Friday, April 01, 2005
21
This is my bus, bus 21. bouncing jostling from place st. michel to louvre-rivoli. this is my bus. a crying child a laughing nun. in a world of six billion souls everyone looks like someone else. the man im facing looks like an actor i love (you know, from that one movie) only older and more beautiful. i cant help but stare; i cant help but look away. after 2 stops he is gone but the man behind him looks familiar too. one dead eye peering into infinity. it is down and to his right. deadeye dick on the last stage out of town. two jewish men swap stories in yiddish inflected french. i sit enthralled. i laugh at the punchline. i wonder what he said? 2 old women ask me where the louvre is. i dont think i understand the question. we just passed it. they chat with the driver and get off at the next stop. jam packed shoulder to shoulder swaying and lurching. i hope the wine doesnt break. i hope the berries arent crushed. i hope the wine doesnt break. everyday to st. michel where the internet waits. a man tries to pick my pocket suddenly up against me on the not too crowded bus. my wallet's safe on the hip, he aimed for the back. i get up for an old woman who tells me, gratefully, of her fatigue causing injuries. the door opens with a hiss and im standing on the curb. this is my bus. bus 21.
Satori in Paris
2 dozen young men in kilts and polo shirts with numbers on the back march past chanting in english.
"what do you think of that?" "there is nothing to think."
"what do you think of that?" "there is nothing to think."
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Spring is
definitely here, finally. weve had a couple of warm days but after each i expected to wake up to cold and rain, even more snow. but today as i rounded the corner leaving rousseau i was hit by a breeze that carried only good news. i let it billow through my jacket and then i realized: this is the first warm breeze ive felt in months. so now it is officially spring. springtime in paris, and what am i doing? sitting in the sun. parc de la villete. watching german kids flirt and play catch. paris does an amazing thing. when an area becomes run-down crime-ridden it reinvests and people come. so here i am in a park filled with laughter and play and science and fun. hello good idea, how have you been? i move on through the park and everywhere people are stretched out on the grass in scattered groups of two and three just soaking up the sun. i cross a sweeping footbridge curving over the canal. just as im noticing that this park is the first handicapped friendly place ive seen a crowd of the mentally challenged appear in front of me. shuffling along or being pushed by those with bigger hearts than mine. a pleasant outing in the sunshine. there is happiness in all ways of being. and shouldnt we all be mentally challenged? at the end of the bridge i see a sign warning drivers not to fall into the canal. suddenly a pop rings out. a djembe has come to life. i climb a bright spiral tower to a platform that is there just for fun. i lean on the rail and watch him play. i watch others play. i watch the sun stream down and leaves rustle. i turn to leave and see a woman pointing a camera in my direction. i flash a sheepish grin to say im sorry i ruined your picture . but she shows only a scowl of disgust. it comes to me in a flash. she didnt want a picture of the view, she wanted one of me. but my unselfconcious pose can never be again. so i move on through the trees into another clearing and my ears are hearing double. either that player is the best ever or there is another djembe dead ahead. sure enough, there she is near a row of tables. why cant they get together? i sit down and the two of us practice our art in the now slanted rays of the afternoon sun. her rhythms bounce off glass and steel and come back a perfect accompaniment. mine sound only in the mind.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
sunflower sutra
Yet another churchbell sounds melancholy through the Jardin du Luxembourg. Pelousse interdit, bien sur, not that there is much pelousse to protect in the first place. just an endless field of sand and mud. The french and their fucking fondness for square trees. Just straight lines and boring statues of long-dead inbred nobility. a gray mind sky overhead and sweaty armpits below. what were the limits of the king of gonzo! dead in the snow: a true american lie. and here i am surrounded by the stone wraiths who once ruled this place. I round the path and head for the gate while ahead and from the opposite direction allen ginsberg does the same. what is He doing here? his salt and pepper beard is near the glory of its 60's zenith and his bald head ringed by unkempt madness. that's him all right. i resolve to follow. he crosses the street just beforethe light leaving me stranded by traffic. i keep one eye on him and the other scans for a break in the cars. NOW! and im across before he is out of sight. He turns and i almost stay straight: i dont want to see him engrossed in some mundane habit of corporeal existence. but i press on. what is there for a corpse to do in Paris this time of year? He is a 1/4 block ahead when i spot his bald pate bobbing among the pedestrian