Licorices

I needed your passion
Just that one time

Twice

After too long
Silent in the dark places
Where women sit and bide there

Their time

And I was soo hungry

Indulging a second time
..Despite the warnings..
Was completely called for

Later that night
I killed the chef

Slit her beautiful throat

Hung her hat
Crookedly on the bedpost

Leaving

A literal warning
To my heart
To not deny my soul
For soo long

Reminding all the rebel mob
Sitting in whispers

That they do not hold control

That I can give one rein
While bending them hard
Into overflexation

Step/pause/right/right/left

Bitch-
es

Kudzu Bugs

I do not wear a wedding ring.

Really, I do not recall when I first slipped it off and placed it gently into my tiny jewlerybox.

I do remember that I felt… smiley about it.

My husband did notice.

Of coarse He would.

He did not ask me about it for a year though.

“I don’t need to be a slave to love you Babe”

You aren’t my slave Jamie.

“It screams that I’m paid for”

He hasn’t asked me about it again, but a little while after that, He did state he’d gotten used seeing me without it.

I thought for a bit that perhaps our relationship was lacking.

After a thorough scanning and evaluation, I concluded that, while we were both changing and growing, it has been a growth into our lifes together.

Like two kudzu vines climbing up the same electric pole…..we’ve become crisscrossed and tangled, rooting into the treated lumber, reaching for next inches….. holding eachother steady in the storms…. shading eachother when one side of the pole gets too hot!

Even if we manage to topple the pole, we will still hold the shape of it forever……

I do wear the ring that He gave me when we became engaged though.

Being engaged is infinitely better I think.

Being aware of each other, present……action-ate!

It is also not a solid circle.

A silver feather band that curls around my finger gracefully in it’s ability to expand or shrink given the circumstance and temperature.

It is just as symbolic as the kudzu that covers every bare inch of this land.

Kudzu Love…..

I could write a poem about it.

Or a series of sentences.

When did I become soo affectionate towards kudzu?!

Being the windshield

I was a young Dire Straights fan. My favorite song to sing along with was, of coarse, ‘The Bug’ .
Even at such an oblivious age, I had the strong feeling that the song was our family anthem. We’d start to think things were going just fine…. Then BAMM! We hit a bug! Or BAMM! Windshield to the face!
Really, it’s just the normal progression of life…..Right?
https://youtu.be/IdsAeRtdqzA

Jamie has left the Library

Our local library has a TARDIS…. It’s wrapped in chains to keep potential companions in….Or Vashta Nerada out….
I’m chuckling about this within my head as I scan the isles for an investing title to loose myself in.
Quite by accident, I find myself standing among….. The Westerns.
There must have been 57 assorted titles, all with the same theme;  Guy is on the run for doing the right thing in the wrong town, runs into fiery uncommon type beauty, falls into deep love feels, returns to clean up town after potential love of his life is raped by bad guy leader….. He saves girl and town, then kisses girl, saddles grulla horse, rides away.

I grew up reading reading Louis L’Amour.
In fact, I loved the fella. I spent those first ‘confusing crush’ years fantasizing the moment I could steal a time machine, go back in his time line, accidentally run into his 37 yrold self, proceed to have awesome three week fling with L’Amour on a horse ranch in the foothills of Wyoming, hop back into time machine, forward to 2015, read the novel he wrote about our secret romps and tumbles and smile that he used my real name…..
……..I still actually enjoy this fantasy…..
And yet, as I stood surrounded by the literary not soo genius genre of collected imagined history, I realized that I stood unmoved.
Then…the thought whispered across my heart…. I’m not a Cowgirl anymore.
Somehow, between all the dirt trails I’ve rode down, cowboys seduced, horses saddled, hats worn, boots ruined….
Somehow I managed to become a regular type woman. I wear flats and skinny jeans comfortably and cut my hair short. My pickup is 2wheel drive, and I’ve thought about selling my chaps.(200$ is a deal for such gorgeous wearable history!)
Where I still ride the wild horses, they are less cowy these days….more gaited, and way taller!
I’m taken aback, just a little, in my personal life transformation, thinking about the trail I could’ve taken years ago, and this one I chose instead…
But I’m shaken suddenly out of my life revisit, by my kid-girl excitedly yelling…. in the library…..  “MomMomMom! The Doctor is in the library!!”

