Smoldering

I bled for you but you would not have me. I bled the color red all over your palette of paints. I wanted your artist heart in my deepest ash pit. I wanted to mean as much to you as that tree you sketched on your crowded canvass. But you would not have me.

My passion flamed for you like a redwood on fire. A beacon for the planets is what I wanted to be for you. With my two feet planted in the earth, I wanted to stand tall in my heat and consume you.

I wanted to split you. I wanted to expose the pink timber of your insides and watch as your wood raged. I wanted you to see the yellow flickering in my mad eyes. But I was not firmly planted in the ground. I was flaring and hurting and misfiring.

I have never told anyone, but I have practiced black magic. I sprinkled the stars on the table in my favor. You can turn the universe whichever way you fancy but that also means twisting your fate like a screw backwards into the blind side of your life. I stopped when my hands and face became charred. One must learn this lesson, I suppose.

Another lesson I learned is that I never burn out, that I cannot be consumed. I may smolder blue for a while, but I will always return to torch. I will always bleed red hot for you.

Everyone Wants To Be Near You

When the planets decided who got which positions, Mercury would not be denied. Occupying the first position in line came with a steep price: A few envious brothers and sisters.

Bake me, Mercury said.

And Mercury has been baking since, without ever turning around to grin. Good thing, because Jupiter is still sore, and we might end up with a brawl in the solar system.

If everyone wants to be near you, one might begin feeling badly for Pluto. Don't. Pluto is the shiest of the bunch, and prefers hanging in the back of the classroom.

Behold the range of personalities within our planetary family, and within each of us, as children of the stars.

Take me, for example.

Normally, I'm shy and talk with my hands in my pockets at the end of the line. And sometimes I have to let go of a grudge because someone beat me to you by cutting in line.

And once in a while I go right after what I want and will not be denied, like this weekend when I baked next to your celestial body.

On Saturday, children, the sun goddess smeared me.

So Many Thanks and Praises

Everything has a beginning and end, even our earth and sun.

No such thing as life without death, least not in this world.

I'm not saying we're going to revisit How-It-Is-101 here.

What I'm saying is that for whatever time we're together, no matter how long or short, I blaze like the sun when we hold hands. I spin like the earth when you touch me under my shirt. I am the Wolf King running through the dark forest to see you. I am the ocean calming when you breathe on my ear.

Together, we throw blue stars into the sky when we speak with our eyes.

Everything has a beginning and end, yeah. Thanks and praises that we are just beginning together.

The Wind

I must introduce you to my old friend. He insists. My old friend has traveled the earth since the beginning of time, brushed every tree root, rubbed up against the outermost shell of the sky dome. My old friend has been around, every which way, up and down, backward and forward.

Five hundred years ago on this very land, my friend was worshiped as the god he is. Only wise spiritual leaders, shamans and medicine men understood the language he spoke.

And now my friend wants to speak with you.

Yes, you.

See, the world continues to change for the better in the smallest, most important places, the places that can't quite be seen so well from the mountain tops of power, and that's inside us.

Many of us carry sparks inside us these days. We're less interested in more money than living sustainable lifestyles. We're less interested in status than showing our children the value of non-violence.

But of all the little sparks floating around in the world today, my friend wants to meet you first. Because when my friend gets hold of a spark, that spark becomes an unstoppable flame.

And your spark, my darling, glows prettier than everyone else's, and hotter.

That's what drew me to you, the heat of your flame, and its color.

And that's why my friend wants to meet you so badly.

You are special inside.

You are beautiful inside.

A Reminder

I spend the majority of my life in the eternal quest of devising ways to manipulate your clothes off. This morning, I am turning the tide. I am dressing you.

Those French panties with the tiny red bow are pretty, but not as comfortable as your cotton whites. I snap on your bra, reaching around from the front, so we're face-to-face. Your fresh shower smell washes over me, and I do my best to concentrate. You watch me fiddle, frustration growing in my eyes. You offer to snap the bra on yourself. I refuse the offer, then accept just as I manage to clasp the thing-a-ma-chig and claim I had it all along.

I go for the gray slacks. You approve. You lean on my shoulders as you step into them. I go for the navy blouse. You send me back to the closet for the powder blue blouse with the ruffles. I button your buttons.