horde. i try to look with his eyes. what does allen see on the blvd st. michelle? pretty pieces of boy flesh perhaps, but his eye is sharper than mine for such things. maybe a poem etched into the 6 story stone? my eyes dart about but im afraid to look away. Hes fast for a dead man. he dodges across a busy street and the cars look to divide us once again. Oh allen are you trying to lose me? but i have to know: Is this what heaven is? a pair of rugged boots, a backpack and a map. But the light turns green and i have him for another block. i follow wearily, afraid hes made the tail. he crosses another street too small for real traffic and stops just beyond to peer into a shop. i linger on the corner until the light changes. still he waits trying to spot me in the reflection of the glass, an old spook trick he probably learned back when hoover wanted his damned hippie head. ive seen a movie or two and had a trick of my own. i stopped on the opposite corner and calmly lit a cigarette. he started as if to leave then turned back for one last look at the glass as i savored the first drag. too far to be seen. he shook his head disgusted that he still didnt know for sure. we walked on and when i passed the shop i glanced in the window...nintendo? his pace had quickened and before i knew it he was pulling away. then in a crowd in front of a book stall he melted away. i walked on for another block or two desperately searching for my secular saint. but he was gone.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
les eglises
Notre Dame i see you. starting from the very center. look up and i see you. facade scrubbed cleanof the grime of the past. soaring, tentatively, only to hesitate and fail at the final moment. never grasping merely reaching. only from within do the vaults scrape infinity. The air hums with the buzz of countless pilgrims secular and devout subdued by the dim glow of struggle and achievment. i think the rose windows are alive. il neige, mais les fenetres...vending machines glow offering devotion for a coin or two. nuns in gray count euros plink and jingle sighing at the poverty of their collection plates. notre dame who built you? god? man? the weary mason wakes at dawn and shoulders his bag of tools: hammers and chisels, a piece of breat, a carafe du vin. heavy boots tromp through the narrow fetid streets. stone, then mortar then stone a million times over hoping to pierce the very heavens with your spire. I know who built you, his name is Man. Men, striving for greatness in the name of humility drew your lines, sculpted your form, raised you up from the murky swamp of dreams. Sadly your concept was flawed from the start. Greatness serves only itself. Ego balks at servitude. Though you were built by the hands of men in the name of god your scale is neither human nor divine. Notre Dame it is time to bend your proud head to the streets and see what you've become. A stop on the bus tour. Time enough for a few snapshots and a slow lap with noses in guidebooks. Somehow the bracing wind seems nearer to god.
Acriss tge Seine lies a church. The oldest in Paris. Rebuilt as Gothic, home to revolutionary grain, reborn a Greek. ST. Julien-le-Pauvre. As simple and beautiful as its name. Perhaps here one can know God. Our feet falling on uneven stones scare echoes up to the ceiling and back again. At notre dame god looks down unreachable unknowable, but here we are intimate companions. Friends genuflecting in the quietest church in paris. no tour buses here, no crowds of second-hand glory seekers no trinktets for sale. Only ancient light falling through ancient windows. filtered through geometric shapes uneven in a simple field. Irregular blue squares wrought by an honest hand. Crooked triangles pointing the way to heaven. we take a seat creaking into wooden chairs. then the silence approaches and rests upon us its warm and comforting embrace. st. julien-le-pauvre. the power of simplicity. later there will be a concert and a crowd ringing chords baroque and bold. but now there is me, there is ingrid, there is god.
more to come, thoughts on other cathredals are on the way under this same post.
Acriss tge Seine lies a church. The oldest in Paris. Rebuilt as Gothic, home to revolutionary grain, reborn a Greek. ST. Julien-le-Pauvre. As simple and beautiful as its name. Perhaps here one can know God. Our feet falling on uneven stones scare echoes up to the ceiling and back again. At notre dame god looks down unreachable unknowable, but here we are intimate companions. Friends genuflecting in the quietest church in paris. no tour buses here, no crowds of second-hand glory seekers no trinktets for sale. Only ancient light falling through ancient windows. filtered through geometric shapes uneven in a simple field. Irregular blue squares wrought by an honest hand. Crooked triangles pointing the way to heaven. we take a seat creaking into wooden chairs. then the silence approaches and rests upon us its warm and comforting embrace. st. julien-le-pauvre. the power of simplicity. later there will be a concert and a crowd ringing chords baroque and bold. but now there is me, there is ingrid, there is god.
more to come, thoughts on other cathredals are on the way under this same post.
