Today, two poems about dogs...


DOG & HORSE

There is this spot
alongside the road

where a black and white dog
lies in the gravel,

his shaggy coat dulled
by dust and fumes.

At first, zooming by,
I thought he’d been hit,

but then I began to see him
every morning there,

sprawled near the gate
where an old horse stands,

sometimes hanging his head
down near the dog.

They are like two old men
on a porch, sitting with coffee

in companionable silence,
watching the traffic go by.

Sometimes I do not see the horse.
"The dog must be lonely," I think,

waiting for his friend,
uncomfortably close to the roadway.

##


RIPLEY

I had a dog
who patiently saw me through
two husbands
and the birth of a child.

When the first marriage dissolved,
leaving a wake of disaster,
I pressed my face into his fur
and cried; the dog and I suddenly alone.

Many years later,
he was run over,
by a driver speeding through our small town,
and drooped against the vet’s steel table.

Tire tracks visible across his yellow side,
he raised his head
and looked at me as if to say,
"Now, I understand."

##

this in answer to an assignment to write about "How to Make Love to Me"...

MY USER’S MANUAL

If we come together with the intent to make love
and everything goes well,
somebody’s going to get off.

It may be one of us,
it will probably be both of us,
but somebody’s going to get off.

How it will happen
becomes a matter of combining
and recombining the puzzle pieces,
fitting edges
until they click into place:
rubbing, licking, sucking,
vibrating, kissing, spanking, pinching;
with fingers, tongues, fists, and feet,
thighs, breasts, and asses;
water, oil, and ice.

Somebody’s going to get off.

A few times, if we’re lucky.

But the part you’ll need to know
comes earlier.
Because for me,
this is how it must begin:
A slow build-up,
anticipating delayed gratification.

But you may never know it’s happening,
I’m such a lousy flirt.

Can you cast aside my cool look?
Help me reach beyond it?
Your confidence will heat me up.
Tell me your intentions.
Hold my gaze
and don’t let me look away.

Then talk to me:
Ask me what I need
and what I want.
Ask me what scares me
and what turns me on.
Tell me what you need,
what you want.
And take me to the places that scare you
and turn you on.

Show me.

Know where the man and the woman in you live
and how to call them out.
Understand power and how to use it —
both yours and mine.
Realize that holding my wrists firmly
and allowing me to struggle against you
may say more
than ritualistic ropes and knots.

Surrender.

Then, love my body,
knowing that I often don’t.
Respect my marks and scars and how
my experiences have made me who I am.
Invite me to your very center.
And hold me for the moment
when our skin dissolves
and we can feel our hearts touch.

Breathing.

When we’re done,
understand I wouldn’t lay down with you
if I didn’t care.
This was my choice,
to be your lover.
But it doesn’t mean
I want to be your mother,
your girlfriend,
or your wife.
Still, we can be kind,
and we can do this again.

And again.

So, really,
it’s not that big a job
making love to me.
Begin early and use your brain,
your heart,
your humor,
your soul.
And, if we start right now,
we might be done
when the sun comes up.

##


__________________________________________________

THE QUESTION

How many times
are our eyes
going to meet,
drawing each other in,
while I churn inside,
feeling my guts dropping,
as I picture myself
holding your face
in my hands,
kissing you
until
you finally understand?


__________________________________________

ON THE RIVER

Oh to be on the river
paddling
when the rain starts to fall,
breaking the surface tension
and turning the water
milky
and grey.

A million hollow notes
sounding as water
hits water,
drowning out
the distant hum
of the road
that follows the waterway.

Just the occasional bird cry
breaking through —
an osprey dipping and diving,
undeterred
by the sudden change
of weather,
his fortune tied to a fish.

And when the sun returns
as quickly as it left
and a ragged mist is layered
between water and air,
I realize it’s true:
You can’t dip your paddle
in the same river twice.

##


____________________________________

WEDNESDAY NIGHTS AT THE BLACK CAT

Late on Wednesdays we meet,
after the music,
ignoring the news of the day,
to talk about everything else:

Carnivorous plants
good tequila, bad lesbian poetry
and psychogenic thirst.

Of mice and men,
Bjork,
and cabbages and kings.

"Battlements," I hear you say.
"Crenellation?" I ask.
"Ani DiFranco," Jen answers — again.

And then the eight ball wanders
into the wrong pocket
and we start all over.

##
________________________________________

HOMELAND SECURITY

I’m avoiding the radio news,
concentrating on music,
watching the road
curve out before me.

"Rock me, Goddess,"
Dave Carter sings,
"In the gentle arms of Eden."

"Here it is," I think.
"My home."

The recent rains
have greened the hills:
spring green,
Anahata green,
the green of Oz.
Wild irises dance by the road.

And I look at the bay,
stretched out before me,
sparkling in the light of a March morning,
and I think —
"What if all this were gone tomorrow?"

This is the only piece of ground
I’ve ever really known.

What if the machines
and munitions of men
changed the borders of my bay?

If their chemicals
stripped the green from my hills?

And on this day,
seemingly perfect,
and separate from any other,
my blood is a little colder
as I think of those who will wake tomorrow
without their place.


Yet I know,
I must embrace this landscape,
and then extend it to those
who might do it harm —
loving those who would level it,
as much as those who would defend it.

Faced with my own glorious view,
unconditional love
remains the challenge.

###

_______________________________________

BREATHLESS

I looked into my glass, swirling my ice cubes. The music continued around me, one song blending seamlessly into another.

About a year ago, a local lesbian group began promoting these monthly "Dyke Dance" nights at a club in a town nearby. The first hour of every evening is a dance lesson in a featured style, usually swing, foxtrot, waltz, or salsa -- that kind of thing. Part of the fun of the evening is seeing all the butches and femmes dressed in their dance best, interacting. And naturally, all the butches are there to learn to lead.

I smoothed my rayon skirt over my knees. That night, I was dressed in a 1940’s style dress covered in a cherry pattern. Red ankle-strap shoes and matching lipstick completed the outfit.

"May I?" A hand was gallantly extended to me.

"Oh, Charl, I’d be delighted." I took her hand and followed her to the dance floor. I just love the mock formality of the dance environment.

Charl and I have known each other for years. She’s tall and handsome and a great dancer. A vineyard manager by day, she’s usually seen kicking around in boots and jeans. She knows how to dress to dance, though, and that night she was dressed in a black suit with a white silk shirt. Her short, wavy hair glistened with pomade. Freshly polished black wingtips gleamed on her feet.

Even in heels, I don’t come close to matching her muscular 5’10" frame.

Charl took my right hand in her left and gently turned me to face her, her right hand pressed to the small of my back. We began a smooth foxtrot, stepping and turning around the floor. She led expertly, using the slightest pressure of her hands to guide me. Sometimes I have to strain to remember my junior high school ballroom dancing lessons. I can still hear the teacher counting in my head. But it comes effortlessly to Charl and when I’m dancing with her I never have to struggle to keep up. She makes me feel like Ginger Rogers. She led me through a series of tight turns, making the full skirt of my dress swirl around our legs, and dipped me for the big finish, her strong arms giving me confidence.

"Thank you, honey." She led me back to my table and kissed me lightly on my cheek. "Always a pleasure."

Looking around, I noticed that Cathy had arrived late and was leaning against the bar, nursing a beer. If Charl is Fred Astaire, the gentleman butch of the dance floor, then Cathy is James Dean. It’s not that she can’t dance, because she can. It’s just that she rarely unleashes her talent. I’ve seen so many pretty femme women compete for her attention on dance night, but she rarely favors them with a dance, preferring to slump back in her freshly pressed jeans and white button-down shirt, black leather jacket hung on her shoulder, watching the couples moving around the room. She favored me with a dance once, and I know from experience that she smells like Old Spice and tobacco. Her body is hard and lean. Her arms and hands stringy and tan from hours spent on her motorcycle.

The DJ began to pick up the pace with a swing number. There was a flurry of activity as women scrambled to find a favorite partner. Charl came striding across the floor with a gleam in her eye. At first I thought she was heading for me, but she passed me and continued to the bar. I watched her in curiosity. Charl is never one to sit out a dance.

She and Cathy embraced at the bar, clapping each other on the back. I saw Charl whisper something in Cathy’s ear. Cathy shook her brush-cut head "no". Charl whispered again and Cathy shrugged her shoulders. She downed the last of her beer, hung her jacket over a chair, and followed Charl to the dance floor. A second swing number was just beginning.

The two of them attracted plenty of curious attention: Charl in her wingtips, Cathy in her motorcycle boots.

They jockeyed a moment for the lead, both extending their left hands. I saw Cathy again shake her head. Finally they faced each other and joined hands evenly, their feet beginning the rythmic "touch, touch, backstep" of the swing. They eyed each other with the cautious, unsmiling gaze of flamenco dancers, eyes narrowed. As the tempo increased, they began an in and out step, arms extended to the side. Finally, they broke hands and stepped back, dancing free for the moment.

The other couples eyed them cautiously, sensing a new tension on the dance floor. Instinctively, they moved towards the edges, giving the two women space.

Suddenly Cathy reached out with her left hand, grabbing Charl’s right and turned her quickly under her arm, swinging her out and back with a snap. Again Charl flew out and this time they passed each other as Cathy changed hands behind her back. Back, they extended to arm’s length and then spun, arms around each other’s waists, sweeping a circle onto the dance floor. And when they stopped spinning, stepping into a simple "push break," they had switched places and Charl had ahold of Cathy’s right hand.

I stood to watch. Many of the couples had stopped dancing altogether, and clustered at the end of the dance floor.

