fertile rite

moon
drawn down
you squeeze
you pull
you draw
thick blood running
rivers between my thighs
you rub my uterus raw

red moon during night time

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shimmered behind me

up and blinking
like a startled fairy
struck by sun rays
driven from shade
i turned
your palms slick and shiny
brushed against my wings

Delivery

the other question
you never asked
but you did ask
i was not ready
to answer
because i was not sure
you wanted to see it
answered
the other question
you never asked
yet hanging over me
a bit too intimate
to be spoken
much less written
but here it is now
for me to say to you
as you read these lines
while pretending to not see
anything else i write
out of a need for anonymity
like a discreet folder
or an envelope under a door
i am ready to answer
i am opening that door
i am drawing you closer
i am accepting you inside
i am saying yes to you.

unpredictable

beyond expectations
like thunder after lightning
like carpets of fire following lava
logic of energy released
love manifests
so untrackable
so unpredictable
so unstoppable
so unending
like storms
like eruptions

Poems are like a box of clothes never worn from your brain

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I think my brain treats my poetry writing sessions as an exercise in unpacking boxes from the attic and every once in a while finding a good classic cookbook, or a lovely set of dishes never used. Or a dress worn just once and it still fits. Or even an old, raunchy paperback novel, like The Story of O.

I think I had once of these month long sessions of unpacking some really raunchy novels, and given what I just dreamed last night, I think that analogy fits like a ball gag. Someone asked me about teaching The Story of O by Pauline Reage, a work that should not be taught without matching it with the French Feminisms anthology that tears it to pieces. I pretty much view Reage, du Sade, and other erotic writers of the 18th through the latter 20th century attempting to expel the Church’s repression of sexuality—but not the misogyny that came along with the repression. How is it in the 21st century we are still dealing with repression, misogyny, and fear of female desire?

I did not dream of finding wedding dresses in my closet. I have many more stories and poems to unpack and put on a table to shine or toss. Some of them sound like fragments from a raunchy novel. It’s my way of getting my brain out of writers block as I finish my other writing gig for a deadline later this month. I wouldn’t say it’s better than sex, but given the level of frustration that summer brings me (it’s warm, so I exercise and that definitely gets me aroused), writing about these things helps chase away writers block and depression over my summer blues over my lack of companionship. Love and lust really do matter for us writers—at least for me it does. And vibrators don’t inspire 5000 word chapters. Or epic poems.

Enjoy your morning commute.

thinking of your cock right now

Sunday rain
coffee and buns
reading news
waiting for Sun.