Moving Back

My experiment in Fantasia is over. I thought if I wanted it bad enough, I could make it happen. But the fantasy has shattered.

A magic hat without a plan is just a mouse asking for trouble.

Three years ago, I moved out of the house I shared with my ex and never looked back. I started my dream career with a vision of a skyrocketing trip through journalism. I moved into a rent-controlled apartment with the understanding that it was a temporary arrangement, soon to be replaced with hipper digs.

Life as an independent contractor took on a nightmarish hue, as I labored over stories that the community newspaper sometimes chose not to pay for. Moving to a more stable position at a larger paper proved difficult, because I couldn’t chase ambulances at midnight with two young children sleeping at home alone. The water was rising.

Despite my tenuous financial situation, I moved into a condo that I convinced myself I could afford. No more noisy neighbors overhead! A garage to house my car and crates full of…not sure! Keeping up with the Joneses! Did I mention the community hot tub?

I believed that the money was under my control. It would do what I told it to do, because I was wearing the magic hat. Pay the rent! Cover the car payment! Shell out the credit card balance! Gym membership – hell yeah!

Funny how a magic hat can turn a formerly frugal stay-at-home mom into an irresponsible luxury-craving fool.

Weaker women have been known to spring for fancy furniture. Or shop for thigh-high boots and mini skirts. Or buy plane tickets to visit their best friend. When that money is gone, all the magic hats in the world can’t bring it back.

The job went under first – I couldn’t stand the insecurity. I fell back on my teaching credential, and when I found there were no openings for teachers I took a job as a teaching assistant. The money wasn’t any better than the newspaper job, but at least it was stable and offered benefits. And kept my head above the water.

The rent for the condo forced me to try living on a $50-a-week grocery budget for the three of us. Try, and fail. I love a challenge as much as the next person, but how many boxes of mac and cheese can one family eat?

Although it felt like a step backwards, I filled out an application for the rent-controlled apartments. And was put on a waiting list with all the other drowning mice. I was literally months away from running out of money. The buckets of bills kept coming.

I was watching my son grapple with a girl bigger than him at jiu-jitsu class when I received a call from an unfamiliar number. The rent-controlled apartment manager offered me a place for $500-a-month less than I was paying. Even a magic hat can’t beat that deal.

And this time, back is a step in the right direction.

Visibility

Who would see you

if you were not six

feet tall, with long legs, with

shapely legs. You

would stand up straight, so

straight, and no one, no one

would see you.

Blown Away

A calendar counts the days,

my heart ticking faster with your second-hand touch,

your breath gusting windy across the miles,

a voice in the wilderness calling.

Soon we will seal the deal,

a turbulent kiss spilling desire out of dreams,

as sirens scream across your midnight lake,

sucking up a current of smoke, mist and flickering lights.

The breezy views from atop tall buildings and long legs

cling in wrap-around splendor,

and we sip passion with knowing glances,

teasing gratification with a swizzle stick.

I have weathered the storm,

still laid across the bed as your favorite comforter,

your smell on my skin, your love in my eyes,

your burn lingering between the blustery sheets of my journal.

Give Little

...give little,

I moaned to him,

give seldom,

what you need

and above all

I need only

give grudgingly.

more so. You

Otherwise a proper

think sex is

 marriage could become

everything?

an orgy

It is,

 of sexual lust.

I moaned.

Ring

You are the one man

calling my name on

the telephone. And love is a sparkling ring

because it announces itself.

The dialtone is vacant,

the telephone pole has disappeared.

But love is louder,

and quieter equally.

The Dance

In weary silence we dance

around the kitchen, avoiding

a glance, a word, a touch,

rapidly waltzing away.

When did we become strangers

perfecting the poker face,

sliding bets across the table

on an unsure thing.

Each day pulls a thread from

the fabric, invisibly unraveling,

parting without a backward glance.

When does it become unimportant

to preserve something long-ago

spoiled by inattention and apathy,

unable to ignore the rancid stench

of a dead, rotting lie.

Ripe

Taste me, a ripe summer

fruit dripping with possibilities,

my fragrance wafting on heat

to caress your perception, my

firmness soft to your inquiry.

The crow sought to ruin

me with his greedy grasp,

to drain my sweetness but

I twisted quickly away, my

lusciousness still intact.

Taste me, a sun-seasoned

gift of the gods, smooth

nectar within succulent

flesh, I am ready to satisfy

your appetite.

Word

Words turn me on. And you have a way with words.

Obscene, absurd, inspired, your words arouse me. They rub me the right way. Reading you is pure stimulation.

I pickpocket your words without hesitation. One or two at a time, I secretly tuck them away. Late at night I pull them out, staring at the darkened ceiling.

I love the way they twist around in my mind and on my tongue. How well I know you is irrelevant; you’re inside me now. Keeping me awake or lulling me to sleep.

A damned affliction.

There’s no cure. My body aches, waiting for the next fix. You’re such a pusher.

I sneer at the dripping sarcasm you secrete. I clench my jaw at the blows you fend off. My breath chases your everyday observations.

Here I am, pleasuring myself in front of you. It’s hard to resist. Do you like to watch?

You like to write. Words make you larger or smaller, depending on which door you want to fit through. You are what you write.

Your disgusting honesty. Your delicious lies. Your rasping, spitting, singing, preaching, whispering.

It’s a wild ride with the top down. Even when you’re unintelligible, you’re provocative.

My word.

Sanguinarian

For too long you have sucked

salty years from my forgotten neck,

your barren teeth jabbing still,

always taking,

concealed within a thirsty echo.

Hope drips from a vague wound,

replaced with diaphanous release,

to leave this vacant shell,

this flesh and bones,

this frozen breath coursing through my veins.

In the corner a soul hangs darkly,

wrapped tightly around itself

in malignant memories.

I have stopped expecting it

to rise and gather meaning.

Grasping at straws, none thick

enough to breech your skin

but pricking a thousand tiny holes

in my own resolve;

my body prone to lie in a vulgar box.

Yet dawn’s creeping solace offers

one last freedom. The shaft

plunges eagerly through my dusty heart.

I am not disappointed

this time.

Burn

I would lick your lips to uncover

words I want to hear,

suck your fingers to release

words not yet written.

Touch them with my tongue,

take them in my mouth,

swallow them for my own edification.

I would devour you, so spicy

you burn my mouth and water my eyes,

and I have lost my appetite for everything

bland.

I want to burn.