A Saturday Groove While I Work

I’ll be updating this songlist, but take a peek while I do some errands. I’ve got tracks 4-10 on repeat, especially 647.  I’ve got some new erotic poetry to post.  Soon.

Advertisements

story of between

hearts gathering waves
of past markers like photos
we walking parallel
towards the here and now
of between
as we walked
among soldiers of freedom
lifting our voices
from silent tears
to forever paths
heartbeats
from meeting each other
and this is how
you knew me
i knew you
long before meeting
where the between
of here and now
recognizes
repetition in our histories
of motion
of emotion
where the between
syncs and links
manifesting that moment
where we meet
in the here and now.

to you as well thanks as well to you thanks well to as you thanks

pleasure all mine
pleasure all yours
all my pleasure
all your pleasure
my all pleasure
your all pleasure
pleasure my all
pleasure your all
mine all pleasure
your all pleasure
mine pleasure all
your pleasure all
my pleasure all
your pleasure all
pleasure all my
pleasure all your
pleasure
mine
my
your
all

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

Conjure Real

what is the difference
or separation
between meaning in
conjure and language?

where does the relationship
to each other manifest?

can the carnality of
a desire be conjured
through language?

what is missing?
what word
completes
calls forth
beingness?

Reborn

blue and white planet display

Spring gave birth to the horror of sight in us all
and I never believed until now that I could and would live to see myself
so utterly shorn of slick shells
forced to face the real me
all walls come tumbling down for all to see hear touch
even pollen can burn flesh so raw and new
I journeyed to the core of the sun to understand
why we must continue to plow and sow even as we trample our own gardens
I did not know that I myself was a seed to be sown and reaped
and like all seeds the hard shell must swell and burst
so that I would shed blood and tears as I rose from the moist black earth
all walls come tumbling down as Yeshua and Chango in a tipsy brass duet
hold court with Oya
and I see Her funnel clouds reach down and bore into my chest.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

Invocation to Oya

eye of the storm image from outer space

The leaves rustle and bristle in the howl of the breeze
the husky voice of Oya caressing me in the full darkness of night
no one is really watching me and no one is around
her windy aura surrounds and fills me
thundering and sifting through my aura of guilt
She promises me many of my secret desires
including that which I dare not name
She twirls thought the air and disappears
I am alone in the rapture
alone in myself to claim what I know to be mine
and mine I keep to myself
He sweet breath is till with me
brushing through me up my skirts
as I suddenly become tipsy
and like a Sibyl I now know the ahead
but the moment I hold now twists from my reach
I try grasping at the slippery handles to remember.

I remember you, the child of Windy Oya, your eyes always cast upward
your arms reaching for her naector in expectation
your body in rhythm with Hers
Ah, but Oya never leaves her child to twist alone
and she dances with you, teaching you her steps forward so that you remember
to not forget how to change
change like Mother Wind!
rush forward now, rush back!
spin like a hurricane, your arms outstretched beyond
hurling yourself from the cliff
knowing the Mother will carry you into moist valleys
caressing your soft brown locks as she steps wide
through blood red clay and evergreen leaves towards the sea
rocking you still when you cry our in pain
She only asks that you reach out to her
her husky voice rumbling in your ears in gusts and gales
her bright as night eyes warming you when you shiver alone
She knows when your heart quickens–
now spin and change as you will!

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

Northern Gothic (part one) #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin

 

Willimantic is a small blip of a town between New York City and Boston. It used to be called Heroin Town.

Considering the fact that most of the textile factories and thread factories shut down in the 70s and moved down South (as in Central America, since even Southerners were insisting on union wages), and considering the larger fact that Connecticut was no longer home to the big insurance companies, you would not be surprised at the condition of Willimantic by the late 90s.

Once a sprawling, working class community with huge Victorian homes, ancient buildings and bustling businesses on Main Street, along with a steady influx of French Canadians, Puerto Ricans, and Irish-Americans, many houses now stood empty, became occupied by UConn students, or became drug havens for heroin junkies, and many of the businesses either went bust or else moved to the strip mall down on I-195. It was said that the mall, a venture put forward as a generator of new jobs during the recession in the late 80s, had actually killed what was left of downtown life. Here and there a few storefronts attempted to breathe life, and actually did survive, albeit piecemeal. Two restaurants actually maintained good business, drawing in the yuppies who lived on the outskirts of Willimantic or from Mansfield, near the state university set in the midst of cow pasture. But it was nothing like what it was. Such was the state of economics in Southern New England.

