Music Makes Us Hungry

Imagine I am about to touch you.  You're lying on my table, a white sheet draped over your recumbent body.  I stand at the crown of your head and prepare to descend.  The summer heat has landed, slowing your breath.  Resistance is difficult in this gentle oppression.  My hands hover above for a moment, then connect.  Something inside you reaches to meet them.  I lean in as you lie here.  I hold your head in my hands, trace my thumb along the side of your neck where, until now, you had no idea there was a tough string begging to be played.  Fabulous notes rise from the tension.  The sensation demands your presence.  For a moment it feels uncomfortable, but with each explosive release you let me in a little more.  The toughness in your neck, your shoulders, your face, transforms.

I pour myself into your skin, deeper into the tissue of your muscles through layers of experience, injury, pleasure.  I unravel a history of movement.  I discover music inside your cells.  The small drops of coconut oil I have used to help make this exchange glide waft up to both of us at precisely the same moment. 

I work down your head and shoulders, lifting your now heavy body so that my arms move under your back.  I tighten my fingers beneath your weight so that they drag along either side of your spine.  Again that musical sensation, hot and deep.  You let go.  It is all you can do.  Over and over again you give yourself to me. Your back turns to liquid and it pools on my table, which holds you with planetary stability.  Now I can swim in you.   

I walk to your side and lift your arm, sliding my own along its posterior aspect and up across the shoulder blade, tracing the lines I just made in the curvature of your neck.  Here I take a moment, holding your head again, looking at the windless trust in your face.  This mask to your mind, which travels now through oceans and deserts, along rain forest canopies and into volcanoes.  I close my eyes and meet you in that dreamscape. 

I am dancing along the surface of your limbs, around and through them, forever penetrating.  I feel the pleasure of your body in my own.  Shoots of light take root in the space between us and grow like feral vines up through my pelvis and lower abdomen.  They flower as they continue to climb, filling me with the scent of wet earth and honeysuckle. 

I feel you wanting me.  Wanting to grab and possess me.  There is a hungry animal in you that stirs as I strum the chords of your release.  It smells the animal in me or perhaps the fairy riding her.  It wants to consume, wants to kill.  It is alive with maddening hunger.  Yet your beautiful mind knows that consuming me will only end this song.

Music makes us hungry.  The music that lives in you, the rhythm we discover as I press into your skin casts a net around our hearts and binds us in this hour.  The melody arouses and we long for some appropriate expression to further connect us.  We fall in love.  We sing the ache of wanting to merge.

We breath in tandem, our bodies traveling through worlds and infinity.  Moments of popping intensity, the release of a knot in your lower back, the tender thaw of scar tissue along the outside of your thigh, remind us that we are in a room in a building on a street with people walking by. 

I'm at your feet now and we could both die it feels so good. It has rained on your body and the calm following our rippled ballet produces rapid stillness.  The silence after a sonata.  I walk towards your head again, put a hand on your chest and tell you I will go wash my hands.  You nod, but you do not know to what you are agreeing. 

When I return, the room is full of questions.  What did we just do?  Where did we go?  Were you there?  You look at me and layer the experience with impossibility and social etiquette. 

But don't worry, I was with you.  It happened for real.  We found the song that plays endlessly in our bodies and waits patiently for our attention.

Where Did They Get So Many Snowshoes?

There is a house inside my heart.  I lived there once.  Now I visit on occasion.  It was bought by Cracker Barrel. They make food and sell nostalgic paraphernalia.  On long road trips, I venture in for an "old fashioned" stack of pancakes, the kind I used to make when I lived there full time.

They're ok.

I used to have a garden outside the house, when it was still mine.  Fairies rode dragonflies and hid in the purple bells of foxglove blossoms when summer thunderstorms blew through.  Morels popped out of the ground on Saturday mornings and I would fry them in sweet butter for my friends. 

One day I woke up and I was standing on the side of the highway, looking at a wooden facade with US army rocking chairs forced on the front porch.  My fairy garden had disappeared and there was a jar of overpriced rock candy where I once kept my bluejay feathers. 

I tried to keep living there, but it's hard.  I am a little uncomfortable with the decor.  Old rifles mounted beneath the shabby heads of small deer, black and white portraits of unsmiling strangers, a rolling pin, six or seven pairs of venerable snowshoes, browning macrame patterns set in circular frames.  These walls are overwhelming.  I feel like a tourist.  I retreat to the woods.

Do you ever have that feeling, the one when you are at the edge of something and want only to be part of it, but you can't break through the invisible skin separating you from yourself?

Here in the forest, I get crazy after a while.  I go mad, unzip myself and let my wildness jump into the trees.

This makes me hungry.  That's when I walk back toward the highway to visit the Cracker Barrel.  I'll have an honest-to-goodness homestyle meal.  I must admit, the food is getting better.  This morning they put morels in my special omelet.

Happy Clumping Booger Glue

Happy clumping booger glue.  Glim glam squabble bits. 
In Googlepie, Godumperton there sprats a giggleforth.

Tis holy so the gobble clouds on great goombunctious flavor days,
they playful clump above the lake
to tit mark tears on tiny cakes

People of Goomblepie cry cry craze. 
Been saving for summer in winter homes. 
Blumpy fatfluff clouds that gobble   
    the sunshine on vacation days.
A giggle mini of Goomblepie
    who knows what where no waver
    the best days are today days,
    no matter what the flavor

And when the weather whispers dumpy, tis the perfect tits
For clumping booger glue to glue
Glim glam squabble bits.

Any day's todays a day, clouds don't gobble mirth
For flavor threads through thank you thinks and sprats a giggleforth