He wants to shake the moss off his back
and leave the tad-poles behind.
They remind him of his misspent youth
and wasted Spring.
The blackbird sings of blue skies,
far off lands,
and the bullfrog dreams of flying.

I’m taking control, making changes.
Some for the worst, others for the best.
I don’t like to evade or retreat.
My secrets are inconsequential.
I’m taking things into my own hands
- I kissed my therapist. On the lips.
Life is but a game of ‘Smash or pass’
and I hate waiting for ice cream.
“I like the way you move,” he said, “I like your skin.”
“It’s what people notice first” I admitted, “want to see it?”
Or maybe I dreamed that - I dream about him, sometimes. shrug
I think the helpless, astringent, professional intimacy fires me.
I want him to ask me about my jerkwater *** life, he has a concomitant
passport, but he never does. Isn’t that important - what about Freud?
What do you think you inherited from your parents? He asked.
“What a question!” I observed, “You mean genetically?”
“Come on,” he prompted, and I thought for a long minute.
“I have my mother’s impatience, her drive to succeed
and her thick blonde hair that seems to dry instantly.”
He nodded, indicating he liked where I was going.
“I have my father’s eyes, his flashing temper and flat chest.”
He chuckled, but I could tell he wanted me to stay serious.
“Then there’s my Stepfather (Step), he taught me humor,
patience and self-control - oh, and how to drive.”
He ****** on his pencil eraser and nodded.
He always blurs the line between performance and approval.
.
.
Songs for this:
Secrets (Your Fire) by Magdalena Bay
The Spot by Your Smith

before we grew apart
i dreamt of you dying
of your mother
clutching your voice, crying
in the chlorinated stands
where we met for the first time
she holds out the phone,
says “say goodbye”
and i’m running
railing flying by
reaching through thick air
to the mother who buries her boy
and i don’t know
if i made it in time
and i mustn’t have
cause we haven’t talked in a while
and i woke up smelling chlorine
and i never got a goodbye

I want to know
your secret corridors,
your room of masks,
your hidden box.
I want to strip your wrappings,
untie the strings,
  learn all the numbers
of your combination locks.
I want to breathe your scent,
taste your bitterness,
feel the electric
of our lips’ touch.
I want to stroke your passion
while you hold my hand.
I  want you, want you…
so much.

Thought I'd have a cuppa
to assuage my carnal thirst
I didn't know what I should drink
who I should have first

I thought of my friend Jack
Daniels to his friends
Life of the drunken party...
But it's only 9am

Then I thought of Harvey
who'd come in from the coast
But i really do not like him
'coz he's a milquetoast

Ah! I know who's perfect!
Tho I could be wrong
But he's tall, dark n handsome!
So very hot and strong!

He's uplifting! RICH!
He makes my heartstrings tug
He is bold yet mellow...
... and that good lookin' MUG!

Yes. I think I'll try him
he's got get up and go
He's the deep and "brew"ding type

he's my cuppa joe!



SoulSurvivor aka
Write of passage and
Invisible inc

I can't count how many times
I've been to D-Tox.
she was always
there by my side.
I turned her on to
the cheesecake and
yogurt berry parfait.
It was a plain yogurt with
fresh blackberries, raspberries,
strawberries and blueberries.
It was amazing- it still is.
We'd stir up the parfait and
pour it on the cheesecake.
It was divine.

I sit here and eat
it alone tonight.
The berries explode when I
put them in my mouth and
chew on them, it's like a
food that the Greek gods
would eat- an ambrosia for
the brokenhearted.
I think of you as the little
blueberries roll around on
my tongue.
It's all so creamy and succulent.

But, I sit here forlorn and eat our
yogurt berry poetry and cheesecake.
And each berry stores a memory in
every luscious bite.
I feel downhearted that you
aren't here with that juicy
purple fluid running down your chin.

I've lost everything I
owned more times than
I can count.
All I had left was
the clothes on my back.
In some ways, there was
a sense of relief.
What else could I lose?
That answer came hard
and fast like the night.
I could lose my health,
my sanity,
my friends,
my sense of peace
and love,
I could lose my
creativity and
the muse
She could end up at
the Deadwood, bellied-up
to the bar, tickling
some young English major.
I could lose a lot more
than I thought

Well, here I sit
in a three-bedroom
house that fell out
of the sky,
a few pieces of clothes,
some food,
coffee and cigarettes.
I have a blue and
orange cast on my
left leg.
I have the cast
because I fell and
broke my ankle
on a debauched
lonely winter
night.
I had surgery
ten days ago.
Now I have
more than I
bargained for, a plate and
screws galore,
and a nice healthy
****** addiction.

He had that
groaning soul
loneliness, like a
puffy white cloud,
floating aimless and
aching toward the
black abyss- that gray sky
sadness,
like he was
five years old, and just
watched his dog get
hit by a car.
You could smell
the pain- taste it
like potato chips on a
sore throat.
It smelled like a
basement or cobwebs.
I told him,
'Nothing will fix that
****- just time and dirt.'
He didn't blink,
and his soft walnut eyes
flashed
crossword confusion.