence with a friend or loved one, on a daily or weekly basis can quickly be a seeming thread of life to life, yet, what of face time? of true laughter, and not simply LOL or LMAO. i can think of those friends i work with--in the same building--whom i may pass in the hallway, but, i talk most frequently with over an email, maybe a phone call, and still too, and IM'd chat.
what of those who are miles, states, continents away? making time to reach toward them, feels so necessary. so important. a welcome ritual, a guilty-pleasure, a necessary elixir.

i made a vow, quietly, to myself recently, to slow down. literally. there are people who know me as a blurred enigma of sorts. a doer of myriad 'things' not one of which is very important. but a doer, nontheless. it saddens me when i see these people, and the refrain i hear is 'oh how have you been or what have you been up to, busy, busy, i'm sure, always so busy...you lead such an interesting life' so hurried. so happy.' i can see the expressions of those faces--friends and loved ones, and so many meetings in a row, i would shake my head agreeing, or possibly joking with them over the concept--alluding to my attempt to slow down a bit, and talking briefly over the latest-greatest-story related to one of these busy-life activities, which in & of itself, supported the whole scene--perpetuated it, actually.
so often i have wanted to look one of these dears straight in the eyes and say 'i haven't been doing a thing, and i like it just fine.'

a friend recently said this "I wish, sometimes, that I could simply exist, read and write all day. Wander back and forth. Let ideas come at me in between naps."
i related to this so intensely when i read it. as if i had found a secret treasure. an antidote to the poison of everyday life.

yet i crave activity. i enjoy doing, and sweating, and being.
still this luxurious bit of contrived living seemed as fruitful an arena from which to delve, create, deliver, re-ignite, quell, liberate, and onward and onward. as any i have yet to muster.

ahh, the decadence.

and so a theme (a point you say?)? my 6th grade teacher always corrected my inability to properly outline as well as to structure, positively, a supported major theme, and, as we all know, my stream-of-conscious-style rarely gets herself to a point, yet, a point, i thusly purport, here now.
i wanted to send this to you all, because i was moved to tears today. and it had to do with time. and ritual. and holidays. and family. and life. and the day to day decisions which add to years & years of just, real-life. and had something to do with just "existing" with taking naps, with fitting it in; and making the time.

my family, fairly small these years after tragic loss and sadness, started a ritual years back, and it had to do with the 'adult' gift exchanging at holiday time. instead of spending a bunch of money on a bunch of people, we determined to draw names, name a budget, share lists, and be creative with just one extra special person to spoil.
we all love this ritual. it has been a joy to watch, to receive, and to spoil as well. some years it seems, we're all broke at once, other years, we all have a little extra, and no matter what, everyone has a great time with their hand crafted or hand picked relics.
well, we've taken a few years off of this little ritual, for various reasons, but we returned to it this year, and although it took my coersion of a dear friend to get the names drawn (and disseminated through cyberspace we're all 'so busy' we couldn't remember to do it when we were together, or we just couldn't 'get together'), we finally did it. we all have our respective names, and we've been awaiting lists.
well, most of the lists came in, and they were adorable. there were requests for things like money for plane fare, and socks and lotion; but additionally, there were requests for love, love, and more love; for prayer for the president-elect's family and his huge tasks ahead; for dinner together during the break; for a family-attended service the evening of the 24th... and then present in all, but not articulated nearly as beautifully, was this:

Sorry I was so late on this there simply wasn't anything i really needed. however the one thing most precious to me other than my relationship with the lord and my wonderful bride and my children and my grandchildren and my family, that one thing is time. we are all busy and time management is a big thing.I've been letting the lord manage my time lately, and he does a better job than i do. at sixty years old I've been very blessed, and blessed with around 3120 Saturdays and if i live to be say seventy-five, I've got around 780 more Saturdays. good lord willing. that's just an example. so maybe we can just give a little more time on occasion.
anyhow i love you all
more than you know
bigger than the sky
have a great day
love dad

only 780 more Saturdays? and my dad might not be there for me to stop by & shoot the shit with in the garage on a Saturday morning? or meet up for breakfast with (which I've only asked to do once, in my life, when it was just he and I, and I'm 34 years old), or help haul wood from the pile to the woodshed with?
only 780 more Saturdays that we might attend one of Isaac's basketball games, or get together for a picnic on the back patio and have salmon on the grill?
only 780 more Saturdays to see that my dad has 'taken a long blink' again on the couch, while my mom and i sat bantering--one of her races on in the background.

truth is, as we've all been reminded a hundred thousand times, there's just no telling if i'll get 780 more saturdays or even one more with my dad. or he, with me.
what exactly, then, am i waiting for?
how many times do i have to reflect on the notion of carpe diem? how many reminders will i send out to all of you?
how many of you will see the amount of text in the body of this email and delete it, never to consider?
i haven't said it particularly well, and maybe the heartfelt plea in my dad's body copy, is only felt in my center, because of my own guilt for not taking the time to spend, with so many of you, so many people whom i adore, and learn from, and wonder about.

so with that, i'll end this little holiday soliloqoy with a plea to all of you to give thanks for what you have and what you've had. and to truly live every moment you possibly can.
on purpose.

happy thanksgiving.

my thanks to you for your part in my life.
"i'm so glad i didn't die before i met you." (thanks bright eyes).
love,
me

plunge.