It had become a dancing duel, as these two magnificent butch women struggled to outdo each other on the dance floor, each waiting in turn to seize the lead. I could see the shine on Charl’s forehead. Cathy’s shoulder’s shrugged forward and her hips slinked with the snaky moves of a Reno cowboy, as she frowned in concentration.

Together they whipped and spun around the dance floor. Finally, as the music rose to a crescendo, Cathy reached for Charl, intending to dip her. Charl sensed her move and side-stepped her neatly, and in a move borrowed more than Bruce Lee than Fred and Ginger, tripped Cathy from behind, dropping her neatly over her knee for the finale, her right fist raised in victory.

The two women rose, breathless, to applause. They looked at each other sheepishly and began to laugh.

"Let me buy you a beer," Charl said, leading Cathy back to the bar.

I returned to my table and finished my drink.

I was just as breathless as they were.

##
-----------------------------------------------------

IN YOUR COMPANY

In your company,
my pulse
slows.

Time lessens
her grip
on me.

I can sit.
Oh, so
quietly.

And in a world
where
everything

is engineered
to quicken
and push —

to amuse,
amaze,
and terrorize —

do you know
how remarkable
this is?

##
---------------------------------------------------

TANGERINE

I rolled you between my palms,
softening your skin
and breaking down your resistance.

My thumb pressed into you
and I knew you would yield.

So I continued,
pulling back your skin,
exposing your core.

When you fell to pieces in my hands,
each part dry and velvety.

But when I took you to my mouth,
you exploded,
and juice ran down my chin.

##
__________________________________________

CASSOIPEIA

The deer’s eyes glow milky in my headlights
and I shift to the center,
following the white line.

I don’t worry about traffic here
in the small, small hours of the day.
We’re taking a back road home.

There’s just us, in our cars,
flying through the night
and the white flash of a barn owl
under a moonless sky.

We stop and park by the road
to look at the stars
and listen to the frogs,
talking among themselves.

"There’s Cassiopeia," you say,
tracing a W in the night.
"She pissed off Poseidon
and now hangs in the sky."

And at that moment I realize,
my familiar road has taken a turn
and now we’re sailing together, through the ether.

"Third star on the right," I say.
"Straight on ‘til morning."

##
____________________________________________________________

CHOCOLATE FONDUE

I was at home, practicing yoga in my living room, when there was a knock at the door.

I was stretched out in Downward Dog, concentrating on raising my pelvis and sliding my shoulder blades down my back, so I didn’t immediately jump to answer it.

There was another knock.

I dropped to my knees and stretched my back in Child’s Pose.

"Coming," I said loudly, although it was a little muffled by the mat.

Another insistent knock.

I opened the door to find a small child, dressed like cupid, and holding a white box, tied with ribbon. He bowed seriously and held the box out to me.

"For your Valentine’s pleasure," he said, in a practiced voice.

"Who sent you?" I asked, as I took the box.

He shrugged.

"Here, let me get you something for your trouble." I rummaged in my wallet and came up with two dollars. I held them out to him. "Who sent you?" I asked again.

"Kim," he said, giggling, and ran off down the hall.

Inside I set the box on my coffee table. I carefully pulled the satin ribbon and found the box was packed with red rose petals. I poked my finger into them, but could feel nothing. In the kitchen I grabbed a glass mixing bowl and poured the rose petals into it. Immediately my apartment filled with the scent of roses… roses and something else… I sniffed the petals and the lid of the box. Vanilla. The scent of your perfume. (You think of every detail, don’t you?)

In the bottom of the box was a tiny, white envelope. Inside was a hand-lettered card. In gold ink, it read: "Please join me this evening at 8 p.m. at my home. I am making chocolate fondue in your honor." The card was dated 2/14/2003, and signed "K.". There was a chocolate fingerprint next to your signature.

After the sun had set, I took a long, hot bath, taking care to scrub the rough parts of my body and condition my hair. I pulled my special occasion black silk boxers out of my dresser and put them on. Finally, I dressed in my best-fitting jeans – just a little worn in the right places – and the black tuxedo shirt I know you find especially fetching. The shirt is a little thin, and I wasn’t wearing a bra, but then we weren’t planning on going out. I added a black leather concha belt with turquoise accents and I shined my black Tony Lama boots before pulling them on over red and white heart-print socks.

Finally, I threw on my leather jacket and gathered up the flowers I’d bought for you. The paper bundle in my arms made me feel like Miss America, but only for a moment. I knew your eyes would light up at the sight of three-dozen long-stemmed apricot tulips — the exact kind you love — special ordered out of season and ridiculously expensive – the sort of flowers that would let you know I had planned thoughtfully and weeks in advance. Hey, that’s the kind of girl I am.

I felt a little flutter at your door — like a high school kid on a date. I rang the bell and fidgeted, pulling down the back of my jacket and smoothing my hair.

When you opened the door, you took my breath away — as you have done so many times, but more so.

Your hair was shining and hanging loose around your face. You were barefoot on the Oriental carpet, each toenail shining red and perfect. Your dress just knocked me out. A deep chocolate brown, it was made of that wonderful Victorian stuff that is velvet in places and see-through in others. Thin straps bared your shoulders. The bodice clung to you and the skirt swirled around your legs.

You were delighted with the tulips and kissed me gratefully, drawing me into the house.

"I thought we’d eat upstairs," you said. And as I followed you up the wide, curving staircase I could see through your skirt in places and knew there was nothing between you and that dress.

My mouth watered for chocolate – the chocolate fondue and the chocolate of your dress.

You had filled your sitting room with candles. A fire burned in the grate. On the marble-topped tea table in front of the old-fashioned sofa there was a fondue pot, already filled with melted chocolate. A plate was heaped with strawberries, pieces of cake, orange slices, and marshmallows. Oh, you remembered how I love marshmallows.

I let my jacket slide down my arms and hung it on the back of a chair.

Your eyes wandered over me approvingly.

"Champagne?"

"That would be lovely," I said.

You handed me the bottle of Veuve Clicquot and a clean linen towel with which to grasp it. I placed the bottle between my knees and gently turned it until the cork gave way with a gentle pop. Without spilling a drop, I presented you with the cork and wrapped the towel around the bottle to catch any drips. You held out the champagne flutes and I filled them, then placed the bottle on the table and took a stem from you.

We clinked our glasses and drank to each other, looking at each other across the rims of our glasses. I broke the gaze first, turning my head to the side slightly, suddenly uncomfortable under your scrutiny.

You took my glass and set it down, standing in front of me. You stepped closer still, our breasts almost touching though the thin velvet of your dress and the thinner cotton of my shirt. I could smell the warm vanilla scent of your skin.

For a moment there was no sound at all – not even breathing – and then my heartbeat began to drum in my ears. The room was warm. I was warm.

"Are you ready for chocolate fondue?" you asked, still not touching me.

I nodded.

You turned to the bookshelf by the window and returned with a small vase filled with paintbrushes. Some of the brushes were long and silky; some were short and bristly. There was a fan-shaped one, and one shaped like small housepainter’s brush.

"You’ll have to undress," you said.

I stood frozen to the spot as the realization of what you wanted to do sank in.

My first impulse was to resist. After all, I don’t take orders well.

You walked around behind me, still carrying the brushes and whispered into my right ear, your breasts barely brushing my back. "You’ll have to undress," you said again.

Then you turned and sat on the couch, leaning back against the tapestry cushions, your legs spread under the velvet skirt, one arm flung languorously across the top of your head.

"Take your time," you said.

I’ve never stripped for anybody, so I felt a little awkward with you there, watching me disrobe.

I pulled off my boots and socks and set them aside. I saw a smile flicker on your lips as you saw the heart-patterned socks.

I unbuckled my belt and opened the fly of my jeans. Just as I was poised to pull them down, over my hips, I heard your voice.

"Go slower, please."

And so I did, sliding the jeans slowly down my legs and stepping out of them, leaving them there on the floor. I began to unbutton my shirt with the top button, moving slowly to the next one, pausing to run my hand through my hair. I was self-consciously putting on a little show, but trying to be natural, not campy. There’s not a campy bone in my body.

As I reached the last button, I realized I was so turned on I thought I would faint. The crotch of my boxers was wet between my legs. When I slowly pulled my shirt open, the light brush of the starched fabric across my hardened nipples nearly brought me to orgasm. I let it slide from my shoulders to the floor and stood there in my boxers, looking down.

"Ummm," I heard you say, softly, and I looked up at you. The full, draping skirt of your dress had slid farther up your thighs, and the tip of your ring finger was between your lips, where your sucked it softly.

I blushed and, continuing, reached for the waistband of my boxers.

"Leave those for me, please," you said.

There was another of those incredibly long moments as you lay there looking at me. Despite the warmth of the room, I felt goosebumps rise along my arms, and I gave an involuntary shiver.

"You’ll need to prepare the floor," you said. "On the chair behind you is a folded painter’s tarp. Please spread it out on the floor."

I did as you asked.

"There’s also a folded white flannel sheet. Please spread that on top."

Again, I did as you asked. I felt vulnerable crawling around on the floor in my boxers as you watched me from the couch, and I suspected you knew this.

"Now please move the table over to the edge of the sheet. Carefully."

I did. The table was surprisingly heavy. I rubbed my biceps as I straightened up.

"Here," you said, holding out your hand. In it was a velvet bag with a drawstring cord.

"Open it, please."

Inside there was a set of four velvet cuffs that fastened with buckles, a velvet collar, and a blindfold.

I looked at you in disbelief.

