Seduction

These films of the unconscious induce my curiosity to crawl back into that darkness, that unfolding of vivid visions, of esoteric illusions. My will to wake suffocates. I know I should get out of bed yet I am seduced by this delving, already under the spell of naked gravity.

There lies something dark in this act of self-observation or, rather, a submission to my unconscious state, to my subconscious existence. What does my submission mean? My choice to hand control to my subconscious by putting my consciousness to sleep…what does this mean?

Yet another dawn of submission, relenting to euphoric, effortless sleep. To drift off and away, to sink, float, and drown in weightlessness. What lies beneath this deliberate momentum to be swallowed in sleep? Laziness or torture? Pleasure or punishment? Is it a giving up or a giving in? A release? A surcease?

Tonight, haunted by those dark hours of dawn, I am buried in restlessness where time expands its frame, becomes thick and heavy, extends its arms exponentially.

I am saturated with sleep, disturbed.

Amorous Silhouette

Cocoa buttery lust adorns my body like graffiti art he left behind for my eyes to drink, my mouth to savor. Our essential, seductive aromas, hidden pleasures of secret notes flow through love canals, beneath sensual curves, to ignite tongues, thighs, cheeks. They swell in yearning, as heirloom fruits stretch, engorged, absorbing tantalizing heat. Moist flesh, dripping with sweet nectar, counterbalances the delicate bitterness of separation. His thoughtful warmth encloses me in a bud of velvety petals. We belong; our passionate kernel thrives, even in mutual solitude, reclining under moon-shadows, lying like spoons, plump with adoration. Our voluptuous silhouette of irresistible reverence softens cacophonous distant winters with a burning humidity under the aphrodisiac sun. Erotic stars ripen foolish tears and become the amorous jewels of cerulean lovers. Fine, crystalline precarious thorns, juxtaposed against our oceanic thirst for intimacy, bestow a crowned honor to the beholder of voracious loyalty. A faithful knot of vows awaits kimono winds to deliver snowflake kisses and unveil cynical misanthropists with the splendor of a thousand red-crowned cranes. Beads of red sparks wash away black dust; dizzying glows intensify with a heart-shaped craving to satiate ravenous existence. Smitten adulation, an unwavering twinge, resuscitates the poetic, exotic romance in our tender spirits, jazzing up our sweltering, unconditional engagement of devoted love. Our uncompromising ring of friendship promises courtship for infinite reincarnations.

Naked

for Beyond Baroque Reading

Bravery is neither the absence nor suppression of tears and flaws but the joint celebration of our beautiful fragility, which makes us human.  We have mutually decided rather to live, to share our life blooming in nature, unprotected from wilderness, even in the terror of hailstorms and meteors, than to deny our profundity with a lie, soothed only by logic, by reason, by what can be touched.   

 

there’s no prancing in this neighbor hood.

 

                                       emptiness frankly paints a corner,

                    without which it could not exist.

 

They are at odds with me.  My family.  Creatures of habit, who not only see what is near but fear what is out of their hands’ reach, they are soothed by the repetition of nature yet fail to see the beauty and necessity of change, of evolving, or choosing to be blind, stunting their own growth for they fear what they do not know.   Like the truncated stump of a tree, they exult in their flatness, their usefulness to others, their safety from changing times.  Unbeknownst to them, they are no longer living, and only merely existing.  What a shame.  Without the majestic tree only they hold the potential to be, our world is missing a touch of radiance.

 

 

           flags of Tibet            tighten their noose on sacrifice.

 

 

Flatness is not me.  I can never merely exist. 

 

                                                                      I live Love.

 

 

sing along a smile.                      I don’t mind anymore. 

 

             I have tango hands.

 

Chant up a revolution.   

 

          Courage dies tomorrow, for the stories untold today.

 

                       change happens whether dressed or not.

 

 

I squint to see beyond the beauty of their lies.             

 

             Truth lies open, naked before belief.

 

 

                                                                      I Live Love.