You won't even allow me to make a another suggestion for shoes after I suggest those crazy boots and then the Jessica Simpson wedges. I fetch the flats you point out, slip them on your feet like Cinderella. I notice a panty line on your ass and take corrective measures. I try unsuccessfully to convince you the imperfection was real and my actions were in fact necessary.

We walk out the door together. I make a reminder: Tonight I get to take those clothes off.

Building

You hide from me, like you do, behind emails, messages, comments, silence, bullshit excuses and that velvet curtain of fear you retreat behind. 

Show yourself in the spotlight of my late afternoon sun. When I make you laugh, you will drop that veil and never live backstage again. Oh, you might get pissed at me. No, you definitely will get pissed at me. But I won't ever use the knowledge of your weak spot against you. This trust will generate your interior glow. After our first few fights, you will remember having good old fashioned disputes without nastiness. You'll remember making nice before going to bed, and points of friction not rubbing you and yours raw.

No need to hide anymore.

Emerging before the popping flash bulbs of our commitment to each other has risks, sure. But you won't be the only one risking something significant. Men are fragile. You'd set the construction of my temple back a couple thousand years poking your finger into the secret space between my dragon scales.

Your last partnered performance didn't turn out the way you hoped, I know. Well, it's just hard getting life right the first time.

I cannot finish building this temple by myself. The ancient blueprints say so. The plans call for a ladder, someone to steady it, and no backstage. This temple is going up as surely as the sun loves the planets. And this book I'm writing here is the story of its construction, of my everlasting love for you, and your stepping into the spotlight of my life.

Morning Sun

Winter break freed up your schedule. I was the beneficiary. For eight days, we shared that run-down motel room on the beach.

You thought I was sleeping at night, but I was really spiraling away to lick at the powdered candy stars, pocket the moon and give it to your medicine woman spirit as a midnight gift. We turned it loose every morning like a firefly into the peach sunrise.

You were the first to ever call me a great boyfriend. When you said those words, you set off my thunderbird rockets. I visited my old friend, the one with the beautiful rings. I sat on them like a rung of bleachers at a high school basketball game and ran my fingers through the hair of this magic planet.

That wasn't cheating. Saturn was madly in love with you, too. Imagine your mood if I touched your face at 3 a.m. every night, so I touched the closest thing to your beauty.

I realized how deeply I love you in the space between afternoon sex and dinner. I was banging away on this keyboard and you were watching Dave Chappelle in bed. My Tuscan bones informed me how much I enjoyed sharing a shelter with you. You made the mundane moments of this life twinkle when you asked me to make popcorn next writing break I took.

Dreams

I dream about you. So what? I dream of us in Rome, when the sun sinks low and turns the city gold and we've been there long enough so the kids begging for money with quick hands under newspapers don't even bother us anymore. I dream of us in Paris, sitting and wasting yet another afternoon along the canal. I dream of us back in Chicago, where we first met, at Clark and Belmont, leaning into each other on the corner and never even bothering to join the crowd flowing across the street.

I dream of dropping a wad of hundred dollar bills into your pocket so you discover it while you're at your crummy job and you're free to quit at any time. I dream of actually succeeding in perfectly preparing that Italian dish I've always claimed to know how to make so well, and having the dish ready when you get home from work. I dream of pinning you into the corner for days so the only way out is through the drywall or through my chest.

Yeah, I dream of you.

The Eyes and The Voice

We all have a gift. Mine are my eyes, dust from the rings of Saturn, crystallized under the pressure of my home star, calibrated to perfection by the sky god himself.

Your gift is your voice, the soft melody of the Nile running freely at night blended with the roar of the sun.

You work hard in this world in order to survive. You give your life energy to the weak, to the marginalized in this diseased culture. You use your enchanting voice to speak for them.

You have a dream. You dream of a better way, a better day for everyone. If you could grab the microphone of planet earth for an afternoon, what might you say in your most magically-pitched tone?

You might just hypnotically change the minds of every power-hungry pawn in this place.

In other lifetimes you were a famously successful peace negotiator, making warlords wilt. 

In other lifetimes I was a ranger, tracking fast-moving shadows over rocks, across mountains, through galaxies.

