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Thursday, January 26, 2006

Summer

The body wants, and I take it out on paper with pen-as-blade. Jab fact into page. The body wants.

Sweat. Fluid movement to music on grass. Moon. Heat. Sarong-wrapped hips. Salt-licked lips. Cicadas.

The body wants Austin. Acid burn in legs as I take those hills on bike. Free swim at Barton Springs. Kid diving for the first time. Magnolia Cafe. Life music. Belly dancing beauty full under tiny twinkling starlight lights. Coffee roasting at Ruta Maya. Poetry slams. Walks in bath water warm air. Green like none I’ve ever seen.

The body wants day long naked under ceiling fan with books, cigarettes, and tequila. It wants a long, lazy fuck somewhere blue-bonnet-Indian-paintbrush speckled. It wants live oaks sprawling overhead and slow rivers. Even grackles. Even palmetto bugs. Even 120 in the shade and sunburned shoulders.

It wants none of that he I went there for. None. No memory, even, except to remember what helps to love better. No hint of ambivalence. No speck, even, of dependence. None of the old sick, chaos-lust. The me I am now and the he of me I’ve found and all the loves I love under hot moon, drunk and twirling, blissful.

Hot.

The body wants Nag Champa smoke billowing before candle flame. To dress him in paisley and baptize him in jasmine, in vanilla, in patchouli and yes, tell him, grow your hair out, and yes, twist it into dreds.

***

It was the wrong time. It was for the wrong man. I should have waited, should have gone on a lark when ‘need’ was no part of the equation and all was passion-led. Or I should never have gone at all, should never have known what winterless was. Would have been happier, then, in this black and white photograph this life becomes each godforsaken, frozen half-year.

The body wants summer.

F

x-posted at Frippery

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