Paris
Finally. paris. writing a dream. overwhelmed by perparations and travel at least 2 weeks pass without writing. but here...now. a parisienne window. long perfect legs and caderas excitante. am i really here? electric heater forty watt bulb. she turns and settles. silence rolls up crashing from the streets steeped in history. do i belong? a living breathing icon here...now. ragged soles consume the street in long strides. hood raised to thwart the cutting wind i venture forth her hand in mine to face the titanic demons of history who fear my assault on the bulwark of status. henry miller i know you sucking clit in wine reddened euphoria. allen ginsberg i love you digging the stacks in the company of shakespeare. empty page i fear you in mocking silence the promise of immortality. i am the outsider. barred from the doors of the pantheon a stranger in a land of someone else's memory. but the outsider is free. there are many players but the stage is mine here...now.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
the dirtiest thing ive ever written.
So I've been kicking around the house here thinking of writing but really being too afraid to start. Finally I realized that if I am going to begin, I must start.
The house is quiet. The furnace hums the cat prowls. earlier in a cloud of incense and tea the great questions were fielded by an in trepid band of artesians, like the well. Artesians drawing deep for purity, for sustenance. A few tinkling cubes of ice a splash of rum. the fizz and hiss of the coal and the crackle of dried leaves bursting into a cancerous flame. The artesians of the world gather to generate substance from noise. not order from chaos but chaos as order bubbling to the surgace to surprise and delight and confound. its hard to watch the sky turn grey when the wind blows a frigid damp and not think of her. the line between flesh and fabric tease and temptation truth and mystery curves from the hip down and around the luscious substance of life. holy holy never revealing quite enough. all art is based on the female form ajnd she it seems is the fountain maiden head waters. that all springs from her pantomimed through the gentle shake froma fallen footstep, the line traced by a fallen strand of hair. in the darkness I yearn and grasp but mystery is emptiness and truth is the substance of dreams. The hand slips between the fabric and the flesh truth and mystery combined in the pulsing heat of existence. smoke curls to the ceiling aping the curve from the breast to the hips. now a tendril climbing up the thigh, caressing the calf tickling the toes. The smoke to the ember is not close enough. aromatic and safe the promise of desire nestled deep waiting for the shaft of the artesian to bring its beauty to the surface. We the house of artesians. lighting one off the other the thoughts continue to smoke. up in flames a spark from the flint in her eyes and the steel in her resolve. The weight of her beauty in the palm of my hand. A non physical energy charges the room and fuels the moment of creation. We who are like gods pressed forward flesh to flesh save for the thin fabric of mystery stretched between us. The hiss of soda pop pop pop in a sturdy glass becomes the sound of wet tires on a lonely road. The natti, queen of cities begins her daythe wind still blows a chill through the air. Take 2 step to the next voluptuous vivacious vivisection spreading wide the home of life. The cat raises one sleepy eyelid then turns nesting, nestling off to sleep. Shaped by wind and rainthe artesian cries for absolution from sins not yet committed. Heavy with blood taut with wanting taught with love lips opened slightly beckoning the caress of a tongue. the tongue molds and pleasures the sound of ideas. Bursting forth to germinate in the fertile minds of friends. Words striving for action substance craving expression. The pressure of my palm, the arch of her back. Her tongue shapes sounds that are not words. the smoke to an ember is not close enough. From ourselves through others we are fulfilled. into her I poure the stuff of dreams and her glistening brilliance envelops and transforms. But here alone the bunny shakes its cage.