"Put them on," you said. Although your voice was soft, I noticed you didn’t say "please".

"On myself?" I asked. "Don’t you want to put them on me later?" I laughed nervously.

I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of being restrained.

"I want to watch you put them on yourself," you said. "Sit down in the middle of the sheet. Start with your ankles."

And so I did.

You reminded me to make sure they were fastened firmly and had me tug on them to show you. I bent my head forward, fastening the collar behind my neck.

Finally, I sat there with the blindfold in my hands. I looked at it and swallowed. I hate blindfolds. They terrify me.

"Please don’t make me…"

"Wait," you said, and stood at the edge of the sheet near my feet. I looked up at you. The light of the fire backlit your form and glowed softly through the dress between your legs. You reached for the hem of the dress, and in one long motion, pulled it off and over your head. You shook your head to straighten your hair and tossed the dress aside.

I was sitting at the feet of the goddess. I stared up at you, unable to breathe.

"There," you said. "Now put it on."

Reluctantly, I placed the velvet blindfold across my eyes. It was padded and felt secure, comforting even.

"Here," you said.

I felt my champagne glass at my lips and drank thankfully.

"Now lay back." I felt you place a velvet cushion underneath my head.

"Taste," you said.

I felt the warm smoothness of chocolate on my lips. I licked at it.

"Bite," you said, and I bit into a marshmallow, dipped in the chocolate and becoming soft with the warmth of it. The sweetness filled my mouth

There was a moment of silence.

I jumped as I felt the touch of a brush on my nipple, the silky warmth of the chocolate, almost hot to the point of stinging.

"Too hot?" you asked.

I shook my head. "It’s okay." My voice was barely a whisper, my mouth sticky with chocolate.

"Are you comfortable?"

I nodded, breathing shallowly through my mouth.

I heard you sorting through the paintbrushes.

"Good, because I’m going to paint every inch of you before I’m done."

###
--------------------------------------

VALENTINE'S CHOCOLATE

Today, instead of green tea, I ordered hot chocolate with extra whipped cream.

"Happy Valentine’s Day," I said to myself.

And after I looked up from the newspaper, having read my horoscope, I saw you across the room. You looked like someone I used to know and no one I’ve ever met before. You were sitting on the couch, knitting an impossibly intricate sweater, and barely paying attention as the yarn flew through your fingers.

You smiled at me once, and then twice. I looked down into my empty cup at the traces of melted chocolate. I took it to the counter and asked for a refill.

Montezuma II called chocolate "the divine drink". Legend says he drank goblets of liquid chocolate to give him strength when he visited his wives.

I was already brave and rolling on a sugar high.

I grabbed my leather jacket off the back of my chair and picked up my refill.

When I turned to sit down next to you, some guy was there, filling the space into which I had already projected myself. He leaned into you and whispered something. You laughed and touched your hair.

I turned to the barrista. "Can I have this to go?"

While she filled a paper cup, I filled the awkward moment by looking at the scuffed toes of my motorcycle boots.

Then I headed to the door.

I was almost out when you touched my elbow.

"Are you leaving already?" you asked.

"I could stay."

You were much taller than I had realized.

"That would be nice."

The guy had gone. I settled into my spot self-consciously, smoothing out the front of my white t-shirt.

"I’m Amy," I said. "That’s a beautiful sweater," I was making small talk but being truthful. "Who’s it for?"

"It’s for you," you said. "My Valentine’s gift. How’s that hot chocolate?"

I licked some whipped cream off my lips and smiled for the first time that day.

"Divine."

###
____________________________________________________________________

Kindergarten Mom II

I didn’t think she’d call me.

She was shaken up when I suggested she come over and see my leatherware. I knew I would have to take it a step further if I wanted to get to know this woman.

But I knew she was interested.

I had seen her out of the corner of my eye and was acutely aware of how she was watching me throw the chairs on the pile. I preened a little and strained to make it look effortless.

We talked for a while, introduced ourselves… that sort of thing. She was definitely a girl’s girl, but out of her element. She didn’t expect contact at a parent-teacher meeting. I enjoyed messing with her a little, flexing my biceps, turning my back on her and keeping her waiting.

She really wanted to talk to me. I knew she would wait.

There was a little innuendo in our conversation, but nothing that would seem out of the ordinary to the mommies and daddies milling around us.

That was part of the fun of it all. When her nipples hardened up under her Banana Republic pullover, I knew I had her where I wanted her – at least for the minute.

So I was surprised to come home and find an email waiting.

"Claire," it said. "I got your email out of the school directory. I hope you don’t mind me contacting you directly. I’m having a group of women over Saturday night to celebrate the full moon. I’d love for you to come, but there are some considerations I’d like to tell you about. Please call me at your earliest convenience." It was signed "Olivia (Chapin’s mom)".

"Considerations," I thought. "Christ, it’s probably a gluten-free potluck… or dairy-free deserts… or I’m not supposed to wear anything scented." I could only imagine what sort of considerations a western Sonoma County, liberal kindergarten mom could lay out. I could already tell this wasn’t going to be my scene.

I decided that my earliest convenience was after dinner, when Shane was in bed.

The phone rang four times and I thought a message machine would answer. She was a little breathless when she picked up the phone. "Hello?" Her voice rose in a question.

"This is Claire," I said, waiting. I wasn’t going to give her an inch.

"Oh good, I’m glad you called," she said. "I’d love to have you come Saturday if you’re free, but I wanted to explain about the party."

"Here it comes," I thought.

"You see there’s this group of women I think you’d really like," she said. "We get together once a month and have a ‘plug-in party’."

"Plug-in?" I said. "Like Tupperware, or something like that?"

She laughed. She had a deep, throaty laugh that was a sexy surprise.

"No. ‘Plug-in’ like Hitachi. You’ll need to bring your own plug-in vibrator."

I was silent for a moment. This wasn’t what I had expected. I tried to get my mind around the "considerations".

"Are you talking about group masturbation?" I asked.

"We like to think of it as a celebration of the spirit," she said, and laughed that laugh again.

"Why does it have to plug in?"

"Ah. Good question. It provides us with some connection in a literal sense, and virtually guarantees no one’s vibrator will die during the ritual, which usually takes an hour."

"An hour?" I repeated as a question.

"Well, you know how it is when a group of women get going… Anyway, I thought there was some energy between us last night and I’m hoping you’ll come."

She giggled at her pun.

"Okay," I said, shaking my head. "I’ll try to be there."

"Oh good!" she said. "A couple more things…"

I couldn’t imagine what. I reached for my glass of wine.

"Don’t bring a guest," she paused, "and arrive sober."

###

----------------------------------------

KINDERGARTEN MOMS

"Please stack your chairs at the side of the room."

The parents’ meeting was finally coming to a close. Darn these artsy, liberal grammar schools. We had each been asked to tell a favorite story about our kindergartner, had made a Valentine, and had square-danced in the hallway. One father, laden with a cell phone and a beeper, had refused to dance. The rest of us had secretly admired him, wishing we had the nerve. At least 30 parents were there, sitting in a circle in the classroom, eating homemade granola out of little paper cups.

I stood up and stretched my legs. Then I picked up my chair and carried it over to the side. Another mom greeted me there.

"Here, give me your chair, I’ll put it away."

And she did, scooping it up with one hand like it was a basketball and tossing it on the stack.

"Wow," I said. "You make that look easy."

"I make a lot of things look easy."

Her voice had a provocative, flirtatious edge. She asked me to step back, and I watched her as she tossed the next chair on the stack.

I had noticed her during the meeting. She was wearing cords and flat, black boots with a bulky, hand-knit sweater that hid her wiry frame. She had pulled off the sweater to help stack the chairs, and the ribbed white tank top she wore underneath showed off her tan, ropy arms. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

Could I have heard her correctly?

I mean, if someone talked to me that way in a bar, I’d be buying her a drink and begging her to tell me more.

I waited for her to finish.

"Thanks for your help," I said. I held out my hand. "I’m Chapin’s mom."

"I know," she said, and shook my hand with a cowboy grip. I noticed she was wearing black leather wristbands on both wrists.

"I’m Clare, Shane’s mom."

"Ah," I said.

Crap, I had run out of things to say.

"You’re sure strong," I said finally. The moment it left my lips, I realized how lame it sounded.

I felt my face grow hot.

She grinned at me.

"I work with leather for a living."

I took a sharp breath and hoped she didn’t hear it.

"You mean, like, upholstery?" I asked, sounding only slightly less lame.

"No, I make custom leather clothing," she said. Then I swear she looked right into the core of me —"Sort of specialty stuff." She raised her eyebrows and ran her tongue quickly over her top lip.

I swallowed hard and immediately felt my nipples poking against my thin knit shirt.

This was like high school. I wanted so badly to cross my arms over my chest. My cheeks continued to burn, and now my nipples were on fire.

Clare laughed a little then. "I guess I need to have you over to see some of it," she said.

I looked down at my sneakers, speechless and mortified.

She reached out with her finger and gently lifted my chin.

"Isn’t it great our kids are in class together? We have our mornings free."

##

----------------------------------------

FIGURE STUDY IV
(Flesh Tones)

Iris took me by surprise when she padded up behind me entirely nude. She stood so close I could have reached out to touch her, and I did, in fact, spill wine on her in my discomfiture.

It had been years since I had worked with a model and I was expecting some modesty. I expected her to come out from behind the screen wrapped tightly in the kimono I had provided. I had pictured her sitting for me wrapped in the robe, gradually letting it slide from her shoulders as my professionalism and the wine made her more comfortable.