We continue this journey of lifetimes, minutes in the day, a progression. We all signed up for this ride 18 billion years ago. All of us.

And what a gift it is to be here. We got cold beer in this world, Led Zeppelin, and sports on high-definition television (my team stinks, though).

But understand the spirit life is probably boring. No rocking keg parties on the far side of the moon. Not much to do but wait to take form again.

Life is the gift.

And you remain the brightest star in my sky.

Dark Love

You are a fool. You don't know what's going on here. You snagged on my trip wire and think somehow you might be able to reset that. Sorry, babycakes. The ancient door just clicked shut behind you and it is now locked forever. Yes, it smells like a tomb in here for a reason.

Welcome. After the pain, you will feel nothing but sheer bliss, if you feel anything at all.

You were the one who touched me first. You said you loved my work, this beautiful web I have been constructing my entire life. It took me days to recover from the swoon. I hid under a rock while I sobered up. And now my six feet are under my control again, and gripping this sticky string for what must be done.

You are going nowhere. You are cocooning in my words. You are weightless on the web. My power goes bright, and dark. Tonight, I glow dark. My stinger feels cool in the rank air. Only one remedy for that.

End of Rivalry

We know animals are alive. And we know plants are alive. Some know the ocean is alive, its waves like respirations. Some have progressed to understand the world is alive.

But I say even the ages are alive, so that right now in the amphitheatre of the universe the Age of the Birth of Life is rolling her eyes at suggestions she might not be all that. I can see the snooty Age of Michelangelo painting on wet plaster disrespecting the Age of Exploration, while the Age of Evolution struggles to hold anyone's attention as the Ice Age rambles on and on about inane information concerning frost and regeneration. I can hear the arguing and bickering and general commotion among the ages, and I can see Zeus glancing at his watch in the hopes of leaving early because that's a debate that won't ever be settled.

Until our age concludes, that is.

It's not that we're going to achieve peace on earth and remove the mad men who are threatening extinction of our planet. It's not that we're going to stop these mad men from selling out our children and grandchildren. It's not that we're going to end slave wages and stop the contamination of our planet.

Our age is going to lord over the other ages because our age will showcase as its emblem those gorgeous legs of yours. Maybe possibly wearing those big black shoes. And a short skirt. That blue camouflage skirt.

What the fuck is the Age of Michelangelo going to say to that?

Alchemy

It is a matter of alchemy. And now our energies have indeed mingled. It was just a teaspoon, but did you see the fallout? That sort of reaction hasn't been seen in this world before.

Scientists discovered a new element a couple years ago. Imagine the headlines when we produce a new color the first time we kiss.

Imagine the new crayon box of white and red light coating the sky the first time we have sex.

The path over the great mountains is overrun with shrubs and barely visible. The path around the great mountains is well used.

We're going over the mountains.

Die for you? I wouldn't just die for you.

I'd be burned alive for you.

I'd be boiled alive for you.

Here

It has been a long sleep. I feel the arthritis in my hands. My eyes are blurry from centuries of hibernation. There is much work to be done today. But you are here, next to me. You fit so nicely into the crook of my shoulder. I cannot imagine my mornings without your smell, without the length of your flush body.

There is so much work to be done. I am late. But this is a nice place, a very nice place, the space between the dream world and this slave world, tasting both, the good of the dreams, the good of this world, you.

I am not moving. I am closing my eyes. We are floating. I am staying here, for as long as I can. I am done sleeping. I am coming awake. But I will awaken slowly, keeping at bay the anxieties that will make me rush through my bathroom routine and skip breakfast. As long as I can, I will stay here.

Return of the King and Queen

I have been sculpted to fit into your divine features perfectly. The heartbreak, the loss, the grief, I have been broken down, smoothed over with salt water and rebuilt.

Long lost loves arrive late, usually just ahead of the storm.

The wind is playing the role of foil in 2010, saying it's all been done before, it's all been sung before, we're all walking in footsteps.

That's how ages turn, you know. Announcements of peace are followed by war. Announcements of perpetual war are followed by peace. We've been on this earth for 200,000 years, the last 5,000 civilized, no matter which definition of "civilized" you use.