The house is quiet. The furnace hums the cat prowls. earlier in a cloud of incense and tea the great questions were fielded by an in trepid band of artesians, like the well. Artesians drawing deep for purity, for sustenance. A few tinkling cubes of ice a splash of rum. the fizz and hiss of the coal and the crackle of dried leaves bursting into a cancerous flame. The artesians of the world gather to generate substance from noise. not order from chaos but chaos as order bubbling to the surgace to surprise and delight and confound. its hard to watch the sky turn grey when the wind blows a frigid damp and not think of her. the line between flesh and fabric tease and temptation truth and mystery curves from the hip down and around the luscious substance of life. holy holy never revealing quite enough. all art is based on the female form ajnd she it seems is the fountain maiden head waters. that all springs from her pantomimed through the gentle shake froma fallen footstep, the line traced by a fallen strand of hair. in the darkness I yearn and grasp but mystery is emptiness and truth is the substance of dreams. The hand slips between the fabric and the flesh truth and mystery combined in the pulsing heat of existence. smoke curls to the ceiling aping the curve from the breast to the hips. now a tendril climbing up the thigh, caressing the calf tickling the toes. The smoke to the ember is not close enough. aromatic and safe the promise of desire nestled deep waiting for the shaft of the artesian to bring its beauty to the surface. We the house of artesians. lighting one off the other the thoughts continue to smoke. up in flames a spark from the flint in her eyes and the steel in her resolve. The weight of her beauty in the palm of my hand. A non physical energy charges the room and fuels the moment of creation. We who are like gods pressed forward flesh to flesh save for the thin fabric of mystery stretched between us. The hiss of soda pop pop pop in a sturdy glass becomes the sound of wet tires on a lonely road. The natti, queen of cities begins her daythe wind still blows a chill through the air. Take 2 step to the next voluptuous vivacious vivisection spreading wide the home of life. The cat raises one sleepy eyelid then turns nesting, nestling off to sleep. Shaped by wind and rainthe artesian cries for absolution from sins not yet committed. Heavy with blood taut with wanting taught with love lips opened slightly beckoning the caress of a tongue. the tongue molds and pleasures the sound of ideas. Bursting forth to germinate in the fertile minds of friends. Words striving for action substance craving expression. The pressure of my palm, the arch of her back. Her tongue shapes sounds that are not words. the smoke to an ember is not close enough. From ourselves through others we are fulfilled. into her I poure the stuff of dreams and her glistening brilliance envelops and transforms. But here alone the bunny shakes its cage.
Saturday, November 27, 2004
le violin ingrid
man ray mray crystal tears and chess sets revolving doors. what can a man do but keep on keeping on. where are they all going? in their cars on the freeway endlessly moving. i cant relate anymore. adrift.
Sunday, November 21, 2004
here it is
i obviously dont update much. but i have a feeling that will change. i am graduating from college. it has taken a long time and much of it i have not enjoyed. and i am surprised to find myself with just a little fear. and, i suppose that is a good way to feel. i have always been opposed to the notion somehow that somehow college isnt real life. as in "now youre going out in the real world" but i am standing up to say that college is still a very real and important period. but the fact remains that this is a big shift. i am 24 years old. i am about to get engaged to my perfect counterpart Ingrid Anne. I will have a BFA in theatre technology. and interestingly, my writing is starting to pop a little. as in i am actually writing. i have to give a lot of credit to my playwriting class which has forced me to put pen to paper. but this has been building. this has indeed been building. i wrote fifteen solid funny unique pages for that class with more to come. and it is tight. and i had so much fun that ive been anxious to write again and interestingly, here i am. now you might be saying to yourself, non existent reader, shouldnt he be writing his play instead of fucking around here on the blog? but baby its the mood. and this isnt going to be a personal sight, just some shit i had to roll out to get this started. you see, darlin, baby, it is about the mood. the lights are low, got a little mellow alcohol mood. my can of registered pure keep america beautiful bohemian style special beer. sitting right here. beside me. imagine this as spoken word prose. cus that is what this is. you seee sugar, it is about the mood. the lights they are low. and miles davis. is kind. of. blue. awwww. baby. genius. drizzle. cold late fall nasty drizzle. pelting and soaking for days. the city lived in a grey blanket. the urban groove settling in to another cincinnati winter. hustlers on the street. indian food no wait thai. then maybe a beer or two. maybe see a band or just chill on the firescape steel trestle to contentment. the girls. the girls wrapped tight too bad and speed walking through the deluge. no street music tonight. just the hiss of tires on wet pavement. but then the morning after the third day that most blessed of indian summers settles in for the perfect afternoon. the cello on the corner intensifies the mood. people out for strolls laughing peeking in windows for interesting finds. the garlic seems to fill the street. and now the girls. finally freed rain everyone glows. maybe today is a good day for that skirt. or that sexy sweater. the day glides on with a stroll through the neighborhood. architecture and stories of life. then a stop at the market before heading home. that garlic got you thinking. so a fresh clove or two in some olive oil set to stimmer. the smell fill you up. things are starting to happen. a little wine always heps things along. this is my really too intoxicated to write ode to clifton. the ending here isnt going so well, but there have been some good times living here that i hope arent overshadowed by the ceiling falling in. as silly as that sounds. but its fitting that a little buzzed, and a little jazzed leads me to ludlow. i cant wait till i can live with ingrid someplace. hopefully in a little place like some of the houses around here. we can walk to the market. cook fantastic meals. live beautifully. i know ye of the cynics heart are thinking this boy is just silly in love. but jack, that aint the case. i love my baby. i know there are going to be problems. there have been in the past. but we both care enough to work it out. every time. we go to each other first when we have a problem. so. i dont have any wories. we might not be able to live the npr life we kind of dream of. man i am coming off as a real tool today. but writing drunk is better than not writing. and tomorrow, i might want to come on just to show that they arent all going to be like this. and then maybe monday ill finish the thought of what i created and suddenly, a habit. will. be. formed. so ladies and gentleman of the invisible emptieness, your indulgence is no longer required, but is always appreciated.