dear diary,

if i had to do it all over again, i would've. i know i would've. and i'd be right here.
maybe.
but maybe this time, it wouldn't have went through.
maybe this time, they could have done the math better.
penciled another line of text and seen that it was impossible.
i was not qualified.
i needed a dual income.

but because i would've.
anyway.
proving some stupid principle of independence.
like hanging a red suede jacket on
a coat rack's hook.
i'd still be right here
in the midst of this big, brown, mud puddle.
wondering how
to escape the
quicksand
of it all.
without drowning.

venture

in the new, red light
of this midnight dawn
i wonder
of star crossed love
and happenstance
of heart crushed blood depths
of
circumstance

of my place in the midst of the shadows which
fall
across the length
of your eyelash

inhale the aroma of my elixir
and breathe
her
cave dwelling
depth

if you know my every
idio
syncracy
is there a better chance
at
introspect?

dance in the dervish of wednesdays marmalade
sun
shine
and whirl
while transcendence
passes
you
by.

i stand on my rooftop
screaming the abysmal gasp of life
here
and there
i spread my eagle
wings
to flight.

proof

of life or death
that it mattered
somehow
in some way
that the reverberation
wasn't merely here to there and
back
again.

let not momentary discord
disenchant
let not the harmony
sung on the wind
as did your whistle
disappear

put forth what you deem
and note there may be no proof
just yet...

yet trust the wind...

soul-supper

what time of year can we harvest soul? it delights me to ponder this. i suppose as we weed and tend, we are fortunate, as are those in the west and southwest--to harbor the luxury of winter gardens.
that we might bare fruit, ripe for the picking just in time for a succulent soul-supper.

stored in vines, tubers, pods and stalk, are the sometimes soul-spice craved when thin with wear, life strains against our seams.

yes, bottom's drop out...

when you can't feel sunlight across your chin
because [it seems] no reason to love
remains
and you want to toss down the heavy-bottomed glass of
whiskey
after tossing it down your throat
and you want to feel empty
instead of so-full of someone Else's balloon-blown-air

when you've walked aimlessly about the city town village metropolis
in your mind
and you've sought what you seek
and you've breathed in deep
and when you've cleared your flow
and that was your cue
and you've spent your wad filling the void

where does it leave you?
why did it take you?
where did you go?
in the duality of non-conformity can't you bend
all hoola-hoop
through it
and mine
the return
on the other side
sorting through the silver-flecked-ashes
for the remnants of
your character
your audacity
of hope
--no more than your
god given
right--
can't you pick your silly head up off that concrete slab
laugh a little laugh
and try again?

Caesura as it pertains to light and dark—

As Dickinson and
Her slant of light or cathedral
tunes
bleak grey dawn
[at first read-through] seems to ooze
out the open-form-syntax
of your verse.
dismal?
not quite.
dismissive?
absolutely antithetical.
dark.
No.
not melancholic-martyrdom.
not sad hurt.
yet
Contemplative.
pain, present.
anger, present.
sadness, present.
at center—beautiful,
Red-Black-Truth—
sticky with marrow.
blood-red-black.
Yes.

Truth.
Headily-carnivorous, its brand-welt
bleeds deeply
seeping across the page.
Look at the soft, raised-edge
scar tissue—
Touch it.
Feel the wince—
Through the bright-pink-healing mound.
Push the pain.
Feel the truth.

Later,
When the scar visibly heals;
Phantom fragments of
Sensory feeling and
Simultaneous
Numbness.
Close your eyes—capture your breath—there.
See even more than truth.
Look beyond.
Past the seeming—oozing bleak grey dawn,
Ahh, there.
Yes. an orange-hot
rim of sun
light.
streams delicately through
curtained-seams.
Amber light
Long vertical streaks
Illuminate the vast landscape of your
Beautiful, precise, mind.

wild

i'm right here
smilin' ear to ear
feelin' the heat of you and your muscled forearm leaning into my ribs.
i'm all melty inside
happily conscious of the feeling you leave me with
a residue
like aftertaste
of the most delectable variety
i'd sip the taste of you
every day for a million years
wipe you off my lip, or
leave a taste to remind
me later,
that like brushing my teeth, i'd missed a spot
with the handtowel on the silver hook.

my moonlight shines out and to the tips of
your eyelashes
and they flicker there
as i watch you breathe
in and out
i feel it
the reverberation
of your beautiful breath
mine too

i have beautiful breath
albeit not always anything more than ripe

i like to watch the rain
fall down
on that slim spot there, underneath your collarbone
or on my freckled
shoulder

warm
and beautiful
it makes me wish for
too many kisses in a row
when breaths are taken, barely
in between gasps
the guttural, deep down in the lowerbelly kind of gasps
which feel more
magical than
any taste
food
drug
i've yet to consume

i imagine you taste like a long weekend on the coast, where inbetween long bouts of love, mangoes and the salty rasp of earth met us along the way for slight
nourishment
just in time
for the next round

satiety enamors me
with its notion
of what it might
be like
watching you dispel my apprehension
putting holes of disbelief into
the balloon of my
hope
freak flag

positing that
yes
it's real
it's possible

it's here for a minute anyway
and,
in this life

wild abandon, shared unabashedly between hearts
is what
it's all about

it's art
work
light
and grace

only vanquished by
doubt