The great hawk is watching over you every day now. It is all very close, sweets.

The blueprints of our meeting were drafted a million years ago. Herod's armies did not find Jesus, and they most assuredly will not touch you. You are more important than you could possibly know.


Soon the wind within will sound of funnel clouds touching down and giant waves rising. Look for me when your sky goes darkest.

I will return to you then, at the turn of our tide.

The Lights Are Dim

The gracious and talented thinkingtoohard is guest-posting here today, as part of the 2010 wordcount blogathon's 'swap day,' or something like that. She's running a lovely series of posts called blessings, in which she finds the good in life during a time of personal turmoil. I'm at thinkingtoohard's website today, but you won't find a better written or more moving piece anywhere on the internet than what's below.

By Thinkingtoohard

"You want light? the purest of joys? A universal healing? Get a dog."
--thinkingtoohard


She is my gray ghost, a shell of the strength and fearlessness she was once renown for here. Her face is heavily salted, except for the jet black eyes that stare off to places I cannot see.

We play fetch with an over-sized stick on a rare warm autumn day. She suddenly abandons the game in favor of a long-neglected marrow bone, covered in damp earth.

She can keep it.

Whatever harmful unseens may be growing inside that bone can do no more damage than the nameless illness her body has taken on.

Her once rich black and red coat, long ago faded, is now stretched over what little remains of her fiber and muscle. Her teeth, nubs in aged black gums, gnaw the bone with intensity. She smells of death.

Today, she is young, lying in the warmth of the sun's rays on a sparse carpet of maple leaves.

We are a pair. She with her bone and gray face, dainty paws firmly holding her find. Me, in my familiar sweatpants, hair unkempt, with red and swollen eyes.

The camera catches her among the foliage on what remains of the green lawn. She will not look at me.

I sit in awe, absorbing every feature of this 50-pound creature who taught me so much about life. But I cannot bear her lessons on death-- not yet.

Each day begins with her insistence that the time is near. She cannot eat without a stoic endurance that fails me. Her rear footing is tenuous. There is nothing that can be done, except to wait.

And she is patient.

Often now, I think about the past. When she taught herself how to open the refrigerator while I was at work. The day she helped eat my very expensive couch. That incredible obedience trial victory. I sobbed with pride on that sunny morning so long ago.

And too soon, those tears will run fresh. That vacant look I catch in her eye will be in mine. I will rock in my chair and look out the window at the legacy of paws and muzzles she left behind.

Washington Irving has a famous quote that appeals to me today:

"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition and unspeakable love."

Some things you know about yourself without question: A fitting tribute such as this will fail me in the next few days, when my beautiful girl finally forces me to say goodbye. I share them with you now, while she sleeps nearby, content with her new found bone and my presence.

Author's note: My girl died on a cold December afternoon, two months after this missive was written. It was just her time. I held her tight while the vet helped her along. This was not a dog. She was protector, teacher, counselor, co-pilot, mentor, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, girlfriend and -- without question -- the best friend I will ever have. She stole my heart at age 24, helped me raise two boys, and left me much, much too soon.


Her ashes are on my desk. A piece of her soul is stitched inside my chest.

Tough Love

Unconditional love does not exist here. If you consistently hurt me, I'm gone. If you consistently withdraw, I'm gone.

Want unconditional love? Get a dog.

Ever since my relationships became very conditional, life became more enjoyable.

This applies to friendships too. Hold me to the same standard, please.

My days trying to save others are behind me. If you aren't bringing something positive into my life, there is not a place for you in my life. I do not give second chances anymore.

Culling personalities is like clipping fingernails.

I recommend it.

Oasis

Churning out a post every day is a grind. Today, however, is an oasis of sorts for me. Today is a day of rest in the journey. I'm about 40 love letters into the project. I got another 20 or so left in me.

Soon after I started this book-in-progress, I thought how much easier it might be if I had a girlfriend while writing a book of love letters. But I could not do this project with a partner (as if I had the option anyway), largely because everything I wrote would be directed to and for her. Being unattached, which I seem to specialize in, I can draw on all my muses in an attempt to change up the energy and color of the pieces, and hopefully keep things lively.