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
Submission. dominence. i give in i rage against i stand up and take it like a man. i cop out i i give up i fight back i fight on i step off. but she looks at me and the world grows still. true submission all thoughts bend to her. a smack in the face a whispered demand. a meek and joyous christ i suffer the lash but then she wavers, i sense a crack and i rise up like spartacus against the chains. my vengenance is great and terrible i lay waste i smite i roar in triumph. we both fall shuddering to the sheets cling to each other for safety in the riptide of receding hormones. the lord Gautama tells us that desire is the cause of suffering. but for us it brings great joy but at great risk.
dynamism
I once upon a time thought that an empty page was an intimidating thing. but tonight i sit down, provoked by the urgings of loved ones and that that an infinity of space awaits me. Void beckons creation. I found myself at the greyhound station near the cannery. a ticket was in one hand. ingrid the other. one of them would be riding the bus with me. we made the typical scene. many kisses expressions of regret and longing. i climbed aboard already soured on the day. what will happen? I sit back and watch the world roll by alien from the side window. i submit to my helplessness to my path. i doze and wake up in a dozen different conversations about nothing in particular. finally i awake to find the empty seat now occupied by a natty-haired crackhead. random giggling twitching frequent trips to the bathroom. he asked me if cincy was close to st. louis. he asked upon seeing the ville if that was cincinnati kentucky. still we rolled. he got off in the ville and i was joined by an old pothead self-described hippie who was ten during the summer of love. he asked questions and we swapped stories of clifton life then and now. boone county is the worst in the country. mostly cuz of the rednecks, but the law is real bad too. johnny law. johnny law. thoughts of jack and the mexican girl. A bus full of hopes and grocery bags full of belongings. I am poor but born middle class. I watch like a tourist the underground culture of america. Those with thin wallets and small voices packed into a steel tube denied the dignity of privacy and the efficiency of speed are forced to accept the thousand small stresses and expenses of america without any of the pleasures. The myth of america as the land of oppurtunity is the very leash that restrains us. We are blind to the limitations on class mobility because the myth is carved in stone and sculpted in steel but the proof otherwise is on so much paper transient and fluttering in the gale of the howls from patriots of privilege who damn my dissent as an un-american activity. but not in my house. I get off in cincinnati but still the bus rolls on. meanwhile in over the rhine a cop beats a nineteen yearold kid with his club.
Tuesday, December 09, 2003
hipster is joy
hipster is passion
hipster is active
shh hipster is resting
hipster is love
hipster is crazy
hipster is a loner
damn, hipster is at a party without me
dig it dig it dig it dig it dig it dig it dig it dig it
hipster is passion
hipster is active
shh hipster is resting
hipster is love
hipster is crazy
hipster is a loner
damn, hipster is at a party without me
dig it dig it dig it dig it dig it dig it dig it dig it
Monday, December 08, 2003
I cant stop this feeling, deep inside of me
Sunday, December 07, 2003
I love ingrid anne, let that be written in heaven's unchangeable heart....Let that be written in heaven's unchangeable heart. I stole that one from jack. Ive used it before and it is all true. Let it be written next to all the other names i've sent heavenward in the past. let it be written next to the names of all those i will love in the future. Heaven's heart is unchangeable and so is mine. i once thought that there was only one i could love and to say i love you to another meant that the one or the other must be a fraud. but now i know that new love strengthens and validates the old love and all the love is better for it. the Old informs the new. The new lights the old deep in the shadows of time.
