I will turn 52 in 30 minutes

I’m grateful to be celebrating my early 50s with smiles. I’m definitely going to Georgetown Cupcake tomorrow for my birthday cupcakes! Thank you for being loyal readers this year! Look for more posts and poetry!

with love,

Cherie Ann

lighted candles on cupcakes

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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.

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spread me open #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin

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not accustomed
to having someone ask me
such an open question
such a vulnerable question
such a way of opening oneself
to another
especially when I consider you
being who you are
being what you are
being how you are
being why you are
especially when I consider me
being who I am
being what I am
being how I am
being why I am
it was so unexpected
at that moment
given the setting
given what that setting meant to you
given what I had said in that setting
I wondered why you asked me
that question
I assumed you would have
anger at me
anger towards me
rage even
something
I’ve become accustomed
to seeing from a man
but, after almost a year
considering everything
considering the weight
of such a question
I would have to say
no, I am not angry at you
something entirely different
is what I feel about you
even as you continue
slowly
methodically
as you stare at me
to spread me open.

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residuals #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin

Maybe the imminent and overwhelming arrival of the lunar eclipse accorded some responsibility into Kathy’s bitter mood following the breakup of yet another short term lovership. She knew how to explain herself, her position, her sense of self, easily, as a writer, when she spoke before her students in the four classes she taught at the local community college. There were no subjects too taboo to discuss with her audience, who usually sat mesmerized or at least shocked, such as when she “performed” as resident poet at The Atomic Cafe, a run-down coffee joint run almost entirely from donations from locals, students, and permanent exiles from the savagery of city life and suburban jungles.

Burlington, Vermont was a haven for those young enough to transform isolation from New England cynicism into active and optimistic socio-political coalitions determined to see permanent social change; for those too embittered to still believe in or hope for much of anything other than a swift, peaceful death, Burlington served as a sort of thin shield, like fish scales, from the hostilities to which no place in America could be immune.

Kathy could not cut, however, through the thick partition that separated herself from her desires, the wall of silence that froze her tongue when she touched her last lover, who broke off with her in apparent bewilderment at her seeming lack of interest in him, his attempts at conversation, and most disturbing, his sexual needs. Kathy, as if intuitively, felt him withdraw from her presence, and silently wished him quickly gone, but not for the reasons he assumed. When she stood amid the studded and pierced women and men she noticed on the left covered with photos of poets who, like her, began and ended their careers standing and reciting in front of audiences like this one. She also noticed a vaguely familiar face staring at her.

At this sight, she suppressed an impulse to bolt from the room. Instead, she closed her eyes, and after a few uncomfortable moments of silence, began reciting from memory the first stanza from her latest poem. When Kathy’s mind began to generate the energy she needed to recite her poem, she began to forget that her body was actually standing in a grimy, worn storefront that was already filled with other writers eager to draw from the sexual energy emanating from the short, buxom woman with short brown dreads. Her low, gravely voice trembled as she, eyes closed, softly swaying, spoke to complete strangers her most intimate poetry.

When Kathy opened her eyes the first thing she saw was a tall man with a smooth complexion made even more apparent with his black turtleneck and slacks, his long dreds pulled back and somewhat controlled into a single plait. She saw his full lips slight curl with amusement, his brown eyes focused on her own large, black eyes with a curious but intent stare. For a moment she thought he was laughing at her. Then, as the audience began to field her with questions and suggestions, she lost focus on the tall dark stranger in the back of the room and continued her discussion.

Later, during the communal vegetarian dinner feast, Kathy saw him again, grazing on a steaming pile of black beans over brown rice. She waited until he swallowed whatever he was chewing, then sauntered over to his chair near one of the gray, frosted panes of the storefront. The combined effects of the dimmed lights and the dark shadows cast by the rich, black panels and jagged masonry covering the walls, floor, and ceiling left an impression on Kathy that she was walking through a cave, or perhaps, a dungeon.

