as he
- is indefatigable in pursuit of abstract truth -
so is she.
- in caring for the interests by the way
striving tenderly and lovingly -
that -perish not one of the least of these 'little ones'
29 March 2013
26 March 2013
palindromic
“Traci, to regard nine men in drag,” Eric (in a play or an ironic art spot) warned, “I am not so bad.”
“I’d never even seen knees … never even did a Boston maiden raw,” tops Traci, “nor in a royal panic. I regard nine men in drag — erotic art.”
07 March 2013
in time intimate intimidates (memories)
I am lying on my left, she on her right. We are facing each other, yet only I am awake. Her round face is composed and relaxed, eyes shut, mouth peeking open, and that silly nose ring shyly glinting in the soft darkness. From this close, I can see her lips softly tremble with each breath.
She is the sea and these breaths are the tide, creeping in and out across the expanses of sand and beach, slowly visible only in the tender roundness of her breasts and the curvature of her shoulders. Although each breath is only a single swell in the sea of her mind, I see how they grow in strength and number until the shift begins to happen as the tide creeps in.
I breathe deeply and my lungs fill with water yet I struggle to sink beneath the waves. Buoyancy keeps pushing me back to the surface as my tired mind resists the tide. I cannot fall asleep.
My eyes flickered open and it is here, now, for the first time, that while searching her features for an answer, I see the omen: a premonition of the growing gulf between us as it would come to exist.
I knew it was inevitable, but it still terrified me. So as the lost sailor I am, still drowning in this ocean of emotion, I reach for her hand and bring it up from where it was nestled, deep beneath the ocean of blankets, her and my fingers intertwining to form a single fist.
Feeling the touch, she wakes up and brings my hand to her lips for a kiss. Our eyes lock, hers brown and tender with concern against the emptiness of the sea: the spray, salt, and spittle in mine. A whisper thick with the sleepiness of a long tiring day, she was still patient enough to press me for an answer: "What's wrong?"
"Nothing", I lied.
She is the sea and these breaths are the tide, creeping in and out across the expanses of sand and beach, slowly visible only in the tender roundness of her breasts and the curvature of her shoulders. Although each breath is only a single swell in the sea of her mind, I see how they grow in strength and number until the shift begins to happen as the tide creeps in.
I breathe deeply and my lungs fill with water yet I struggle to sink beneath the waves. Buoyancy keeps pushing me back to the surface as my tired mind resists the tide. I cannot fall asleep.
My eyes flickered open and it is here, now, for the first time, that while searching her features for an answer, I see the omen: a premonition of the growing gulf between us as it would come to exist.
I knew it was inevitable, but it still terrified me. So as the lost sailor I am, still drowning in this ocean of emotion, I reach for her hand and bring it up from where it was nestled, deep beneath the ocean of blankets, her and my fingers intertwining to form a single fist.
Feeling the touch, she wakes up and brings my hand to her lips for a kiss. Our eyes lock, hers brown and tender with concern against the emptiness of the sea: the spray, salt, and spittle in mine. A whisper thick with the sleepiness of a long tiring day, she was still patient enough to press me for an answer: "What's wrong?"
"Nothing", I lied.
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