I had anticipated that gradual unveiling — the transition from shy girl to wanton woman that I hoped would take place in front of my easel. I was well aware she was young, but I planned to look and not touch.

After all, she had the sweet, milk-fed look of a high school cheerleader. The kind of looks that are polished with Breck shampoo and Dove soap.

So the thing that had surprised me the most was the contrast between her open, scrubbed face and the steel rings in her nipples.

I had to peel my eyes away as I handed her the wine.

"You're old enough to drink, right?"

She nodded and smiled that small-town grin.

"Where would you like me?" she asked, fingering the bunch of irises on the table.

"Over in the gold chair."

As she turned to walk away, I saw the tattoo covering her back – a huge image of Kwan Yin, riding the back of a dragon through the sea. The waves spread out across her hips.

I swallowed hard and again felt something flip, this time lower than my stomach. This girl was full of surprises.

"Is that Kwan Yin?" I asked casually.

"It is." She sounded pleased.

"It’s a coincidence," I said, attempting to make small talk. "I just saw an interesting poem about Kwan Yin on craigslist."

"Was it ‘Kwan Yin Is On My Back Again?’" she asked.

"Uh-huh," I said, busying myself arranging art supplies and adjusting my easel.

"I wrote it," she said, simply.

I stopped and looked at her.

"Really?"

Our gaze held.

"Really."

She broke away first.

"How would you like me to sit?"

"Just make yourself comfortable," I said, kneeling down to adjust the knobs on the easel.

"How much time do you have? Is it okay if I paint rather than sketch?"

"My evening’s free," she said.

"You remember I’m an abstractionist, right?" I asked. "This won’t be a portrait."

I saw her look around the studio at the finished and half-finished paintings on the walls and stacked up in piles.

"I’m sure whatever you come up with will be great," she said. "I’m really in it for the experience."

"Okay."

I straightened up and turned to face her.

She sat, sort of slouched into the chair, her body draped across it. One hand balanced the glass of wine on the arm of the chair; the other rested on her thigh, which was flung across the chair’s other arm, spreading her legs wide toward the easel.

"How’s this?" she asked.

"It’ll work for me, if you can hold it."

I was determined not to let her see how rattled I felt.

"Oh, I can hold it," she said.

I turned on the stereo, loaded with k.d. lang’s "Drag" c.d., and set about mixing paints.

"I haven’t heard this in years." She leaned into the chair with her eyes closed, the wineglass empty in her hand.

Looking for a color that could approximate her smooth, tawny skin, I blended titanium white and bismuth yellow with ochre and a dab of cadmium red.

I turned to the easel and began to paint, brushing color into the middle and out toward the edges. The scrape of my stiff-bristled brush on the rough canvas sounded rhythmically in the room. I reached for the enameled tray that served as my palette.

Soon I was lost in the painting. The room began to darken and I adjusted the lights.

I added warm colors to the palette. I changed to a softer brush. I scratched lines into the surface with the end of my brush. I traced them with a 6B pencil and rubbed the graphite into the exposed canvas. I painted out a section and mixed colors to approximate the dusky mustard color of the chair.

Finally, I stopped, exhausted. I put my hands on my legs and bent over, stretching out my back.

The room was quiet; the music had stopped. Embarrassed, I realized she had been sitting there for hours without a break.

Yet, still she sat, watching me.

"Are you finished?" she asked softly.

The room had cooled a little with the evening. I saw goosebumps on her arms. Her nipples, held partly erect by the rings, began to harden then. She breathed in deeply and rhythmically, waiting for my answer, which didn’t come.

I stood looking at her, as though after those hours, I was seeing her for the first time. I watched her belly rise and fall with her breathing.

Still spread in the pose, her excitement was clearly visible.

Her voice was huskier then.

"May I look at the painting?"

"Sure"

Slowly, she began to move her arms and legs. She rubbed the stiffness out of her elbows and ran her hands down her legs. She used her hands to lift her raised thigh off the arm of the chair. Standing, she interlocked her fingers and turned her palms upward, stretching the length of her spine.

Finally, she came to stand beside me.

I could feel the warmth of her body next to me as she surveyed the canvas, which was a mass of swirling flesh tones, grounded on the mustard color of the chair. The flesh tones warmed and cooled, lightened and darkened, but across the three-foot canvas, they looked like they were lit from within. A line down the canvas may have hinted at a waist, another, the curve of a breast. Down near where the chair was represented was a gentle streak of deep, dark rose.

"I like this part best," she said, pointing to it.

"So do I," I said, reaching for her.

##
---------------------------------------------------

KWAN YIN IS ON MY BACK

Kwan Yin is on my back, again.

"Be kind," she says gently.
"This isn’t about you."

She stretches out her hand,
and pours the balm of compassion
at my feet.

Immediately, things look a little better.
I can breathe a little easier.

"Okay," I say.
"I see your point."

"Remember,"
she says.
"This isn’t a battle."
"There is no winning,"
"There is no losing."

In that moment,
I see what I must do:
Stop flailing at dragons.

Instead,
I need to surrender,
and let them carry me home.

##

---------------------------------

Figure Study III


The knock startled me and I turned suddenly, banging my knee into the edge of the woodstove.

"Oh man."
I curled over my knee for a moment before limping off to answer the door.

It was my landlord.

"Official notice, Cas. There will be a building inspection Thursday afternoon." He looked at me meaningfully and winked dramatically.

"It’s okay, Roger. I’ve kept the place clean. Look." I threw open the door.

He glanced around and nodded, satisfied.

"It looks really good."

"Hey, I like it here," I said.

"I know, but can you take your toothbrush and stuff out of the bathroom?"

"I will."

Roger turned and started up the hall, on to the next door.

As I was closing my door, the phone rang. I still use one of those old black plastic phones with a rotary dial — the kind that rings like a demon. And, I don’t have an answering machine. If someone wants me, they’ll have to find me.

"Hello?"

There was a momentary silence on the line and I almost hung up, thinking it must be a telemarketer.

Then, a soft voice said, "This is Iris."

"Iris?" I asked.

"From Mac’s"

"Mac’s?" I asked.

"The restaurant with pie."

"Oh," I said. Then again, higher pitched, when I made the connection. "Oh."

"I was wondering if I could come by tomorrow afternoon, after my lunch shift, around three?"

"Sure. That would be great."

I stopped, at a loss for words.

"I’ll see you then," she said, and hung up.

I stood there for a while, rubbing my knee.


The next morning, I was in a flurry of activity.

I was up before sunrise, startled awake by my inner clock. I folded up my futon and unrolled my yoga mat after stirring the fire.

"Backbends," I thought, after taking myself through a series of standing poses. But I kept losing my focus, unable to breathe deeply and relax into the poses the way I needed. I felt like I’d had two cups of coffee. In camel pose, I thought my heart would blast out of my chest. Finally I rolled down into savasana and tried to relax my body and mind. After a very brief nothingness, I was on my feet again. I threw on some sweats and headed out the door.

I shower at the YMCA on the corner. Sometimes I buy a membership, but after I get to know any new desk clerks, they’ll usually let me come in for free. After all, I’m only there for a few minutes.

After my shower, I stopped at the coffeehouse and sat down with the paper and a big chai latte. I was hungry and I had a sudden craving for pie. I settled for an apple-bran muffin and headed back to the studio, carrying it in a bag.

As I bit into the muffin, I began to read the story I had started the night before – the story about the waitress in the diner, and how she came to my studio to be painted.

"This isn’t bad," I thought. "And, it’s kind of fun."

Later I cleaned the studio, replacing the white paper that covers the worktables, and sweeping all the corners of the room. I pulled my only upholstered chair over near my easel. I call it my "ancestor" chair. It’s been in the family for years and I’ve hauled it everywhere I’ve been, even my dorm room in college. It has a carved wooden frame and rolled arms. The fabric that covers it is a dusty shade of mustard. I think the fabric is called damask, but I’m not sure. It has a design woven into it, but in the same mustardy color. It’s silky and worn soft with age. I like to read in this chair.

Finally, at two o’clock, I ran out the door. I felt like I should offer something to be hospitable, but what? I cruised the local market and finally settled on some cheese and crackers and a bottle of white wine. I also bought a bottle of apple juice. I mean, she just looked so wholesome… On the way out, I grabbed a bunch of flowers.

"Sheesh," I thought to myself ten minutes later, on the way home. "This isn’t a date, it’s a modeling session." Still, I hoped the flowers would dress the place up a little.

I stuck the flowers in a milk bottle. I love the organic milk that comes in glass bottles, and I always manage to keep an empty bottle around, without returning it. I changed into my painting clothes and stoked up the fire so the room would be warm. There I was at the woodstove, when I heard a knock. I moved back carefully, as not to bump my knee, then stood and answered the door.

"Hey," I said. "There you are."

"Look at you," she said admiringly, taking in the baggy, paint-smeared pants that clung to my hips, the smudged white t-shirt, and my bare feet.

I pushed up my glasses at the bridge and ran my hand back over my hair.

"And look at that pedicure," she said.

I looked down at my feet. Shit. I had forgotten to take off the dramatic dark brown polish that remained from a date I’d had the previous week… then again, maybe "encounter" would be a better description. I mean, I’m not exactly the type to wear polish on my toes…

"It’s cute," she said.

I shrugged and stood back to let her in.

"Wow. It’s warm in here. That’s nice." She looked around the room.

"May I take your coat?" I asked.

Like Audrey Hepburn, she turned, looking back at me coyly, so I could slip the coat off her shoulders. I carefully hung it on a hook by the door.

Underneath she was wearing her white nylon waitressing uniform.