The man’s eyes narrowed briefly, then widened again with that same irreverent humor that had earlier unnerved her. She noticed the crinkles framing his eyes, nose, and mouth, how his age seemed both ancient and young at once. He was older than she last remembered, but not by much. She turned on her heel and walked over to a small but familiar group of locals who greeted her warmly. When she turned her head back towards the chair, he was gone. She felt both sad and triumphant, wondering what on Goddess’s green earth was he doing in Vermont, of all places? The man reappeared suddenly, and sat back into the yellow chair, reclining comfortably. No one seemed to notice but Kathy, who walked over and whispered to him.

“How the hell did y-y-”

“How did I learn to teleport? Come on, Kathy. Is that all you have to say to me? Don’t you even want to ask me WHY am I here? How long?” He folded his hands together to emphasize the lack of physical weapons, metal or otherwise. He seemed genuinely puzzled at her stance towards his very presence, if not hurt.

“You seem to have a short memory, Jacque,” replied Kathy, her voice slowly rising. It seemed to come from a deep, bitter well. “As I recall, ten years ago you trashed our apartment and tried to destroy my manuscript because you thought I was writing about another lover? You were determined to break me, to destroy me if necessary, to own me. You knew I was a novice, yet you pushed me to the edge, again and again–”

“–And so you settled for quiet Vermont, only now you pine away for the unobtainable, and suck the energy dry out of these poor, dumb hicks who couldn’t tell a butt plug from a pacifier.”

“How did you find me? And what DO you want?” Might as well get to the point. Kathy wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to the last question. Jacque’s face crinkled at last with a genuine smile, pleased at her seemingly more relaxed stance. His brown eyes glittered like a wolf eyeing a doe’s soft underbelly. She noticed, for the first time, that white strands were beginning to salt down the his long black dredlocks. She also noticed that he had released them from the band that pulled his hair back earlier in the evening.

“I was wrong to allow my jealousy to surface so easily, and I was wrong to make you feel unsafe in any way. I had forgotten how easy it was to cross the line magickally—and the alcohol didn’t help. Anyway, enough bullshit, you want to know why I am here. I want to invite you to join the project out in Seattle, to sharpen your craft, so to speak, on the cutting edge of magic as performance art–”

“And you don’t have access to people who can do that out there? Why me?” quipped Kathy, noticing but not caring that when she interrupted Jacque, his eyes glittered with not a little irritation.

“–and I want us to start the circle over again–”

“As what? Master and servant? Husband and helpmate? Adam and Eve? Eden is lost to us both, love, and I don’t intend to search for it. I told you, I don’t want any part of that anymore.”
Jacque was visibly struggling to remain focused. Kathy wondered if all of him was really in Vermont. She wondered if he was still in Seattle, but silently decided not to ask. He looked tired, suddenly, as he looked up at her and spoke.

“Look, I didn’t come to bury the hatchet in your head. I want it to be better. I want to be your lover, your companion. I want us to back to high ritual again.” As he spoke, a sadness washed over Kathy as she watched him plead his case. The irony of his words being the very thing she dreaded and craved grieved her.

It was a cruel, cruel joke played on her by the divine, she thought bitterly. She wanted to believe him, to give herself to his looming, roaring energy. But he did not convince her of his change from the raging, jealous sadist who could never be satisfied to the apparition now sitting in front of her. Still, she admired his gall in the wake of the destruction he waged in her life.

She was so immersed in her thoughts that she had not noticed that Jacque was no longer speaking. She had no adequate response that would convey the confusion, the anger, the desire in her heart. So she sat in silence, watching the snow gather in the dusty windowsill outside. A car pulled into the driveway across the street, and two men, both dressed in ski jackets and earmuffs ran towards the side entrance of the dark wooden storefront, leaving their breath in the wake. When the car drove away, Jacque focused on her face, and studied her eyes for a moment.

“I apologize for my intrusiveness in your life. I will move on,” he said slowly. Kathy watched him as he began to shimmer.

