****** angel slept

in silence

softly curled into a ball

a sweet song in nylons spirited

away in dream rapture

Why is it so interesting when someone else falls in love?
Is our fascination purely voyeuristic, like the you-are-there of reality-TV?
Is it jealousy or some unwavering belief in lovers as heroes?

What is this relationship? We ask ourselves - and them - let’s take it apart and find out.
Like those YouTube videos where you’re shown how to do French-tip nails.

Is love an impulse, a one-time hookup or even a summer fling, or is it about finding ‘the one’ in the face of our own obligations and ineptitudes?

Love’s ‘high concept’ - it’s many things at once - it’s physical, emotional, intimate - maybe even ******.
Part of our interest has to be our affection (or dislike) of the characters involved.

A relationship isn’t a ‘performance,’ of course, but as friends we might be considered an ‘audience’.

Love is drama. There’s a cast - with their chemistry. There’s a plot - shot through with compelling incidents, difficult situations, tear-jerking agonies, and shocking twists.

The sweet moments, between the actual ‘wow, this is happening’ and everyone finding out. The time the secret belongs to the lovers - that’s their chance to privately define their ungainly new reality - but soon enough, the world finds out, and there’s interest.

At its best, love is the gentle handling of consciousness itself, to evoke the effective resonance of pleasure.

But has it ever truly been a private experience?
.
.
Songs for this:
Me and Mrs. Jones by Michael Bublé (maybe the sexiest song ever)
Me and Mr. Jones by Amy Winehouse

For a time, this morning my
inner yard and porch looked
like a festive circus of delight.
Three outside cats joined for
a time by my inside feline put
on quite a show. Running and
jumping into the air, chasing
anything that flew in the ether
or quickstepped through the
lawn or dirt. Insects on the wing,
Shrews scooting through the grass.
Lightning fast furballs even chasing
one another around bushes, plants,
up trees and down again and around
the water fountain, like a pod of excited
children happily at play in a city park,
unbridled morning exuberance in the
most delightful way!

Perhaps, maybe, just for my enjoyment
or so I would like to think. But in reality
it was merely happy cat behavior on display
just for their own hedonistic amusement.

you find a completely empty picnic area--
showing up dressed as a widow.
black kerchief wrapped around your head--
tied at the chin, a predominance of cheeks
with a buggy-bulge of purple horn rim glasses.
barefoot with a black dress on, obscuring
splatters of sweat: back/*******/paunch.
holding an ice sculpture of a fruit basket on a
ninety degree day.
you spread a white sheet & set it down, as
large ants congregate on this succulently
carved chunk of ice.
you then get naked, save for the black kerchief--
as if undergoing a strip search in prison.
sitting Indian style--chanting the sutras of an
emotional *******, while periodically licking
the melting fruit basket to sate your thirst.
until one of the large ants bites your tongue.

1965
she was 15
and I was 5

The reclining sun tanned her face
her eyes hidden in 60s goggles
and the vast wheat field behind
colored her brown.

Can't remember if it was Agfa or Orwo
the tint was of distant land
and Virginia came to mind.

It wasn't the girl
standing on a rice field
eyes lowered blushing
the colours of her glass bangles
irrecognizable in black and white
that I could easily fall in love with.

But I cried to be with the Virginia Girl
and I was only 5.

She is still 15 in the timeless print
and I'm 5.

Going round in circles
Like a boat upon waters
Of a moat

Seeing the same scene
Over and over
And everything in-between

The journey becomes tiresome
"I've seen it all before"
Then Heraclitus comes knocking at the door

Kick off my shoes
Feet once again
Sliver into the river

I'm seeing everything
For the first time
Again