Am I less of a man?

The smell of stale smoke clings to my worn wrinkled clothes
while my mouth is dry with the acrid taste of a faded night,
my body aches and my mind spins in blindness

all I can see is the shape of your face,
the warmth of your body pushed against mine,
your laughing voice staining my ears with desire,
your hand causally pressed against my shoulder blade:

“Stand here with me”
And when it was time for me to leave
“Maybe I’ll see you around?”

Is it some sort of Kierkegaardian madness,
an unexplainable leap of faith into folly,
an unanswerable puerile measure of my unconscious self against all I desire,
a madness unknown yet made manifest in my male ego?

Or is it because I consider myself some weird sort of feminist,
Or maybe somewhere in blind naïveté I grasp at nothing,
Or perhaps it is my sexual brokenness,
(for some reason it’s not ok for a ‘man’ to be sexually broken – to scream in frustration of the expectations just having a penis brings)
Or is it my childhood – that fine dance of cognitive dissidence,
my only reminder that I once grew up,
I once learned, loved, hated, was someone else?

Am I less of a man because
I did not ask for your number,
that I did not take you home,
that I did not fuck you last night?

Book One, “Beth” : Chapter 1

I lay, by the shape she makes. I let my hand run down the curve of back, rolling over the grooves of her spine just to land in the crease jus above her buttocks. That half circle, where a small valley leads me. I run my cold finger in that valley of her lower back. The small hairs, too light to be glimpsed by the eyes, but to the finger they are soft. That shape that moves still and methodic with her breathing.

I lift my finger for a second, and small bumps sporadically raise, those hairs are finally distinguished. Her eyes part, born again into a new day. Those brown eyes, so magnificent, so dark. Traced by the heaviest set of lashes that leave little room for the white of the eyes. Two dark globes stare at me. Her hand slips from under the sheets and takes mine, her’s are so warm, never sweaty.

Her fingers, soft and delicate, weave with mine. Her lips part, letting a soft breath escape to reach my nose. The tart breath left by the wine we shared the night before beckon me to those lips. Those lips, full and soft. I only ever kissed women. My mother and Melanie. She pulls my hand to her mouth, letting her lips part and land on the tip of my knuckle. Her lips pass over each knuckle massaging, wetting, tickling. I smile.

At this point I know I am supposed to embrace her and wet her lips. I just can’t stop staring into those dark globes. They tie my stomach in knots. They carry my every thought. The shape of her eyes bounds my hands to hers. She pulls me in and our lips curl into a passionate kiss. Her hand leaves mine to cup my breast. The valley of her thumb and forefinger pinch my nipple. My leg lifts to rest behind her’s. Now we are one shape, intertwined.

Its this moment when I can’t remember who I was. I know who I am and who I can be. I can be her’s. I can mesh into this shape for forever. I can lay by the shape she makes for eternity. There is no religion, science, or god who can make me feel as complete and assured as this moment, this shape, this woman can. The shape of our tongues passing over and under each other mirrors our bodies movements. Our hands are frantically searching, trying desperately to reach every crevice, to move over every indistinct hair, to finger every valley. Her lips leave mine to wet my neck, now my body is covered in bumps, my eye releases a tear. Her mouth reaches my nipple, my mouth lets a faint sound escape. Her mouth has enveloped my mind such that I am surprised when I feel her fingers reach my pout moving in circular motions, shooting sensations up my body.

That shape she makes with her tongue, her fingers, her back, her valley, her eyes, I found my love. Each day, I know I can wake up and be reborn. I can forget the town of Venerable. I can forget my alcoholic mother. I can forget the wicked and the pious people of this world. My world is the shape she makes. I lay by it. I live for it. I will never leave it. I can control this world. When I step out of that door, I lose that. I lose her.

One Shape. One Mind.

Two shapes. One Mind.

I inch first.

One shape. Two Minds.

 

What happens is we share dark secrets of the past. This ushers in a softer, warmer air. I leave occasionally to puke, to brush my teeth, to clumsily fix the disheveled.

 

Two shapes. One Mind.

We rearrange.

One shape. Two Minds.