“I didn’t say no to everything, Jacque.”

“And, so now, what am I to take as your answer?” choked Jacque. “Do you know how hard this was, traveling across the country, knowing what an ass I was to you, to beg you back into my life? I saw your book, Winter Garden, in a store downtown about six months ago. Was it all pain to you, Kathy? Was I merely an experiment for you? Or do you remember how I held you?“

“I have a life here, cold and lonely it has been for a long time now. But it’s the one I know that works for me, “ Kathy whispered fiercely. She stood completely still, breathing evenly.

“I know you, Jacque, and you know me. So we don’t have to pretend with each other. You know what I want.”

He blinked twice and for the first time, seemed genuinely confused. Kathy leaned down towards his face and smiled grimly. “You took so much energy from me that last time. You owe me, big time. You can start by teaching me how to teleport to Seattle right now. Then we can talk.”

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bed talk #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin

She remembered her latest conversation with her lover:
“I’ve been masturbating again.”
“When?”
“At night, right before I go to sleep. Your picture, I stare at it, think about your hands rubbing my belly.”
“Is that why you took those pictures of me, to masturbate?”
“No, actually I took them to remember you at a particular point in our relationship, when it was still fresh.”
“And so are you saying that our relationship isn’t so fresh anymore, as in sour? Or just me?”
“No, don’t be so literal. I mean, as in we-just-started-fucking fresh. Anyway, do you have a problem with it?”
“What?”
“Me masturbating.”
“No, why should I mind? It’s your body, and it’s not like I don’t do it myself–”
“You do it in the bathroom?”
“Where do you think I should do it?”
“In bed, like I do. And, anyway, the bathroom is too small, too cold. I guess it’s easier for you men to just unzip and stroke. I need to recline to get any pleasure out of it. How do women come standing up anyway? I love it when I see these ridiculous movie scenes like the one in Sliver, did you see it–”
“No, I’m not up on alot of movies.”
“Yeah, well, this is with Sharon Stone, the actress from Basic Instinct. They got her in the tub jacking off. I can tell you right now that’s total bullshit. It’s much better for women, the way I see it, anyway, in a nice warm and dry spot.”
“You are so unimaginative.”
“Yeah, well I guess I’m imaginative enough to keep you interested–”
“And enough to generate a fantasy around my picture.”
“Exactly! Would you like to hear one?”
“I want to hear about your dream.”
“The one about Erica Jong?”
“Yes.”
“I met her once, a few years ago, when I was living in D.C. She signed my book. I don’t think she likes black people.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She wasn’t too friendly to me. Actually, I think she was frightened of me. I mean, I was pretty fat then, and I looked kind of butch in my black gear, but I thought I looked chic. Guess not, after all.”
“Why do you always refer to yourself as fat?”
“Well, I’m not fat now, but I was then. Anyway, I discovered her at fifteen back home in Ohio in my town library. She made a profound impact on my life, on the way I viewed myself, my sexuality.”
“Were you fat then?”
“No.  When I was small I used to think my breasts were growing too much because I played with my nipples too much.”
“Even then a large sexual appetite.”
“Well not actualized, but I did have an expansive imagination from which to feed my fantasies. I think reading Erica Jong and Nancy Friday made me realize that other people did the same thing.”
“Who’s Nancy Friday?”
“She’s this writer from the 70s who put together a book of sexual fantasies by anonymous women. At the time it was pretty shocking to folk since for some reason they didn’t believe women fantasized or masturbated. I’ve been masturbating since four, myself.”
“My God! Weren’t you the precocious one.”
“You’d never know from the pictures of me as a kid. I looked like every other geek.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why, it’s true. I hated myself then. I was wearing glasses, thick ones that slid down my nose, my mother dressed me in these horrible clothes that overemphasized my ass, or else put me in old outdated clothes that made me look old. When I was fifteen people thought I was in my 30s. No one liked me, especially since they knew my parents wouldn’t let me go anywhere or do anything.”
“But you came out all right after all that.”
“And look how long it took. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate their wisdom in keeping me from falling into the traps alot of my classmates fell into. I discovered that a few years ago at my 10 year reunion. They were all married with kids, or with kids and working at really dreary awful jobs.”
“And that made you happy?”
“Well, I felt it to be poetic justice. They had their glory days in high school, while mine were yet to come.”
“And now?”
“Mine are yet to come.”
[Laughter]
“Don’t laugh, it’s true. I’m still waiting to grow up, to finish this goddamn book so I can get on with this business of adulthood.”
“Guess what, darling–you are already there.”
“Oh don’t tell me that. Please. I haven’t even begun to create my masterpiece that is to be my life.”
“Your grand entrance, so to speak?”
“As grand as the moment you ravished me in my own kitchen.”
“So tell me about this dream of yours.”
“Erica Jong?”
“Yes.”
“I think she represents someone else. Erica wasn’t sexy in this dream. She was old. Dried up. I think it was a symbolic dream, like I was being shown a way to communicate my own feelings of being outside, of seeing others as not so powerful, not so overwhelming.”
“And–”
“And it was like this–Erica was teaching at this industrial college, a branch of Smith College. I know, this is ridiculous. But anyway, I said to her ‘we all have a place here. all of us belong here no matter if we are Jewish, white, black, Hispanic, or Asian. She looked at me strangely, like I was telling her something in a foreign tongue. I felt like I got through to her, but that she didn’t like what I was saying. And that her time of glory was done. I got the sense that we were speaking on a creative plane.”
“And sexuality doesn’t reside there?”
“Yes, but on a slightly different level. I still want to know what brought you to my bedroom, my life, in the first place. And so what am I? A free range for you to play cowboy? explorer? conquerer?”
“Nothing close. A friend, a sexualized friend with a smart mind, and a smart mouth to boot. I could ask the same of you, especially now when you are dressed to provocate, so delicately erotic tonight. What am I to you?”
“A lover, a paramour, a friend…with a delightful tongue–”
“The better to taste you with–”