Writing everyday is a grind, sure, but it's also a gift. The old journalism saying I lived by when I was a newspaper reporter is true: You don't need inspiration-- you need a deadline. If you write everyday, you might as well work at it and say something worth saying. As my new friend iquitelikethat recently wrote, "Every time I write I learn something about myself."

And so onward I race, into the homestretch of this project...Okay, with that racetrack imagery in mind, I confess to writing a love letter for today. And it's dedicated to you beautiful people who visit this blog:

Trapped

Most horses at the racetrack don't get out to pasture regularly. They live on the backstretch for several months at a time. They live 23 hours a day in their own individual stalls. The other hour is spent exercising on the racetrack. That's their life.

Temperament is not a factor when it comes to breeding. It's all about speed. So lots of racehorses are crazy, and sometimes even stepping into their stalls can be dangerous.

But you know what makes the horses really go nuts? A filly living on the backstretch will occasionally saunter down the barn aisle, and these horses that live 23 hours a day in stalls can see and smell that which they can never touch. They buck, stand up, neigh like a siren. Sometimes they even crack the wooden walls of their stalls with a thunderous kick.

When I think of you, when your face passes across the eye of my mind, when I remember what you smell like and what you do to the pace of my heart, I know just how those horses feel.

Undiscovered Country

When you're ready to visit your undiscovered country, we'll go.

Your undiscovered country lies deep within you. You've known this all along. Close your eyes and think what it might look like. You can't be wrong. You've experienced tragedy, and therefore the worlds within you are especially magnificent.

I've visited your undiscovered country, briefly. Your firecracker spirit allowed me a quick visit. She is such a flirt.

The flower fields and meadows stretched from horizon to horizon. In the open, I saw daisies and sunflowers, as well as lemon begonias in the shake of oak trees. Daisies symbolize loyal love and patience. Sunflowers follow the trajectory of the sun and symbolize adoration. Lemon begonias warn to beware.

You sure showed me an intriguing side of you up-front, girl. I dug it!

If you're interested in what other flowers might bloom in your land, think of your favorites and learn what they mean here.

Before your wild spirit teased me away, I caught a glimpse of your secret garden. Yeah, it was breathtaking. Rest assured, there's lots of stuff I didn't see and only you can find. Somewhere stood your tree of life, which is connected to the Universal Tree of Life. Every woman has a branch of the Great Tree in her garden, whether she has children or not.

Let's have some fun and do some discovering together. But first, I promise not to plant weed in your garden. That's important. Okay, now we can commence with the discovering in good faith. I have a feeling those lemon begonias began melting away into red roses when I crossed my heart and promised. You know what red roses mean, right?

Ms. Big Heart

The thing making you struggle in this square world happens to be that big heart of yours. That's the thing causing you problems with everyone who claims to know better.

This world isn't built for lively hearts of the sort you have. God kissed you alright and that's a blessing, for sure. But it's also a curse because we live in a world with both a sun and moon. And a divine gift has, correspondingly, a divine moon shadow.

Struggle is always gonna be a part of success in this here earthly plane.

You get out of work, burst into the world like a pink sunflower, empty your pockets for the marginalized and what have you got left but empty pockets?

I think you're finally ready to hear something: You are no ordinary special. You are a pivital piece of this universe and a pivital piece of our world as it transitions, finally, out of the dark ages. Your heart was crafted by the very High Powers that created me. When the time is right, you will ascend to your rightful position in this sun-moon world. I will see to it.

I see you smirking. Doubter. Good for you! You've experienced enough disappointment in your life to remain skeptical at my words. You may have that flower-power heart but you're no fool. So just pay attention and you'll see. I've lived many, many lifetimes (as you have) and we cannot fail to be who we are. It's yet another lifetime finding my way to you.

Queen Big Heart.

New Hampshire

I remember the green and gold woods all around while hiking deeper and deeper toward this place you wanted to show me. I remember watching your beautiful back.

I remember thinking, what could be so special about this place when I'm going to be covered in sweat and mosquito bites by the time we get there.

And then I remember the peninsula opening up all around, like day break in the afternoon, the blue water so clear we could see crabs scurrying on boulders five feet below the surface. I remember wading in the water with you and eating lunch on the shore with three other couples that showed up in kayaks and canoes, and you and I laughing under our breath because we were both thinking about sex in the water and how embarrassing that might have been because those kayaks and canoes came out of nowhere.