 

At this point, its four in the morning. My hand is in between your legs and that same air has grown thick, even warmer still. You take my hand and we head upstairs.

 

Two shapes. One Mind.

We lay to rest.

One shape. Two minds.

 

The lights are off, and you turn onto your side facing me. We embrace, kiss. My hand returns to that warm valley in between your legs.

 

Two shapes. One Mind.

We turn and turn.

One shape. Two Minds.

 

There’s no right way to do it. There’s too much anticipation, expectation, frustration. We give up. A sigh stillness lay.

 

Two shapes. One Mind.

You remain.

One Shape. Two Minds.

You leave.

Two shapes. Two Minds.

Will we ever be-

One Shape. One Mind.

 

- ;)

An Alleluia Song

An Alleluia Song

I’ve been coast to coast, through three different mountain ranges, and to almost every major city in the Midwest.  I’ve met persons of every shape, color, size and creed, and I’ve loved deeply and madly and I’ve survived torrential depression.  I’ve read hundreds of books, studied scholars and philosophers, psychologists and prophets, historians and poets searching for something, some answer.  I’ve received none.  Simplicity is what I desire.  Apathy is my result.  I am 25, a deep and analytical thinker with a horrible memory, a loner afraid of commitment and intimacy.  I grew up on an isolated dairy farm, embedded deep in poverty, and I’ve forced my way into the world, something bigger than myself, forced myself from a dead and dying generation into a generation of millennials, into a postmodern, technologically savvy, social networking and empty world.  I’ve danced with hipsters, drank with rednecks, surrounded myself with nerds and gamers, immersed myself into both conservative and liberal worlds, words that mean nothing anymore.  I’ve slummed around with self proclaimed whores and womanizers and girls carrying that stigmata of title around with them.  I’ve drank with Christians and argued with atheists and still have no more understanding of each.  I am no longer a modern peasant, no longer around heavy drug addicts and alcoholic loving welfare users entrenched in poverty; yet, I am no more a middle class surbanite or a hipster or or an intellect or a millennial.  I feel no more at home on a farm or a small town or a Starbucks in Seattle. 

Yet, there is something here, something unremarkably holy about these little america’s within this country, something about the people that drive one mad with fits of curiosity, neighborhoods and communities desiring life unable to see the magnificence of it around them, brothers and sisters desiring love and wholeness unable to love themselves, mothers and fathers searching for meaning and finding it in peace, love, hatred, or fear.

And I desire it, this beauty marred by brokenness, this pain marred by love… I find myself more and more desiring that which I cannot receive, paths that I cannot follow, love that I cannot give, sins that I cannot shed, pain that I cannot heal, thoughts that I cannot think, life that I cannot live. 

So I will surround myself with these people I cannot understand, these Kerouackian folk, the ones that are ‘mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved’ and I will surround myself with the ugly and the beautiful, the restless and the content, the loved and the hated, for these are the Kingdom of God, these are the ones who have inherited the world. 

I will sing my Alleluia song and take communion for all those who have ever been afraid of the dark or pissed their pants, for all those who are perfect simply because they are human, for the ones that have lived before and will come after, caught in this place and time and human story that is bigger than any ever imagined, and I will love them in all the lazy language that I can muster, in my simple and broken Alleluia song. 

the mountain top

let us await on the mountain top forever,

let us be transfigured by your divine energy,

let not death mar nor destroy,

 

the paradox of faith demands we step off the mountain top,

to dirty ourselves in this messy broken mass of humanity,

to live with the outcast, the leper, the poor,

to partake in creation,

 

let us be transformed, renewed, recreated,

let our hop not be a disembodied soul nor heaven,

but the rebirth of all, the resurrection of all, the retelling of creation,

 

life is messy and beautiful,

an organic flowing river of human misery and joy,

in one breath, utterly terrifying and wonderful and fucked up,

as we are fucked up, as you and I and him and her,

 

and we will never know,

and we will never hope,

and we will never love,

and we will never have faith enough,

 

so let us not await on the mountain top forever,

rather let us be transfigured by your divine energy,

and do not let death mar nor destroy us,

but let us live, be fully human, to love, to laugh, to weep, to fail and be reborn again