image

The Hardest Four Letter Words to Pronounce

I do not like
Deal well
Over all take
Disappointment well……..
Heart crushing soul etching
Deflatation
Of dreaming aspiration
Or even just the simple hope
A whispered promise carries
Are for me
Stagnant actions
Nouns
Verbally expressed with intent
Of disappointment

Tell me
Promise me
Say it in loving tunes
Sing it with declarative tones
I’ve learned to let it roll off my ears
Not letting it settle into my heart
And dare should I ever ask
For help
Twice
Then I would be in dire need
To learn my lesson
Again

Lightyears into the Present

I’ve seen the future….

Sorta

In short hot flashes

Driving down paved country roads

I will glance into the rearview

Notice the light bends behind me

And there it begins

The future

Blinding in the corner of my mind

I don’t want to explain why it is always

Just me

No children singing

The bucket seat

Empty

My own eyes creased with an age and a loss

But not enough sadness

To suspect great tragedy

Leaving the heavy weight

That it must have been a long road we traveled

Until it came to this

It must have been with no reasoning and no choice

For me to still be traveling

To Be Kept

I like being alone… I always have. Even as a tiny kid-girl, I’d seek solitude.
Under a table.
Beneath the bed.
Behind the couch.
Covered in blankets, laying in ditches, reading in the long grass.

This is why when I get the feeling of loneliness I am soo confused.
I get restless, illcontent.
Each time the dull air settles in my bones I reach and yearn for some sort of answer.
I feel hungry, asleep. Almost punch drunk and depressed.
Flirting with death, teasing my blood with promises of release.

All I want is to be held in an equal hunger. To be worshipped in innocence, for a moment.
To be glorious!
Kissed with the lips of another seeking the same…..solitude within some silent place within another.
I want to be fucked by a man that I don’t know, that I don’t feel, that I don’t love.
I want to be alone with him.
For a moment.
Just to be alone.

In this delirium I withdraw even more.
This is not allowed.
This would count as irreversible.
My inside shake with the anger at this loss of freedom.

This is where the story sucks.
After hiding in rooms and dousing my desire in lavender oil, the realization that I need something…. It lingers.
This is where I drive to the lonesomest bar I can find….park my pickup….and walk into the musk of old cigarette smoke and perpetual stale spilled beer.
My bootsteps fall to the beat of an Alan Jackson song, and this! This is when I know that I’ve found the right place.

Nursing a beer of my own on the corner stool, I look around….feel around…. My ears open…. And here, I feed, lapping up all of the stories unfolding around me.
Lonely old men by me drinks, and then they speak. They speak of times… wars, college, farms, hiways, deer racks, wives, horses they’ve rode, bikes they’ve wrecked. They tell me lines that have been well used with practice. Lies they’ve told themselves soo often they are truth now. They tell me what they’ve learned…. What they thought they had forgotten.
They are delicious stories of lust and loss… Redemption and damnation. But they remain….Others stories.
Still, I turn them over in my head. Editing, filling in, warping them.
I suck them dry, living them in wakingdream after wakingdream.
But these stories, they are little more than snickers bars, and all I’m left with is a thick high….

I’m hungry again.
I want to bake my own stories again.
Live in the kitchen of my soul again.
Create my own culinary satisfaction again.
Beefy and delicious pot of roast experience and tender potato perspective.
Salads with crisp new cucumber ideas.
Pies made of fresh lessons learned topped in ahhha moments.
Sweet memory tea!

All I’ve got right now is strangers tears in beers and mini wheats.
Warm, Unfrosted and soggy with skim milk.

This cereal/beer diet is getting stale…….
I want a feast!