"Would you like anything before we get started?" I asked, "I have wine, juice, tea…"

"Do you live here?" she asked.

"I do."

"I think I’d like a glass of wine," she said. "Is it white?"

"It is."

She nodded.

I went to my little refrigerator and pulled out the bottle.

"Is this where I change?" she asked.

I saw she was standing near a small screen I had placed at one side of the room.

"It is," I said, and felt my mouth get dry.

"I hung a robe there you can use."

I pulled the cork and poured two glasses of wine.

"I’m not really the robe type." I heard her voice right behind me.

I turned with the glasses in my hand to face her, standing entirely nude, not two feet away from me. She had taken down her ponytail, and her hair tumbled down over her shoulders. I fought to keep eye contact.

"I see."

My knees trembled as I reached out to hand her the wine, and I splashed some on her foot.

"Sorry." I said, feeling the heat rise in my face. "Shall we get started?"

"Where do you want me?" she asked.

##

-------------------------------------------------------

FIGURE STUDY II
(Lines on the Paper)


I kept thinking about painting her.

Because of this, I had a hard time staying focused.

Normally, I’m a person who paints in straight lines and hard edges. But I would let my mind wander and find my brush sweeping a curve down the canvas — a curve like the inside of a waist, or the outside of a thigh.

I spent some time drawing and fiddling around with paint on paper. I was actually toying with the problem of how to abstract a woman’s body on canvas. I visited the bookstore, looking for historical inspiration – some sort of reference point. I found parts of bodies and reductionist portraits, but I didn’t find any abstracts that recalled the sort of impression I was seeking.

"Well, there’s Georgia O’Keefe," I said outloud, amusing myself.

Finally, unable to live with my obsession one minute longer, I threw on my jacket and headed to the diner.

I looked around and didn’t see her.

"Madge, is the other waitress here? The young one with the pony tail?"

Madge shook her head.

"May I leave her my card?"

Silently, Madge took the card from me and placed in on the register, right above the cash drawer.

"Thanks," I said.

Back at my studio, I turned on the electric teakettle. The room was warm, despite the wood floor and brick walls. A small wood-burning stove keeps the place cozy. Since I live here, I try to keep it burning most of the time.

A folded cotton futon in the corner is one of the only clues this is my home. I keep my food and clothes stashed in metal cabinets, and there’s a tiny cube refrigerator under one of the tables. I’m a secret resident — one of two or three in the building. We create what the city calls "a non-conforming, illegal use". Since a disgruntled tenant wrote a letter of complaint to the building department a year ago, we’ve been subject to periodic inspections. This is why I can’t let the place slide to homey. It needs to look like my work space, nothing more.

This building was once a cannery and it shows the scars of heavy industrial use. Giant beams span the ceiling and metal supports cross the walls. The hallways are wide with uneven cement floors. Grooves in the cement show the path of apple carts that once rolled through the building. The hallways are always cold, even in the hottest months of the summer. In the winter, they’re frigid.

The warmth and light is what makes coming into my studio such a nice surprise, despite the lack of decor.

A large window looks down on the street and several skylights splash light across the floor. I’ve added some halogen work lights in the corners, and some photographer’s lights with full spectrum bulbs are clamped to the beams, throwing the equivalent of daylight down on my work area during the dark months of winter.

I sat down on a wooden stool with my cup of lapsang souchong in my hands, the smokey scent filling the room. I looked around. Fresh canvases were piled against one wall. My paints were laid out on a long wooden table. Another table held jars of brushes. I cover these tables with white paper and change it frequently. I like the crisp, clean look and it makes it easy to find what I’m looking for. A painter’s drop cloth protected the brick wall where my easel stood, waiting.

So why was I feeling so blocked?

Thinking perhaps some music would help my mood, I grabbed Kate Wolf’s "Lines on the Paper" cd. Music from my childhood, this is where I go for musical comfort.

Then I sat down at my work table and opened my journal.

On the first page I had written a quote from an article Stephen Batchelor had written for Tricycle, the Buddhist Review;

"The artist's dilemma and the meditator's are, in a deep sense,
equivalent. Both are repeatedly willing to confront an unknown and to risk a response that they cannot predict or control."

I turned to a clean page, dated the top of it, and began to write this story about how I had met a waitress in a coffee shop and painted her. "I dried my hands on my pants," I began, choosing a familiar gesture. The afternoon stretched out in front of me and the window began to darken as I drank another cup of tea and continued writing.

Finally, I stood up stiffly, and began to add some wood to the stove. I was crouched down there, poking a log into place, when there was a knock at the door.

###

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

ON WRITING POEMS
(and posting them in random places)

When my thoughts
begin to rub
and nibble
at the edges
of my concentration,
I gather them together
and tie them
lovingly
into a bundle.

Then,
pressing my palms together
in benediction,
I let them go,
breathing deeply into them,
casting them out
the door.

They rise up,
and fly on the hope
another might find them,
and recognize them
as her own.

1/20/03

-----------------------------------

FIGURE STUDY

I dried my hands on my pants.

Once a pair of overalls, now pants with the bib cut off, they are crusted with a year’s worth of paint. I wipe my hands and my brushes on them when I’m working. I figure it saves on rags and paper towels, and after all, they’re always within reach.

The end result is almost modern art in its own right – a thousand colors meld into a mosaic across the tops of my thighs. A dealer offered to buy them from me once. I laughed it off because I thought she was kidding, but I’m still not certain.

I ran my mostly dry hands over my short, salt and pepper hair, then slipped out of my painting pants, into a pair of jeans. I pulled on my boots and an old leather jacket with paint on the cuffs and headed out of the building and around the corner to grab some take-out coffee.

The iron gate on the building’s front door slammed behind me with a resonant clang. Even at two in the afternoon, the air outside was brisk. I blew clouds of steam as I headed up to the local politically correct bean roasters, my habitual hangout. A pang of hunger hit me and, impulsively, I crossed the street and turned right at the corner. I don’t usually go this way, but last week, on an errand, I passed an old-fashioned diner about two blocks up. Just a hole in the wall, really. There was a sign outside that said "Really Good Pie".

I head off to find out just how good.

A bell on the door jangled as I went in. I found myself in a long, narrow little restaurant. Five red leatherette booths and a lunch counter ran parallel down the room. There was a tiny counter and cash register right inside the door. A little woman sat on a stool there, thumbing through Redbook. Lit cases clung to the wall behind the lunch counter. The shelves of the cases were filled with pies – chocolate pies, fruit pies, meringue pies, picture perfect Wayne Thiebaud pies. My eyes ran down the length of the cases.

"Have you been helped?"

The waitress looked at me earnestly.

"Um. I’d like some pie. Some pie and a coffee, to go."

"Do you know what kind of pie?"

"No." I shook my head.

She pointed to a chalkboard at the end of the room, where all the day’s pies were listed.

"Strawberry-rhubarb," I decided.

"Nice," she said approvingly, drawing the word out.

For the first time I looked at her.

She looked like she just got off the bus from Kansas – as fresh and clear as a prairie morning. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and further restrained by a stretchy black hair band. She was in one of those funky white waitress dresses – the kind that look like it was built to resist any stain. Her face, dominated by big green eyes, was as wholesome as the piece of apple pie she was holding. Her small waist and wide hips weren’t wasted on me either, as I watched her walk away to fill my order.

Not that she was my type. I prefer my women bigger and butcher, a little rougher around the edges. Besides, she didn’t look a day over 18.

"Ok. Here you go. That’ll be $3.50. Madge will take your money at the register. Thanks for coming in."

I reached for the bag.

"Oh," she said. "You’ve got paint on your hands."

I looked down at my stained hands and my short, grubby nails.

"Yeah, I do."

Something in the way she looked at me made me feel sheepish, and I curled my fingers towards my palms, hiding my nails.

"Are you a painter?" she asked.

"I am." I nodded, again reaching for the bag, but she didn’t hand it over, just set it on the counter. She put her hand on her cocked hip and looked me over, appraisingly.

"What do you paint?"

Oh, God. I hate this question. It always leads to some stupid remark that leaves me angry at the world. Last week in a bar a girl told me that she thought the best painter of the modern age was Thomas Kincaide. "I mean look the windows," she said breathlessly. "It looks like actual lights are on in there. His paintings are so romantic…blah, blah, blah…"

"Abstracts, mostly," I answered.

She nodded, still looking at me, biting the inside of her lower lip.

"Big? Small?"

"Mostly big," I said. "Sometimes small."

"Oils? Acrylics?"

"Acrylics."

"Huh," she said, contemplatively.

"Impressionism? Expressive…?" Her gesture emphasized the question.

Okay. Now she had taken me by surprise.

"Mostly expressive," I said. "Some are drawn from impressions."

"I see." She nodded again.

"Big like Rothko?"

I look at her and she returned my gaze directly.

"Not that big."

I pushed my glasses up my nose, a habit when I’m feeling self-conscious.

"I mean, because the big Rothkos are big," she continued, holding my eyes. "Overwhelmingly big. You feel like you could walk right into them. Other painters have painted big – like Diebenkorn and his amazing "Ocean Park" series, and Motherwell and Pollock... But the Rothkos are bottomless, they’re like portals, like huge clouds of color, they’re, they’re…" she was on a roll now.

"Big?" I asked.

"Absolutely unbelievable," she said, sighing.

"I wasn’t prepared at all. A few years back there was a Rothko retrospective at the National Galley. I went there to see it."

"You went to D.C. to see a Rothko show?" I asked.

"Yeah. I drove," she said. "And swung through Texas on the way, so I could visit the Rothko Chapel.