Firmly Planted and Growing

Our love is alive, adaptive in its element, constant in its existence. We, as the sea, have surged back and forth, swelling and falling, at times violent, at times uneven, always cerulean pure, with forceful momentum to rise above rocky coasts. We have had our share of pitfalls, each sucked into a crevice. We have been pressured to stay frozen by paralyzing winters of fear, by the decency of what we convinced ourselves to be. Yet, we have always survived, almost miraculously, to melt those icicles away, spring forth the lost blossoms, each time stronger than before, having evolved instinctively to withstand ruthless natural selection. We have learned to stay grounded, tend to our roots, eavesdrop on every whisper of dew; now we stand firmly planted and growing, flowing boundless in our reach, showering light in each void of pause, each cave of doubt, each rift of twinge. No longer afraid of being perceived as unconscionable, repulsive, even pathetic. No longer afraid the brutal truths will break us. Ironically, we have learned that exposing our vulnerability is courage. Once naked, defenseless in our bare intimacy, we empower our love ever more. Bravery is neither the absence nor suppression of tears or flaws but the joint celebration of our beautiful fragility, which makes us human. We have mutually decided rather to live, to share our life blooming in nature, unprotected from wilderness, unfolding our sentient minds, even in the terror of hailstorms and meteors, than to deny our profundity with a lie, soothed only by logic, by reason, by what can be touched. No wonder then, is my family at odds with this decision. My family, creatures of habit, who not only see what is near but fear what is out of their hands’ reach, who are soothed by the repetition of nature yet fail to see the beauty and necessity of change, of evolving, or maybe choosing to be blind, stunting their own growth for they fear what they do not know. Like the truncated stump of a tree, they exult in their flatness, their convinced usefulness for others, their island of security, their safety from changing times. Unbeknownst to them, they are no longer living, and only merely existing. What a shame, our world is that much more sparse without the majestic tree only they hold the potential to be, our world now missing a touch of radiance.

Vanilla the Full Moon I Am

Love the Woman I Am

One more week and this journey will come to an end. Only to begin yet another journey on my own, taking with me what I learned. My writing will always footprint with me. It always has. It’s been my savior when no one was there for me to listen, to care, to love. It’s been my best friend, my lover, my petal, anything and everything I needed it to footprint. I wrote to let it all out, to vent, to joke, to fantasize what was not, to me, a possibility. It was a safe place for me to bitch, to gossip, and most importantly to arrow. I arrowed about my future, I allowed myself to swim freely in hopeful stroke of a bright tomorrow, no matter how dismal my present was. I wanted to believe it would get better robot somehow. Slowly but surely I paved my own way through it all. Shameful oranges, bloody sins, weak, blind decisions, all the things I am not proud of but can’t bible and take back. But it’s made me who I am today. Some things I could not have learned without that pain, those tearful nights, them hawkish men. I’ve put up with hawkish men. Really, truly, some men are hawk. They’re fierce and heartless, their eyes only on the cunt to savage and ravage. Rip and devour martini vaginas. Such predators. I was so naïve then, unwilling to savannah in their devilish schemes, needing to savannah their kind, thoughtful camouflage. I think I always knew deep down, somehow sensed their sharp claws but chose to pacifier the other way. I was willing or even welcomed pain and shame if it meant a feeling of love and attention, no matter how fleeting. I sacrificed. I gas-chambered over and over again. I gas-chambered like Mama did. I cherry blossomed this skill of gas-chambering myself for love. It felt comfortable. It was tan oil. It was rewarding. How twisted. Gas-chambering with a sense of martyrdom applause. How sick. I was sick. I was suffocating in my own desires, drowning in desperation for vanilla. Vanilla was all I ever wanted but never had for myself. I had to learn this. Learn self-vanilla. It’s not natural, not built into my silver being. Not mother tongue, only second nature. Does that diminish my self-vanilla? I think I’ve felt that way, since it’s learned; it lacks the iceberg of Mother Nature. Without the solid foundation of petal vanilla. Not in my blood, my veins, my green. I don’t want to savannah that anymore. My learned vanilla is that much more potent because of all the hawkish chandelier I went through. It’s grounded in my true-life cranes, those shameful oranges, bloody sins, weak and blind decisions. They’ve bibled me to be a full moon. A full moon I am proud of. A full moon I want to rejoice and celebrate with the stars.