she
She will
hide in
silence,
Then her
day will come
Glenn Danzig
She wakes me, tempts me out of
bed with Her voice, Her promise, Her encouragement. A veiled world
evolves outside, tremulous and grey, threatening to others, but teeming
with possibility for me. The chickadees chatter away, full voices
filling the air, the crystal air of this lovely winter morning. And Her
voice, it fills me, the gravity of Her cerulean eyes, they allow me to
rise against myself. Yielding yet strong, fluid yet indomitable, the
ocean letters conquer the sky, shielding all from shattering light.
Soft hands, blushed lips, and an emanating energy, and, yes, she pulls
me out of bed. The sinuous, swirling songs of the thrushes commingles
with the chatters of the chickadees and Her voice, forming a complete
album, a complete record of morning. Together, we rise, and we sway, we
sway to the light, cheery beat of the thrushes and chickadees.
She, emerald eyes, naked, creamy skin,
like velvet, glowing buttercup tresses, the lacy moss swaying from the
sagacious oaks, sine curve of ass, of back, of strawberry-tipped tits
and cherry-tipped cheeks, the celestial energy of the waving sky made
flesh, made warm, made serene, made poignant. Those sparkling eyes,
they soar into my soul, flaking off all the fucking dirty old concrete
ice and frozen asphalt and ashen soda that coats it, that weighs it
down, that smothers it. Actualization of millions and millions of
years, epochs and eons, flowing through those everlasting eyes, those
cleansing eyes, to bare my soul and save me and let me feel, let the
energy so buried under the lizard layers of dead skin, a confining
carapace, free.
She comes to me. Flowing almond hair,
freckles peppering tanned cheeks, auburn eyes deep like depthless
canyons, a silvered aura surrounding Her. An old cabin, all wood, hewed
faded wood timbers for walls and ceiling, open window with glass long
gone, and it rages outside in a glinting summery thunderstorm sweep and
swoon and gale. Kissing rhythmically, back and forth, smiling, acorn
freckles peppered randomly on smooth tan belly. She laughs, at ease, in
the old cabin's room, a short song sweet and lusty. Her arm, peppered
with freckles, stretched out, hand on my arm, slowly, rhythmically,
caressing, backward, forward. Freckled thighs leading to almond hair,
to freckles on Her neck, leading me up, up, up into those auburn eyes,
and I drown.
She, Andalusian skin, flowing raven
hair, mole on cheek. Clothed in amber, cotton, tan, faded denim, dusty,
gilded feet. Younger than me, for sure, but not by much, and yet
somehow ageless. And yes, She’s shapely, sinuous. Only the mystical
mixed-coniferous forest, She, and I, in the silent air and soft light
of a perfectly still autumn day, and a weekday, too. Peculiar.
Intimates that She follows a rhythm different from that of the
mainstream crowd, most of whom are likely confined by some fucking
retail store or some monotone office. For an enveloping instance, I
lock into her black eyes, the energy flows, and I realize She is
everything, She is the fusion of quantum mechanics, relativity, and the
unknown bridges that unite those realities through time, through space,
intimated by an intuition that reaches back beyond the Cambrian and
stretches out into a future unbounded.