"Though Texas?"

"Yeah. I mean it was a road trip, right? The chapel was so beautiful I just sat there and cried and cried until one of the security guys brought me some Kleenex. I think it was my first existential crisis…"

She smiled and held out my bag.

As I turned to go, she said: "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"I’ve always wanted to… you know… be painted," she said. "I mean pose – pose nude for an artist. Are you ever looking for models?"

She raised her eyebrows slightly.

My stomach flipped.

"Wh… why" I stammered. " I’m an abstractionist. I don’t really paint nudes."

"But you could paint about nudes?" She emphasized "about," her question teasing.

"I suppose I could."

She smiled the sweetest smile.

"Well, If you ever decide to switch styles, you know where to find me."


##

1/24/03
-----------------------------------------------

The post saying my writing bored one reader started a little flurry on craigslist. Other than the story inspired by the post "You stories bore me," I've stayed out of it...

--------------------------------------------
Date: Thu Jan 23 11:16:41 2003

re: western edge posting pissiness

As far as this being a place to meet women, the Edge is doing just
that. She cybermet me and I'm sure others, who felt compelled to
respond to her after reading her posts. Her posts are just as personal,
and a hell of a lot more sexy, than the ones that are considered `normal'.
Blonde, 23, 34DD's, play with my titties versus a beautifully
crafted poem???? Give me the poem any day...
it's an alluring personal posting for me...
------------------------------------
One reader wrote me a beautiful poem of her own:

traveling out west

and after so many months
i find myself tripping into cyberspace
drawn by the mental soft nuzzling ~ my attraction women
thumbing through adds like i would a magazine
free of expectation...


i don't know why, but i always get extreme pleasure
on highway one. imaging myself pinpointed on a map
where the land meets the sea
it always makes me feel happy ,
content.
(i think i'll know that place now as the Western Edge)

-------------------------------------------------
Date: Thu Jan 23 10:30:43 2003

Join a writing group! This is the wrong forum for you!
I've tried to ignore them all, but you are monopolozing the Board!
Get a life! (or a date and get off the keyboard!)
------------------------------------------------------
Author's Note:
(In all fairness, I should point out this project isn't taking up space. My writing is only a handful among -- literally -- hundreds of posts daily that occur in this particular forum on craigslist. Most of the posts seem to be about a club called F.L.O.W. and a woman named Dennise with a soiled reputation.
--------------------------------------------------

Reply to: anon-8158389@craigslist.org
Date: Thu Jan 23 10:56:07 2003

Try harder to ignore the postings. Some people like them, like me,
and it's an opportunity to meet the poster(and possibly her friends).
Contrary to the voices in your head, this board is not all about what
you want.
-------------------------------

And for today, that's all she wrote!


###

But not everyone out there has appreciated our/my fiction.

Today brought this posting:


Yo - Western Edge


Reply to: anon-8151021@craigslist.org
Date: Thu Jan 23 03:48:30 2003


your poems and stories are boring - what's your point?


I found the inspiration I needed to make today's post...


----------------------------
THE PEDICURE

"Your stories bore me," she said.
"I mean, what’s your point?"

I shrugged and continued painting her big toenail.

Obviously in need of attention, she tried again:

"You think you’re so fucking smart, but you’re not, you know."

Her voice was becoming a little frantic, a little more high-pitched.

Finished with the polish, I screwed the top back on the square little bottle, and sat back to admire her toes. They gleamed a beautiful shade of dark, plumy brown. "Scribble Scrabble" the color is called. Don’t you just love the names of nail polishes?

Each nail was perfect and smooth. I had carefully clipped them, filed them, buffed them, and scrubbed them before starting the loving progression of cuticle remover and ridge-filling base coat. All in the name of a flawless finish.

"It’s important to let each coat dry thoroughly before applying the next…"

I patted her ankle and reached for my knitting. I’m working on a scarf in the yummiest ginger color. The mohair yarn was hand-dyed by a woman in Bodega. I can’t wait to see it finished.

"It’s this going to look great on me?" I asked her, and held the scarf up to my throat.

She rolled her eyes.

I started to knit, the needles clicking rhythmically.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I cut my all hair off?" I asked. "And let Amanda shave my head?"

She groaned.

"I can still remember the feeling of wind on my scalp, and how I’d get out of the shower feeling all slick like a seal. I’d rub that cucumber lotion you love all over my body, starting at the top of my head and working my way down."

"Of course my pussy was waxed in those days, too."

I giggled. "I only had my eyebrows…"

I glanced over at her and she glared at me.

So I cleared my throat and started, in my best storytelling voice:

"I’d had long hair for years. I had just gotten tired of it, and besides, Amanda used to obsess over it — brushing it for hours. I mean, really, there were other parts of me needing some stroking, if you get what I mean." I said archly.

She surrendered and relaxed back on the bed, no choice but to listen, as I continued.

Then, when I was done with my story, I stuffed the knitting back in my bag – the pink vinyl bag with rhinestones and cowgirl I’d gotten as a birthday present. Since it had a cloth lining (the cutest little cherry-print retro fabric!), it was perfect for hauling around small knitting projects.

"Okay. A couple of coats of this super-shiny top coat and you’ll be good to go." I rolled the bottle between the palms of my hands.

She raised her head. "I am so fucking sick of this shit. This is not what I meant when I suggested you get your ass into the bedroom and give me a little loving. I was expecting sex, not a fucking pedicure!"

"Let me up!" she roared.

I looked at her spread out on my bed, wrists and ankles tied to the iron frame. Her boxers were still wrapped around one leg and clips clung to her nipples. But from where I sat, I could clearly see the damp stain on my quilt that suggested not all of her was objecting.

"Shhhh," I said, reaching for my ball gag.

"This why they call it ‘top coat’."


##

1/23/03

-----------------------------------------

So after I posted "Weak in the Knees," I found this response on craigslist. Titled "The Eastern Edge," the location was tagged "touche". I love it! Some where out there a woman rose to the occassion, creating a spontaneous serial... I had to respond. It was flirtaous and fun. The first few installments of the story are below... Excuse the fact the tenses and point of view shift around... we hadn't found our rythmn yet! I should point out that I don't even know if the all the "Eastern Edge" intallments were written by the same person. This is one of the things that has made this so much fun!


PART II
written by the Eastern Edge in response to "Weak in the Knees")

I want to cup your breasts...I do not want to `play with titties'. I
won't find it `naughty'...I will to find it delicious. Another day
on CL.

You, however, know nothing about this. Browsing the spiritual
section. You just skim over the books, then pull out the newest
Pema Chodron. You'll wait until it comes out in paperback.
You've really been holding out for the used section. A soy
mocha in hand you spring up the old wooden stairs, eyeing the
new biography of Allen Ginsburg they put on the landing. How
come so few people mention he was a pedophile? And
Burroughs was a murderer? Still, you love their writing...

The used section: Lesbian pulp, Wind in the Willows, and an
old C.S. Lewis Narnia collection. How come people don't talk
about how Christian those books are? Damn, you think too
much!!! The cd collection...you buy it for me...Jesus Christ
Superstar. You know it will make me cry. When you took me to
see the show I was such a mess. It was so beautiful.

Someone bumps you and you spill some of your coffee on a
book. Shit. You look around. Did anyone notice? Hmmm. No
one, so it seems. Guilty. You are, you know. In Borders you
wouldn't care...but you love this store. You look at the cover
you've ruined: An Autobiography of Steve Tyler. Yeah. You and
your coffee have made a deal, and you take that book along with
your other purchases to the front counter.

The cute checkout girl asks if there's anything else you want.
Ummmm. You're too shy to talk to her...again. She's probably
straight with a boyfriend...and thinks that kissing girls is
`naughty' and talks about `playing with titties'. But what's with
the `hello kitty' bag??? You grab one of the dyke magnets next
to the register...to tell her...well, what you're too chicken to.

She grins. You ask her if she would like it-that you want to get
it for her. Finally, you've found your proverbial balls.

No thanks, she says. You feel like a fool. Looking to where the
magnets are she takes another one. But I'd really like it if you
got me this one, she says.

You look at it and see the picture of two beautiful women
making love in the woods.

---------------------------------------

Part III
by The Western Edge

But when I go to leave, the oh-so-cute, oh-so-young girlie bookstore clerk presses the dyke magnet into my hand.
"But I bought it for you," I say.
"I picked it out," she says. "But now I want you to have it."
She gives me one of those meaningful looks, one pierced eyebrow barely cocked.
I look at the magnet in my hand, and suddenly realize that she is one of the young women in the picture, posed nude on a mossy bank entwined with another woman.
Boy did I have her pegged wrong.
I look up in slow amazement.
She smiles over her shoulder at me as she turns to help the next customer.

I leave the store thinking how nothing is what it appears to be.
"Well, you can’t can’t judge a book by its cover."
I chuckle at my bookstore joke, realizing I am often my own best audience.
But wait, does that make what I’m experiencing dualism, or non-dualism? I kick myself for not having bought the Chodron book, thinking it might guide me farther down the path. At this moment, enlightenment seems as far away as Oz.

But then, with loving-kindness, I remember my New Year’s resolution to embrace what life brings me. I’m working to avoid the dams that, as Pema Chodron says "basically say ‘no’ to life and to feeling life".
I let loose with a long, low whistle.
"Damn," I say, and laugh again.
Oh, I’m killing myself tonight.

So I head out to the parking lot, the soundtrack from Jesus Christ Superstar still running through my head.
"J.C. will love this," I think.
"Hey, J.C., J.C., won’t you smile for me?"
I hum the rest.

