| western watershed romance |
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It's a glazed gloppy morning of
springtime lust,
it's honey-gold and thick, sappy and overflowing with a viscous,
oleaginous sexual breaching of blooming life. The warm weather is
inviting, but the feel of springtime's apex is just not resonant with
my inner workings - autumn, which is showered in light similar to
spring, holds so much more sway over my soul. Autumn's sun doesn't
illuminate a bunch of fucking sex-crazed plants, animals, and dipshit
media-drone humans bursting in eye-shattering, over-the-top displays of
bright vulgar colors, but it marks a culmination, a completion of life,
the beginning of Nature's introspective calm before winter's wrath, the
complimentary shades of browns, oranges, yellows, and reds glowing in a
coherent, calming, contented light. Paraphrased: spring is the season
for hollow, obnoxious displays of virility and sexuality, while autumn
is the season that yields quiet insight and a soft, rich, enveloping
sensuality. Spring is for the
fuck-as-many-as-you-can-and-mark-'em-on-your-headboard mentality, while
autumn's the theater for the blaze ignited by the tight, smooth
junction and cadence of skin on skin. Spring's just a cheap fucking
fling, while autumn is the fuck of a lifetime.
It's days like this, these,
when my
heart's only desire is to lay on the soft carpet, washed in the bath of
evening's young summer sun spilling through my window's screen, an
unseasonably prickly coolness from outside air creeping into my abode,
both fought and loved by the splash of booze that soothes and smoothes
and matches the day's fading light. The silky, lusty, sultry and tawdry
tones of Trailer Bride emanate from the speakers and mesh and swirl
with the robin's songs and the hummingbird's twitters to form a
complete aural theater for this, for us. And you - bare skin against my
own, heat, dripping, soft and sweet and gliding and flying, completes
the fusion between non-human and human life, integrates this existence
from simple atoms to sixth-sense feeling, actualization. This setting,
with you, in the glowing ruby light of this June's evening, we exist on
a totally different plane, plain, that's all our own.
Hot and rumbling, trembling and thundering, sweaty, white, seams and
curves, all framed in pink and black, blushing pink and black, an
aphrodisiac, so fucking consuming and ensconcing and enrapturing, and,
because of that, so fucking completely debilitating.
August threshold signified by the blushed and jaded withering leaves. A
stone stillness in the hot, heavy air - stillness, silence, a ghostly
silence, but ghosts and phantoms of warmth and love and comfort. The
shimmering sunset when all is bathed in a glistening glow, as if all is
naked, clothes burned off by mid-summer's chafing heat, all exposed and
open for autumn to sweep all up in her contemplative, intimate eyes.
You're naked, too, on the field, also warm, yielding, open, alive,
close and buttery and smooth and sweet and the apex, the actualization,
of late summer's purity. I love you.
Terracotta tiles, copper light
flowing
through stately redwoods and velvet firs, a gentle evening ocean-born
breeze, us, together, one, on iron chairs in the dying summer's waning
sunlight warmth. No self-consciousness, no brazen artificial lights,
just complete resonance, just pure connection, where and when the words
flow effortlessly, the energy flows effortlessly, time halts, and life
transcends mundane daily ritual and routine. The context, you, me, all
meld as one harmonious whole, this space-time actualization of
potential, and we rise above, touching immortality.
Dreamy semblance of ancient
times past,
this autumn, the colors and sensations that ebb and flow in its
feathery wake. I drift through the autumn, dissociated, isolated in a
rarefied chamber of mind where intellect and reason don't penetrate,
just feeling, and a feeling so strange that I exist a world apart. In
the calm, glass expanse of the Delta. In the ruddy, soft tones of a
North Coast Range braided riparian forest. On old, tar-striped asphalt
rural roads, bordered by tawny agricultural fields tended by the
occasional lone human somehow swinging a tractor so, so softly. Deep
tendrils from the past wedded to this season find actualization in the
blurring of worlds I find myself straddling today, an inchoate world
without delineation by logic, impressions that somehow seep around
cognition to embed in the subconscious netherworld of the reptile and
old-mammal brains of mind.
She's gone was the message.