lesson
What would life be like if miles and the trane had never played together? if bird had never met diz? of course now im listening to the melodious thelonious who is as impenetrably beautiful as the horizon. i think dante's vision of hell missed a vital component of sin. the irresistable seductivity of temptation (temptation...tem p tay shun...temmmmp tay...shun). in hell the fire beckons like a lover. it touches and licks your body in exquisite pain and you know that all you have to do is pull away. but you yearn so fiercely that you know you can never remove yourself from its scorching embrace. you love the pain as much as you hate it but it seduces you (seduction) and you forever succomb to a pleasure you will never feel. self-destructive indulgence. Hell is beautiful. The bookstore near my apartment is apparently throwing out their jazz cds. at least they may as well be. he set them all outside on the clearance table. they could be bought for five dollars. but i dont have five dollars. i could take one of each and still leave one for the cash-totin' jazz lover. just walk around the block and slip one into my pocket each time i passed. but i know that each one would sound as if it were recorded at the wrong speed. a little off, a little sharp, a little grating. friday night. I take a shower but dont shave because i know i have through careful planning achieved the perfect stubble. i wear my contacts because bent glasses have an absentminded charm but it makes my face look as crooked as my soul. i choose the underwear she likes best and the cologne she cant resist. i put on my worn black cordouroys and a wine red shirt that is just small enough to make others aware of my build but not so tight as to be obnoxious. it was the gift of a former lover but it serves me just as well. my lover arrives with freshly short hair that begs me to put my hands in it, to grab it, to pull her head back and feast on the pale flesh of h er neck. she wears an effervescent blue sweater that seems sheer but reveals nothing. her jeans feign casual indifference but insistently refer to her curves. We have both dressed to appeal and tonight we are the sexiest couple in the city. our friends become an entourage. Every unhappy couple looks at us as we pass by. we are not touching. our shared distance more erotic than their most carefully orchestrated fluid encounters. He looks at my lover and cries for las caderas excitante she looks at me and knows i could respond to her secret desires without a whisper. but we roll on and are forgotten except in dreams when their deepest shames rise up to torment their complacent minds. we sit in a group and fuck with our eyes. we share a meal and it becomes more holy than body and blood. but something goes wrong. we go our seperate ways. I throw on my favorite sweater. it is meditative green with a seductive (seduction) blue stripe. i wear it like an embrace. a new state a new adventure. the deck becokons with its man made heaven. i speak to friends. i tell jokes sip beer smoke weed. i exude charm and confidence. i throw glances across the room. i am desired because i am distant. i am approached because i am inaccessible. i am loved because i love. Mindy is there. i adore her and despise her because she is beautiful and kind and evidence of my cruelty. this summer we worked together and she was in high flirt with another. i knew i could so i drew her attention to prove it. i gave her nothing which is what i promised her, for i am truly in love with another. but nothing from me is enough. I see her in a group of five men all vying (like sean) for her attention and the prize of her body. they dont know what i know. truth always defeats desire. their presence merely confirms their inadequacy. their lust underlines their baseness. my distance is interpreted for sophistication. but i know who i am going to sleep with, and i only wish to sleep with her the rest of my life. Misterioso. For lack of a purpose i sit in a window and watch the drunken foosball. mindy excuses herself from the adulation of the masses and seeks me out. she tells me one story. it seems she played most of the first act in a slip with no panties due to the speed and confusion of a quick change. she assures me it was quite a show. she wants to link herself with sex in my mind. she wants to seduce (seduction) me. but i know the truth, and truth always defeats desire. she wields her sex like a weapon. she bludgeons men with it, she is used to pure brute power. she wants me to prove that she is powerful. but i know. she tries to leave me to ruminate on her strawberry cunt, she tries to mystify the stranger but gives herself away by asking that i not move so she can find me when she returns. i instead grab another half beer (as i am the DD) and find an empty couch. shortly mindy and her friend appear and decide they need to dance. they slink and shake and hint at lesbianism. they grind they stroke they turn not five feet from where i sit alone. soon men materialize but all give up alone in the cold. the dance is not for those who clutch and grab. the power is mine and right now right here i am a king. but i look at the clock. i worry. i wait. because the one who holds power over me is content to lengthen our time apart. she unknowingly increases the distance increases the desire. i reel in sean and we head home. leaving others to settle for, to give in to. Then seans phone rings and it is she whom i love. she begs for me to come home. tonight i look stronger, i become the object of too long delayed desire. we consumate by fire. the next day the illusion falls and i admit she has total power over me. but nothing changed. this is the lesson we have learned from blood and tears. from lonlienss. from presence. from mind from soul from body. this is the vision blurred by sight, the sound muted by noise. it is this: love is the synthesis of truth and desire.