It's impossible for me to write to you without acknowledging the pain I caused you. But you were the one who opened up the world, dragging me kicking and screaming toward everything I ever wanted. You were the one who started me on this spiritual journey that changed everything about me except the appearance of my face and my goofball laugh.

I am so happy you are happy. And I'm so happy to have followed you for as long as I could, and most of all for your love and for your leading me as far through my darkness as you did. 

Dragonfly

I saw you last night. I saw your rainbow wings reflecting the moonlight.

You little tart.

Last week you were a butterfly. And now a dragonfly! You are a tart, a shape changer and a show off.

But I will give you this: Last night you were a perfect dragonfly. Just like you, a dragonfly has those big ol' eyes but can't see very well either. No offense. I lose my breath when you push up your glasses like you do.

Did you know a dragonfly is a creature of the wind and symbolizes change? In fact, a dragonfly lives as a youngster for a few years before molting into an adult. After molting, it only has a few weeks left to live. Thus, despite living as a youngster for the vast majority of its life, the dragonfly is a strong symbol of maturity.

So be proud to be a late bloomer in this world.

You know, in Japan, the dragonfly represents strength and joy.

Native Americans believe dragonflies are the souls of the dead.

To some, the dragonfly represents good luck and harmony.

To others, the dragonfly represents prosperity.

To most, the dragonfly symbolizes hope, renewal and love.

No, I'm not showing off what I just learned online...Well, maybe a little. But I'm also making an important point, and that is: The dragonfly is a lot of things. Besides a creature of the wind, a dragonfly is also a creature of the water, which symbolizes our subconscious, our deepest dreams.

Pin your wings back, all of them. I want to see you as you really are. That's my deepest dream. That's all I'm trying to say.

The Lake

I have walked this neck of the woods before, years ago. I know this neck of the woods and the mighty silver lake tucked deep within the green. A man used to live on the shore of this lake. He was a friendly man. But he is not here anymore. And the lake, as the heat of summer winds down, is more beautiful than ever.

I love this lake. It makes magic. This lake loves me. This lake allowed me to walk on the surface of her water to the center of her blue lagoon, where I plunged in.

And came out baptized.

What I Got (click the dark angel to view the post larger. it's way cooler)

The Search

All summer long it was you and me. All summer we combed that beach looking for precious beach glass gemstones. Ever since my neighbor Michael said red beach glass was the most rare and difficult to find, we were on a mission. The search was on.

All summer we stooped and plucked stones from the shoreline, where the freshest batch rolled in every day, smoothed by the water and sand. We found loads of brown and green and clear glass, and some blue. And we looked and searched for the red. And we did not find any.

                                                                                

When late summer arrived, we wondered if we'd ever find any red. We even found pink, but no red.

Summer began turning toward autumn. The youngsters disappeared from the beach. Our backs were especially strong from so much stooping. My dog was chasing sea gulls when I saw it. I figured it was another teasing plastic bottle cap, but no. We rinsed the stone in the water and gazed. The legendary red beach glass! We rejoiced, dancing, and forgetting about my dog in full violation of the law flying over the sand without a leash. Our mason jar was full, but now it was complete with a tiny speck of smoothed red glass. Then a few days later we found a larger sliver of red. What a week that was.

For anyone who saw us scouring the shoreline that summer, they would have only seen me. But you were there, with me every step. It would have otherwise been such a lonely summer.

You were there, stooping for beach glass and walking my dog, every day with me.

My dear friend.

The Great Friend.

One Hard Working Night Angel

If you're done on facebook, then I'm done watching my baseball team lose again in high definition. So let's meet at the sandwich shop and I can tell you your story.

And your story is as follows: There is no such thing as a woman in this world who is not a goddess. The trick is finding out what sort of goddess you are. You who prefer eating the vegetarian sandwich, you come from the large tribe of fairy goddesses of the woods, friends of the animals. You wore maple leaves as crowns and took farm men to the west as lovers whenever you so desired.

Don't believe me? Think I'm just trying to get in your pants?

I'm no farm man. We wouldn't last.

