at most we are
humming in hi and lo.
to the vibes you cannot see
but feeling with your soul
moving to the rhythm of notes
that we are together
in unison and out.
but even in our dissonance
We are in harmony
Music is a spiritual experience.
Once a man asked me back
To his home for after dinner drinks.
I was comfortable with that.
We had went to dinner several times.
I drove my car and followed him.
We talked for about 30 minutes or so
And I excused myself and went to powder my nose, carrying my handbag.
I was out of the room about 4 minutes.
When I returned he was naked.
He had placed a metal folding chair
In the center of his well lit dining room.
I know my eyes were as big as saucers.
I remember thinking
“This escalated fast”
Doing a pantomime he held up a latex object that looked like a decanter stopper. Oversized. And upside down.
He waved his hand under it as part of his presentation.
Think of a stewardess doing the pantomime of flight safety rules,
Or QVC seller on television.
He then set the item on the metal chair and sat right down on it with an odd
Up until that point
I had not moved an inch.
I am pretty much open minded about ***.
But the whole situation and the mime-like presentation was so much ick I panicked.
I ran out the back door.
I didn’t say a word.
He obviously couldn’t follow me quickly because you know....
He had something up his ****.
If this topic is too much or over the top I will be perfectly ok with deleting it.
This hand which moves and rides some voice is not mine.
I have given it over to you, young boy.
This is what makes it fly so, traveling out,
tripping along in dance of shape and sound.
I acknowledge your presence in this fashion.
You tell me by messages,
beaming out the back of your head,
you are the very boy who has waited an eternity
at some upper railing.
You sit and peer through the spaces,
down the twisted stair.
Your hands, they grip the vertical rail.
Silent. Silent. Waiting you.
Let this right hand of mine be your secret voice.
Let this scrawl and scratch be your gravelly tongue—
ick-nicking, ga-chooing, click and stutter.
What language may I shape for our sake?
With you, may I follow, setting trail markers just so.
Will others come mistaking their ways for yours?
My hand is opening and opens wide.
I remember you. I am returning.
Let it be.
There's an ick in my crick,
that makes me feel sick,
my insides are taring in two!
I seek some relief,
this sickness contracted from you!
I put on my scarf,
am ready to ****,
my temperature rises above.
I'm ready to hurl,
my diamonds and pearls,
lost all of their their lustrous love.
It lays at my feet,
spread out on the street,
I told you that I wasn't faking.
My mind and my heart,
all splattered apart,
my soul lays there now for the taking!
I am Home
** ome Sick
Of the things
That I Need
To Feel Your
I am Love
Lo ove Sick
Of the things
That I Need
To Feel At
both Moby and Phillip K. ****
the book I love and the flicks
try the best I Kan, indeed Als Ick ...
— The End —