the wind blows the clouds are scuttling across the sky tonight and I am thinking about love and you know because of this I am thinking about you you know that all the goddesses wily and warm as they are provoke me into love prompt the chittering of my tongue and its languid moments touching upon you you know I am taking you into the haven of my arms into the wet dark of me where miracles of the moment happen and happen and I am drunk on love and touch and you___ this is the meaning of body this is the meaning of spirit this is the meaning of mind merging with mind my words hiss through my teeth this is a sign of intensity time is short shorter than it’s been in the past and I no longer have time for so-so that is why my teeth are clenched and my feelings are sieving through the spaces between my teeth as I draw breath to fuel this moment of experienced life I have been touched today with love and I am touching you wih love because my words are possible my sensate thought wrapping around you the way my cunt wraps around you and holds you tight even as you move within me I want you I want you I want give me your thinking your dreams imaginings I want I want I want to fill you full fill you this is the moment now.
my current apathy to writing blog entries which I ascribe to the Journalspace blog loss I know I know MOVE ON, suzie-Q move on blog postings and poetry have been scarce as hen's teeth hereabouts since the start of the new year in part because I've been thinking PROSE in my writerly moments hopefully I'll come to my senses soon and get back to poetry since concluding from past experience we all know that I am not what you could call a prose writer still I have this idea worth exploring . . . and so I sit (getting now to the other writing abeyance factor) knitting knitting knitting away more furiously than Madame LaFarge it's like this: I was thinking as I knit about what, of a person, lasts beyond her lifespan and as I sat knitting away I noted my feet propped on the ottoman which was covered with a small coverlet my mother (dead now 13 years) had knit some 45 years ago or so . . . my words will last if my literary executors, i.e., those who receive my hard drives) keep backing them up !!!!!! and perhaps there will be some chapbooks or even a full length collection of poems before too long but what I know lasts aside from those are recipes and knitting so I have decided to knit something wondrous for each person I care about and I'm also thinking of knitting or weaving (as I still have weaving to get around to doing) a shroud for myself a thing of great magnificence to be put in the fire with this well used body of mine when it ceases to be my home and of course my shroud will be an elaborate item of great complexity and beauty which will take FOREVER to knit (or weave) and which the burning of will elicit as much weeping as the end of me will elicit but there's power in the ever being made and still incompleted piecework . . . just ask Penelope just ask Arachne making thread and making from thread are honored actions from close to the beginning of we the sapient species I came into the world at one end of a chord and I have been making my way through the labyrinth of life thread in hand and no doubt so it will go util my thread is snip snippt measured and clipt
a happenstance when silence screams dirt brown six feet down even in the swelter of summer is cool to the touch where the worms turn flesh into dust a frenzy of thoughts (a murder of crows) speaking the language of ears and parts growing slowly slowly old there will be fruit on the table by dusk and we will eat juice running down our chins licking each other’s fingers clean until our hearts seeds planted there explode in flowerings