And what of the lost souls who wandered up and down the street, search for the last hit, the new high that would surely take them from the everyday misery of the memories lucking behind the empty theater across from cracked, crumbling Hooker hotel (actually J. C. Hooker, who never imagined himself being known as a swatter’s haven, a hooker’s hotel?)? Or the greasy spoon still serving cholesterol to truckers traveling through from Providence to Hartford, to New York, to beyond?

Nestled in the midst of this slow death was a fledgling cafe, once a fledgling bookstore specializing in feminist studies and other such subversive material. The ghosts of the bustling city lived in the alley between the cafe and Greenleaf lamp shop, and through their descendants who, not imagining any other place to live, continued to shop and eat on Main Street, continuing to take their children downtown, choosing the desolate scenery over the larger yet still desolate city of Hartford. Or the students from either Eastern State or Connect State looking for cheap rent and privacy from the desperation of campus life.

Such was the woman who stepped out of the back of the building where the vegetarian cafe was located. As she walked down the narrow pathway she tried not to notice the ever watching eyes behind the windows in the slum apartments to the left of her, the barely painted exterior of the back of the next building that did not look like an apartment building from the front, but just another office building. She had not been surprised at its decrepit sate when she was first shown the apartment in the building next door, nor was she particularly afraid of the young men who occasionally wandered out to fix their rusty cars.

She was cautious, silent, hoping that their stares were more of caution than of interest. Two years were gone, and yet no act of revenge, no smell of sulfur, no evidence of a hex. Yet.

For the last three years she was living with her head ready to turn at a second’s notice to look back, to the side, looking for the change in temperature, the spirit that she knew to be lurking somewhere, for the face of the man who drove the energy towards her, who she knew to be motivated only for one purpose: to drive her up to and beyond the limits of her sanity.

She looked around the parking lot to see if the red 1987 Subaru station was still sitting in the parking lot before unlocking her car and settling into her driver’s seat. Looking in the rearview mirror, she saw herself and grimaced at her already melting hair in the evening humidity of late summer heat.

The moon already lurked in the shadowy sky, but it would be late in the night before the cool night air would give relief from the July sun. She softly touched her face, noticing how her coffee brown skin seemed to glow in the rays of moonlight. Seemingly pleased with herself, she started the engine of her gray 1988 Chevy Nova and sauntered out the parking lot. The adjacent parking lot was nearly empty, save for a stray taxi, and two police cars which were each occupied with white male officers. They seemed engrossed in deep conversation. The road seemed to carry the gray Chevy towards the stop sign.

She watched a thin woman entering the small gym the right of the intersection, and felt a slight sensation of guilt. As in response, the thin woman flipped her hair and turned to look her. The gray car zoomed across the intersection and up the hill, rushing pass the overhanging trees and looming Victorian houses, threading through the narrow streets and parked cars. She kept her eyes on oncoming cars at several intersections, expecting some fool to ignore the stop signs she crossed, as if an accident was tomorrow’s promise. When she reached the Route 6 highway she began to relax, settling into the monotony of highways connecting to highways, connecting and collecting cities.

Her eyes never the left the road, but her mind swayed back and forth from the road to her apartment in Willimantic, to the bedroom where she knew her lover was waiting, her moment to raise energy she needed to do battle, to focus on the inner shrine she built in her belly, the womb where she wished to fill with more than sperm. All of this she would try to spill forth to her spirit guide in Glastonbury in an elaborate ritual that could help cast out for the good of many the enemy now pursuing her destruction.

“Will he cure you?” asked her lover, as they later lay entwined, their love juices still pouring from their bodies. “No,” she answered, “but he will help me break down the walls that protect him and allow him to continue to work against me unchallenged.”

And so soon she shot off onto I-384 to Glastonbury in her tony car, where her elf-like spirit guide sat waiting for her arrival.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.