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language of fixation aka your gaze

I’ve thought about and pondered
how often you cum
all over your hairy lanky thighs
looking at and thinking about my ass
you love to stare at me
you squeeze my womanflesh
imagining a soft downy quim
you watching a woman walk
big round ass thighs
wearing tiny bikini panties
ass jiggling about
hardly or not contained in the thin fabric
ass cleavage riding revealing ass cheeks
painted bikini panties ass jiggle
not contained in wispy fabric
you flowing white milk on your hard thighs
you want to see those cheeks separating
revealing tight anal rosebud
and underneath
the softer wet rose petals
your thick veined hand
pushing me down
on my stomach spreadeagled
pulling me apart
how long would you just stare at me
do you want your cum
spraying all over yourself
or between my ass cheeks
or inside my ass
or inside my pussy
tell me what you think is happening
does it make you angry
seeing your body language
overprocessed
forced to focus
questioning the whole thing
there are no buts but butts
your language
rewired rebooted rebuttal
forced to focus again and again
requestioning
what does it mean to see your language
remastered remixed
are you capable of seeing yourself
as I see you
going down this path
between my ass cheeks
searching for a way inside
freeing yourself
you are moving
this is real
you know my body
you know my soul
you know the truth
of sliding up behind me
grinding yourself up against my ass
you know what you are going to do
no need to stop
love you feeling me
you moving
sliding up behind me
grinding yourself up against my ass
no need to stop
more than watching
more than admiring
miniskirts and fleshy thighs
you have to feel that reality
walk inside
I am waiting.

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your walk

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dreamed of you
walking through rock creek park
your legs
sliding through leaves
like a violin
squeezing air
through thin walls
through thin wired
your voice whistles
sweet and salty
with every
breath blowing
boundless bends
black blood agonies
as you climb hills
watching you
drink your own sweat
like sweet honey wine

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