It’s darn cold out and the Landcruiser grinds a few times before it finally kicks it over. "When this engine goes," I think, "I’ll break down and get one of those new Subarus with the leather seats."
Then I pat the dashboard, apologizing.
"Ah, Elsie, my beloved Landcruiser, you know I could never do that to you…"
She rumbles her agreement and coughs out a little backfire.

I stop on the way to your house and pick up a bottle of that buttery Chardonnay you love,
and take the mocha-stained dust jacket off the Steve Tyler book before heading in. This purchase was a happy coincidence.

After all, wasn’t one of our first dates an Aerosmith concert at the Shoreline? We stood out there in the cold and the dark with about a million other 30 and 40-somethings, dancing our asses off to "Dude Looks Like a Lady". And, when Steve rolled around the stage in a pink feather boa, licking his big gender-bending lips, I saw your nipples harden through your Polarfleece pullover. But, baby, I was right there with you. Two lesbians who will admit that Tim Curry was their first teenage crush definitely belong together.
"Man, I remember the first time I saw him come down in that elevator," I sigh to myself, walking up the front steps.

The baby-dyke in the bookstore, Steve Tyler, Tim Curry, and you — my head beginning to spin. I feel that familiar warmth — the slow rhythm of a growing pulse low in my jeans — just knowing you’re on the other side of the door, and not a fantasy.

"Honey, I’m home," I call out — kidding a little — because this is your home, not mine, after all.

But I know you’re waiting for me.

Just like I know that tonight, after we’ve had a hot soak and a glass of the Chardonnay, we’ll time our lovemaking to Jesus Christ Superstar, and when we’re done, you’ll cry a little in my arms.

------------------------------------------

Part IV
by The Eastern Edge


"Put on Jeff Buckley", I say in my most demanding bratty
voice.
"No baby. You'll be crying all night if you listen to him"
My tears roll down your breast.

You chuckle as you remember the time I dragged you swing
dancing. They played their usual songs -- including `Indian
Giver' and `Columbus'. I got so pissed off at the choices I went
up to the guy with the cd's and implored,
"do you even listen to these lyrics??? We shouldn't even be
PLAYING these songs, let alone dancing to them.".
"It's just about the rhythm, ya know", he said with a smirk.
I'm almost speechless..but I'm never really speechless...I'm just
gearing up...and you're smiling at your beautiful little eternal
activist.
"Music?? Music is just about the beat? Play some old Freddy
songs then...they've got the same beat."
You laugh at my inane comment. They never play anything but
old schools swing songs that debuted during the war.
"The lyrics...the lyrics are as integral to the song as the beat is. I
didn't dress up in this chiffon dress to dance to blatantly racist
music. Do I need to put one of those `Think' stickers on your
head?"
Oh God, you think, she's going to nail this guy if I don't pull
her away.
You gently pull my arm, and I pull you over to one of the girls I
know who's putting on the event.
"Hey, do you think we could listen to the lyrics of the music,
and not play those songs that would be offensive to 90% of the
educated San Francisco population?"
She smiled, said "yeah, you're right", and instinctively showed
me where the vegan cookies were. Vegan cookies? Yes, they
have them...and not just for me. Well, one of the other girls is
lactose intolerant...

My little activist, you think as you stroke my head.
"Why did you chuckle,"?
Oh, I was just thinking.
"Yeah, well I'm crying...and it doesn't help when you laugh".
"Sorry"
"Sorry? Forget it. You owe me a present tomorrow"
How do I manipulate you this way? It always ends up with you
owing me a present...for something. It's annoying how cute it is.


"Tomorrow. Diamonds and furs...oh shit, I mean denim"
"A cowboy hat"
A present for her?????? Damn, seeing her in a cowboy hat will
be a present for me, you think.
You grin...being careful this time, to keep your chuckling inside.

----------------------------------

Part V
By The Western Edge

It turned out it wasn’t a cowboy hat, but boots. More boots.

I knew something was up when, the next morning, she suggested we drive up to Sonoma for lunch. Sonoma is famous for food, wine, and great shopping for the wine country linen and leather crowd.

A funny little shop off the plaza there specializes in vintage and glam Western wear -- real high end rock-star stuff. Somehow I knew that’s where we were headed. A woman who lusts after the fringe on Dwight Yoakum’s jackets won’t settle for Macy’s, after all.

Later, when the dust had settled and my American Express card had quit smoking, we sat on the patio at Piatti, eating carpaccio and passing two different wines back and forth between us. We admired her legs, covered to mid-shin in a pair of red 1940’s Acme cowgirl pee-wees boots – with the cloth pull-tabs still intact. She excused herself to the restroom and I watched her walk away, striding long in her new-old boots.

"I love the way boots make a woman walk," I thought to myself, dipping a piece of torn French bread in olive oil.

The dappled sun fell down on me, as I drifted away to the night we met…

I was cleaning up a rack, alone at the pool table, and listening to Led Zeppelin on the juke box. I was over the hills and far away, drawn into myself, when the door opened and she walked in. It was chilly out, and she was wearing a heavy black sweater and a hand-knit blue muffler. Below that she had on what appeared to be a flimsy black skirt and some kind of patterned boots. I had to get closer and take a look.

I laid my cue on the table and headed to the bar, where my drink sat, ice cubes melting away. From that vantage point, I could see she was wearing a pair of ridiculously intricate Western boots – the kind with American flags and all that corny stuff. When she turned around to pull off her sweater, the first thing I noticed was the rising sun on the back of each boot, and I could read the words "Land of the Free" and "Home of the Brave," left and right, respectively. The second thing I noticed was that she was now standing by the coat rack in a short, sleeveless black rayon dress – the loose, embroidered kind you can buy at Harbin, or in an import shop in Sebastopol. Just the dress and the boots, with some out-of-season tan legs in between. Meeee-ow, I thought.

She lifted her hair and let it fall to smooth it out. In that brief moment I saw the flash of a tattoo at the base of her neck and I made a promise to myself that I’d find a way to take a good look at that tattoo before the night was over.

She walked up to me like she knew me.
"Hey," she said, and sat down.

From that point on, nothing was what I expected. This lady did things her own way, that was for sure.

She wasn’t coy. I wouldn’t call her femme, but she was every inch a woman – the kind of woman who looked like she could put in an entire vegetable garden and then rush off to the symphony, only pausing for a quick shower.

As we sat at the bar, trading casual conversation, she reached for my wrist and laid the back of my hand on the bar. Gently, like the pads on a cat foot, she laid three of her fingers on the inside of my wrist – right where the kanji for "water" and "rock" are tattooed. I could feel the pulse beating in my wrist. I could see it making her fingers jump. My head felt like water and my stomach felt like rock. Or maybe my head was rock and my stomach was water. It really didn’t matter. I was living to feel those fingers on my wrist.

After what felt like a week, she leaned over and said.
"I need to step outside for a moment. Come with me."

And without looking back, she stood up and headed out the back door into the alley.

Out the door, I was shocked by how dark it was. Away from the street on this dark winter evening, there was no ambient light except the splash from the bar’s door, now gone.
I heard her before I saw her:
"I’m over here."

I stepped closer, reaching to embrace her. But she reached for my wrists.

I jumped. What the fuck was this?

But I felt her hold them gently, as she had before, at the bar. I relaxed a little and leaned back against the wall of the building, feeling a slight vibration from the music inside. This time her thumbs rested against the inside of my wrists and, as I stood in silence, her warm body just inches from mine, I could feel the pulses in her thumbs meeting and matching those in my arms.

Right there, right then, we began to beat as one.

She whispered to me, close to my ear, a quote I recognized as Thomas Wolfe. The quote I had repeated to myself each day for a year after coming out. The quote I regarded as a prayer of my own. How could she have known?

"Each of us is the sum of all the parts he has not counted," she breathed. "Subtract us into nakedness and night again, and you shall see, born ten-thousand years ago in Crete, the love that ended yesterday in Texas."

Finally, without letting go of my wrist, she stretched out my arm and began to slowly kiss the soft, sueded skin at the inside of my elbow -- a place no one had ever kissed me that I could remember.

When she reached for me, and I felt her strong hands spanning my ribs, spread open like a butterfly under, but not touching, my breasts, I knew this was woman who could handle me like no one had handled me before.

"On a little vacation?" she asked, scraping back the iron chair on the patio and sitting down. Her eyes crinkled and glinted in the sunlight, and I knew she had caught me again.

-----------------------------

Part VI
By The Eastern Edge


"Howdeeee Partner", I cried loudly coming out of the restaurant,
kicking my heels up.

People turned to stare, which, of course, was why I had said it so
loud. Damn this town is conservative. I've got a glint in my eyes
and you know something's going on in my little head.

I put my bandana over my dyed hair, covering the vampire red
manic panic tints. I pull your chair back from behind, walk around
to face you, and put my hands in between your thighs and my lips
on your ear. You blush as I straddle you and sit, comfortably, in a
position that leaves other patrons either horrified or grinning.

"Babe, could I have my red lipstick", I ask?

Red lipstick, you think. Since when does she wear red lipstick?
Oh right. Must match the boots with lipstick. Damn she's good.

"Ummm, I can't get up", you whisper

"Wrong", I reply coyly. "You can't get up without carrying me
attached to your groin".

I pretend to whip your back, and you're thinking I'm taking this
western thang waaaayyy too seriously. On the other hand,
exhibitionism isn't completely lost on you.

You stand up, holding my ass. I keep my eyes locked to yours.
You walk us to the other side of the table, bend down to pick up
my purse, and nearly drop me.

