“Go deeper, Go deeper, Go deeper”
He told her.
He questioned her.
He begged her.
He pleaded her.
Not her. Him. Him Him. Always him. Deeper into her but never into him. What did he want from her? WHat was he excavating inside the mine field of her soul?
Entering through her womanhood and moving in.
Out…out. Out! She wanted out. She wanted him out. Out in the open. THat is where she wanted him. No longer insider her. In front. Standing. Staring. Revealing.
He was no longer allowed to hide in the Woman.
She forbid it. Gave him no respite. Gave him no solace. Gave him no home until he built her one first…
And let her go inside. Go deeper and deeper and DEEPER into he man.
All the longing in her soul craved entry within.
How does woman enter a man?
How does she penetrate and plant her seeds?
How does she build a life within his love?
Serious now. She meant it. Meant it down to the fibers holding her together suspended in time.
“Leave me. Leave me be. I want you to go. Go far away. I can no longer be your home. You must find your own. I cannot replace what’s been lost in your soul. You cannot infiltrate mine and play parasitic host to mine either. Be yourself for once, you slob. Be Man. Not A Man. Be Man. I need Man. All of Man. In one man.
Let me enter into that.”
She cried in her pillow.
“Women are silver dishes into which we put golden apples.”
I hurry from my car to find
My place at the gentrified corner
Restaurant among my sister’s friends
It’s a warm and sunny afternoon
The outdoor umbrellas shield us from
Cacophonous voices examine in
Detail the parking logistics of
One long time friend tries to shush the volume of the elder woman
We are all old, senior citizens
Attending weeknight movie previews
The movie centers on a young
Hawaiian princess of the 19th century
Of her love, and loss
Punctuated by sarcastic whispers
Who forgot what it’s like to
Be young, and juicy, and needy.
“I love all women”, my Sis told me earlier.
I rise and leave the theater
In the dark, while the credits scroll.
Life with hard labor
Trudging in snow banks
Toiling under sun blisters
Saving leaf particles
Scrawled below moon dark
With her woman’s blood
Fingered herself for words
Dug deep in genital tissue
For survival sounds
Her path to freedom
All she needed
A few leaves
Creating new life
Where walking dead
Spine curled from hard labor
Paid a perilous price
For their speak out
I used to imagine myself in all the glossy photographs inside magazines, project myself into the background and now years later I have the sobering understanding that these are not and will not be me. My waiting is over – it’s merely an illusion, a trick of the mind, a wishing, a side effect of advertising. A misery builds up and I wonder what I will do with all the projections pouring out of my psyche. Why can’t I be the woman in every room, every landscape, every designer’s collection, every automobile, with every diamond, dog, dress, hair-do, handbag, high heel, on every man’s arm, every , every pedestal. Who the hell am I? What am I doing here?
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“We drank, drugged, stayed in the center of the rug, through sunset,
sunrise, played Scrabble for 8 or ten hours each time I went in to piss
she stole the letters she needed she was a survivor, the bitch.”
– from his poem “The Great Lover”