"god" is a word. "god is dead" is three words. Meaning is fluid, pumping from three words to what you believe I believe. “guts” is a word. “I hate your guts” is four words. I don’t know your guts. My words are meaning moving in your guts. “Can you taste the venom in my soul?” I have no soul. You have no guts to call your own. Venom has no taste and no vessel. “Guts” is just a word. “Soul” is just a word. “god” is just a word. God is just. God is justice. Justice is a worm. I have worms in my guts, God’s guts. ...puttin' the Po' in NaPoWriMo...
A ten year old boy grabs the fishing gear catalogue from the floor by the door where it fell through the slot. He takes it to the living room with blanket milk and cookies flops down on bony elbows and flips through glossy pages upon pages of lures like jewels and reels of alloyed aluminum and turned titanium perfected machines for catching fish finders that now show not just blips in the blue but what the fish themselves are eating and what they ate last night and how they feel about the weather spool upon box upon spindle of line and tippet and leader floating sinking and mid-level lines of every kind rods of every conceivable length and type and quality and material and portability and boxes and bags for all this inconceivable variety of glorious gear and vests with a thousand pockets and purpose-built hats and hip-boots and waders to wear while using it all and a man, forty-two years of age, puts down this glamour-mag for guys, this piece of Piscean porn, vaguely disappointed in his new-found disinterest, wipes, stands up, pulls up his pants and flushes. ...puttin' the
Poo'Po' in NaPoWriMo...
You were the one who lived through your body while eye lived in mind. When you opened your mouth, your bones spoke to me. They told me of how they wanted to dance, of how they longed to be free of the skin and the flesh of the creature they framed. They wanted to dance in the sky, to dangle in the trees. They wanted to rattle in the breeze and punctuate the silence with their hollow music and all I wanted was to feel them move under my fingers.
My response to the Three Nuts and a Squirrel challenge... a shameless bit of Holiday smut for you... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You know what I will do and you know you will not stop me. I will release the fragile bird that you keep locked up tight in that cage under the thin crust of your self control because I know how to crack that safe and I know what hides there and how it longs to be free of its soft prison. I hear that treasure ticking and trembling and I know how to twist and tweak those dials, how to drive my tongue like a truck down the furrows of your flesh into that deepest of valleys where hides the master switch, releasing that desperate angel of your ecstacy.
“The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds; and the pessimist fears this is true.”
——–James Branch Cabell
…and with that honeyed tongue she bathed me in
the light upon her lathe and stoked the fires
in which we age and turned me untill I knew not
where came love or loss or faith or dreams…