Laughing so hard, I pretend to fall, sprawling on the floor. "Damn
you", I cry. Just think what that could have done to our baby!!! If
you're gonna make me pregnant at least treat me good after. I ain't
no trailer trash".

Yes, I'm in `that' kind of mood. And you know that the only thing
to do now is play along.

"Honey, I bought you dem der boots and a stylin' dress. I treat
you like a princess, bringing you to these fancy-ass restaurants.
What more do you want from me girl? Three times a day ain't
enough for you anymore? I'll tell ya one thang. I ain't had no one
or nothin' ask so much o' me in ma whole laaf".

"Now listen sexy dyke toy", I say with a punishing look on my
face, "don't you act like I ain't worth it. And besides, I need to tell
you that this is JR's baby".

We both crack up...as do our neighbors. JR Ewing. Did you
watch that show?

We have made our mark on Piatti's, and for this I am proud. Our
waitress tells us we look so cute together, and we teasingly ask her
if she'd like to delve into her...ummm...curiosity with us in our tent
that night. She giggles and says, "maybe".

You start to flirt and I give you that `look'.

"Bi, bye, bye. She already has enough toasters to start an ebay
business", nodding at you.

"Girl, can we please stay in a hotel tonight"?, you ask imploringly.


"No way. It's back to the dirt and river. It's where I belong".

"Oh yeah right", you say, as you wrestle me to the earth and give
me a long, hard kiss.

Right. She does belong in nature, the princess. How strange.

We both remember a passage from a book:

"Are you a princess"?
a young girl asks
"No", she smiles,
"I'm much more than a princess.
But you don't have a name for me yet
here on earth".

---------------------------------------------

Part VI
By the Western Edge

Wine, shopping, and camping. It’s almost more than a dyke can stand.
The only thing that excites me more than the possibility of being alone in a tent in a state park with you, is the opportunity to play with all that gear.

I know it’s only one night, but I want everything to be perfect for you. So, I’ve brought a stove, and a micro-stove, fuel canisters, and a solar-powered radio. I’ve got fanny packs, water bottles, and art supplies for sketching. We’ll sleep in a double-wide bag on the biggest, thickest Thermarest I could find. And, I’ve got a small fortune in comestibles packed away in the ice chest . I take this camping thing seriously. There is so much Polarfleece piled up in the car that a million old soda bottles must have given their lives for your warmth and comfort.

And I brought down pillows with clean cases.

You, however, walked out of the house in another one of those short rayon dresses and a pair of flip-flops. It was an unseasonably 72 degrees this afternoon, balmy for January. In your hand was a medium-sized Hermes shopping bag holding a sweater, a pair of socks (for boot shopping), and your toothbrush.

"Ready to hit the trail, cowgirl?" you asked me, fluttering your eyelids. Then you wrapped your legs into the Landcruiser, and we headed east, over the hills that edge the Valley of the Moon. Stopping up on Sonoma Mountain, we looked back over the wide, flat plain stretching out towards the coastal range. The plain Luther Burbank called "the chosen spot of all the earth." Green with the winter rains, it stretches towards a pillow of fog, waiting just offshore. If I press myself, I can imagine how it looked before the invasion of urban sprawl. Tonight, when the sun goes down, the fog will creep inland, thick and dripping over the plain, keeping frost at bay and befuddling drivers.

"Wait! Let me get the camera!"

I grab the disposable camera I bought for the trip and make you pose for a picture. Never one to wear sunglasses, you squint towards the camera, your arm flung up over your head.

Finally, we climb back in and head towards Sonoma.

"Ready for adventure?" I ask, resting my hand lightly on the back of your neck, and on the small tattoo there – a lotus blossom opening upward.

I remember the night we met in The Black Cat, and how I longed to explore that tattoo, having just caught a flash of it.

It was at least two weeks before I saw it, though. At least two weeks and four scorchingly hot dates before I spread your hair out over my pillow, taking all the time in the world to trace it with my fingertip.

I don’t think I’d ever had a long-haired girlfriend.

"And now I don’t," I thought, laughing to myself.

My fascination with your hair knew no end. I loved to stroke it, brush it, and wash it. I loved the smell of it, and the feel of it on my skin. I loved the way you put it up with a pencil and could make it tumble down with a single gesture. The first time you sat astride me and let it drag slowly over my naked body, I thought I would come undone…

That’s why I was so shocked when you asked me to cut it, explaining that you loved the brushy feeling of my short hair. You were longing to "feel the wind on your scalp," you explained.

And, it was a pain to care for, you said.

"If this is what you really want.
I started pulling out my scissors and clippers.

"Bring it on, baby," you said.

And I did.

I died a little death with each lock that fell. But your head, emerging, was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. That morning, we discovered that your tawny skin – skin the color of an iced mocha – spread all over your body. We made Bloody Marys to celebrate, raising our glasses in a toast, out on the deck. You, entirely unselfconscious, radiant and shorn. Then, after another drink, we decided to shave your head smooth.

Armed with disposable razors and my tube of Keihl’s "Close Shaver" cream that I reserve for my legs, I set to work.

You giggled at the menthol tingle of the cream.

When we finished, I couldn’t take my hands off your head. We showered, laughing at the water beading up on you and running over your shoulders and down your breasts. Afterwards, you shrugged on a sweater and a velvet skirt, and we drove into The City, spending the afternoon at MOMA. People turned to watch you walk by, velvet skirt swaying, head shining, accented with a slash of that MAC red lipstick that is your only vanity now.

I fiddle with the solar-powered radio. There isn’t enough light here under the trees, so I turn the crank about sixty times, and am able to bring in KRSH on the dial. Just in time. Catie Curtis is singing that song about her mother cleaning Elvis’ house – one of my all-time favorites.

"… and I dreamed about my soul mate, who’s a hotel clerk in Jersey…" I hum along, messing with the gear in the back of the jeep.

"What about a hike later?" I call out.

In reply, the air is split with your yell:

"Yee-haw!"

And I turn to see you pulling the dress over your crew-cut head and striding towards the tent, wearing only the red boots.

###

Last weekend, in response to a reader's emailed question about what I hope to accomplish through my posts, I wrote this short story:

WEAK IN THE KNEES

I walk into my favorite friendly hang-out and sit down. The bartender greets me warmly. I order a shot of Patron tequila, over ice and with two olives — just the way I like it. It's early in the evening and only a few people are hanging out. I'm really just stopping by on my way home, savoring a single drink before my long drive.

A woman is playing pool, alone. I sit and relax, listening to the jukebox. I don't turn around, but over the music I can hear how many shots she's making, and how many she's missing. She's making a lot of them, and with some authority.

Finally, she lays the cue on the table and returns to the bar, taking the seat next to me. She asks for a glass of water and when she turns to me, there is that brief moment of electric eye contact — the kind I can feel in my groin. Embarrassed, I look down. But she puts me at ease and we begin to make the small talk of strangers brought together by circumstance. Our conversation builds and flows easily. We laugh together.

She asks me what I do and I tell her. We talk about basketball, organic farming, our spiritual paths, and art. We compare the merits of the coast to those of the desert, electric chain saws to gas-powered, and Great Danes to Mastiffs. We wonder if the new, fancy Toyota Landcruisers have maintained any of the Daktari charm of the early ones.
"Ah, Daktari," she says, wistfully.
We talk about the politics of female sexuality, we talk about cake mascara, and we talk about music. She knows the answer to the question "Mick Jagger or Steve Tyler?"

She's smart and funny. She isn't challenging me; she's drawing me out. I can't get a handle on her age, but it doesn’t matter. I admire her boots and the ring she wears on the middle finger of her right hand. She tells me she designed the ring and made it herself. She hands it to me to try on. The inside is worn smooth.

We talk about the pitfalls of dating. How hard it is to find someone special. How hard it can be to flirt with women without being cheesy. I tell her how I have a hard time recognizing when a woman is hitting on me.

Each of us devotes a sentence or two to our respective baggage, and we nod knowingly, in acceptance. We've been there.

Finally, our conversation turns cyber and we talk about the phenomenon that is craigslist. We admit to having been there, having read the posts. I don't mention my poetry.

Still, she looks at me slyly and asks if I've ever read any of the poetry there, between the chatter. She tells me she's especially turned on by the poetry posted by the woman who writes from The Western Edge. She expresses an appreciation for the act of posting poetry in such a prosaic location.

She makes reference to a couple of details in my poems. She comments on how they parallel what I've told her about my life. I actually blush.

When she quotes a favorite songwriter, I know I've been caught. She's figured me out.

And, now I'm hanging here, wondering what comes next.

She asks for my number and says she'll call me for dinner on Thursday.
And I know she will.

"And let me be clear" she says. "I'm hitting on you."

She puts down her glass and heads out the door. Outside, I hear the distinctive rumble of a 1987 Landcruiser engine firing up.

I'd get up to leave now, but I'm weak in the knees.


###


1/18/03

CHOOSING FRUIT

I knew she was pissed and would be gone for a while, but I eventually broke down and went looking for her.

She was sitting on the picnic table in a half-lotus position, her back straight, looking out over the lake. I knew it was her because I recognized the back of her spangled belt, which spelled out "Taurus".

My feet crunched in the redwood bark as I walked up beside her.

It was cold to be sitting that still.

"Hey," I said, always the poet.

"Would you like a bite of pear?" she asked,
holding out the fruit.
"It’s still a little crunchy."

"No thanks," I said.
"I like my pears the way I like my women –
so ripe they’re about to be rotten."

"Now let’s go home."

1/22/03

###