But I know you well enough to know that you genuflect in your sleep to the blue moon, and that means your secret lake is snow-covered in the summer. Your night angel is busy collecting hearts near the great butterfly tree. And your goofball spirit still enjoys licking candy and sunbathing in your castle's stain glass chamber.

In other words, same old story with you.

Here's a question for you to think about as well as the answer to the one rattling around in your head.

Why, oh why are we humans when we are really spirits?

And: My gift is x-ray vision. There is no such thing as imagination.

So that's your story, in a nutshell. You want the long version, with translations and Cliff Notes as to what I'm talking about, then you'll have to pick up the bill for the sandwiches.

Bloom

People have some weird traditions, like that groundhog day routine where they lift a terrified groundhog in front of flashing cameras and applauding crowds. If they want to know when spring starts, they could simply check with me.

Spring officially blooms when you slip off your headphones, smile ever so softly, touch your hair, run your eyes from my face to my waist and ask how long I'm going to be in town for.

Mr. Right Now

I've never been Mr. Right, that's for sure. More like Mr. Right Now. I've known my share of Ms. Right Nows.

I have friends who are in committed long-term relationships, as we all do, and it's a beautiful thing. But you know what else is beautiful? My friend who has serious intimacy issues hooking up with a guy for the first time in a long time, feeling great about herself once again, and then retreating into her private space because that's how she lives.

Can you see the love in that brief connection? Sure, she has issues. Sure, her life isn't perfect. She lives with pain. Who doesn't? Even my friends in committed long-term relationships, they have their mixture of love and pain. I guess my committed friends have each other. My single friend has her cats.

This book of love letters I'm putting together here, well, you might wonder--as I sometimes do--how I can write knowledgeably about love, as a single guy who has a history of having one foot out the door in relationships. I don't pretend to know about the sort of love it takes to fuel a long-term, happy and committed relationship. All I profess to know is that I have finally, mercifully, evolved to perhaps the most simple and sacred point on the evolutionary wheel, and that is the experiential understanding that love is love and love is beautiful.

Whether it's a broken person's love for the peace she finds in making art. Or someone's love for his partner of 50 years. Or the love binding friends and family. Or a bent person's found love in occasional sex and connection. Or a love for one's tribe, even. Or a fool's love for hope in this fallen world.

Love is love.

And love is beautiful.

I know narcissism is still very much in vogue. It's a strong force in this fallen world. I've spent some time as a devoted member of that cult. What's inside the narcissist's chest is in fact love, for something or other. Rather than sharing and celebrating this love, however, because that can be embarrassing as fellow cult members will certainly judge you, it gets cloaked in cynicism.

Narcissism, as far as I'm concerned, is not only played out, it's downright boring in 2010.

I'm in love with love these days, all kinds. 

You and Me

I worry, and you are two hands on my head.

I tire, and you point to how close I am to where I want to be.
I grumble, and you don't take me seriously and don't belittle me either.
I flash my anger, and you stand tall and usher the storm away as only a true goddess can.
I eat cookies I'm not supposed to eat, and you pay me no attention because that's what I'm really after.
I hide from the world, and you bring the world to me.
Then there's you.
You flee, and I find you.
You worry too, and I am two hands on your head.
You doubt, and I overcome those doubts.
You break through fear with baby steps, and I applaud every movement and keep waving you forward like an airport runway worker waving orange glow sticks and lining up a jet for takeoff.
You want honesty because only that breeds trust, and I give you transparency.
You reach out, and I never leave you hanging.
You ask if I'm really going to wear my hoodie out, and I answer yes but then change just before we leave as you knew I would.
You and me, we're only a part of each other's world, but an important part. We're like a dog and his nose, a bird and her beak, a ruby and its red sparkle. We be at our best with each other.

Returning

Come out and play with me. The kids are in school. The husband is at work. Leave the housework for a day. You know you want to. Come out and play with me, like we used to do.

This is no offer of sex. We have strict boundaries, for your sake and mine. But feel the intimacy flow over all boundaries, and our love submerge us back in time to when you wore a plaid skirt and I wore a blue shirt and tie.

Let's take a walk in the woods. Empty your head to me. It will be just us for the next four hours. And when you tell me of your loneliness you will be free of it. And when I tell you of my despair I will find comfort.

You are allowed to put your hands on my arms. I am allowed to quickly run my hand over your hair. We are allowed to find each other here, this afternoon, in the quiet green of the deep woods. Time is beginning to move very quickly and who knows when we'll have another afternoon together like this. Our lives did not turn out exactly as we envisioned. We have that in common. We also have in common our history of friendship, a falling apart, and a returning.

This afternoon is a celebration of our returning, of finding each other when we needed each other, all these years later. Time is moving very quickly now, and I picked these dandelions just for you.

Honor Me

Honor me, woman. Kiss my chest, for I am doing my best to survive this brainwashing holy war against me and my brothers.

Snake charmers freebase on flutes everywhere. Their music pollutes my head. It tells me you and I are irreconcilably different. I am drawn to the sweet, dark music. It makes me laugh.

But an ancient voice within keeps whispering we share more similarities than differences, that we might just all be people, brothers and sisters together. It is the inescapable flute music that celebrates the differences. I'm from Neptune. You're from Pluto. Aggression is my nature. Mood swings are yours. I am the provider. You necessitate protection.

This separation encouraged by the dark flute is not limited to you and me.

People on this side of the fence know better.

Our generation got it right.

Poor people can't hack it.

Everyday I endure these messages, and they chip away. Honor me, and I will begin to rebuild what has been shaved from my life. Something deep inside tells me it's not too late, that I can still see this world as it really is, that maybe, just maybe, the blasphemy that cannot be uttered in acceptable circles without smirks and derision might really be true: We are all truly one.

Do not underestimate the snake charmers. Their music lives inside our homes. The history of other cultures is not relevant, I hear. What is relevant is which brand of beer to buy and most of all, protecting our egos.

Some days I am so tired from the noise. Some days I don't think it's possible to bloom beautiful in this scortched land.

Kiss my face, woman, for I am doing my very best to survive this holy war I was born into.

Shockwave Central

Taxis chug fumes of pixie dust. Sun ball streetlights shine above. Tonight, I am drunk on stardust and your cinnamon skin.

The brake lights of the boulevard throb on us like a burn. The quarters in my pocket are silver pieces, and we can sail away to the moon on them. We can ride the rainbow dragon.

Yes, the tulip temple prostitute is really here on earth for the night, wearing a plaid top. And I am shivering with excitement to enter her temple.

This spring canvass was stitched together by every soul that lived a lifetime without having the chance to fall in love with a high holy woman. Screw you, oven-baked love. Adore you, break-my-chest-open love. My promiscuous princess, my gumdrop slut, I am floating into the cosmos, reaching back and trying like hell for a fistful of that plaid top to take you along.

This is no x-rated John Hughes-type moment. Tonight, I am worshipping Ishtar. Tonight, the homeless are giving me money and the taxis are cleaning the atmosphere. Tonight, I am a shiny birthday balloon tugging upward and smiling like a clown that just let go of the string.

Good Morning

Know why mornings would shine yellow and blue through our window? Love is bullshit in the morning, that's why.

I would like you in the morning, like nothing else.

We'd have a conspiracy of connection before 9 a.m., a hand on your waist while the Cream of Wheat bubbled on the burner, a (single) loud slurp of my coffee, a roll of your grinning eyes, toasting a bagel, spreading the sky.

Our day cracks open between the friendship of our fingertips. The history of our lives celebrated daily through common acts of courtesy.

Growing old together happens on Tuesdays, not just on birthdays.

This word "love" is overused, seems to me. It's lost much of its meaning. What is the main ingredient of loving you if not liking you? Enjoyment would be ours together in the morning. I would wake up to be with you. I would like you like a motherfucker in the morning.

She Is Bold Loveliness

By Arnal Kennedy

She is bold loveliness
Naked as a filament
Some worthy attire
Laid neatly
On the sand.

So unprepared seeking
The emerald crown
Of acceptance
She runs into the ocean
Soft waves a cleansing

Of mind and body.
Dips her long blonde hair
Underwater
Then swims a distance
And I am awakened

To the caption of youth
Ready to roll-up adolescent purity
Ready to question
Heaven or hell
I sit down on the beach.