love is a beating, breathing, sweetly pulsating bog storm cloud of puppies and unicorns and cute little velvet hearts, circling and surrounding me -- damn, this could choke a girl.
love is a bubble, a really quiet bubble, that i vainly press my palms against to touch the world as it goes by. nothing i write will ever pull me out of this.
so many have succumbed in this battle. look at all my fallen sisters sweetly slumbering on the ground, their mouths and fingers candy pink and sticky, their bellies swollen like pumpkins: one great big pumpkin patch.
and i: stubborn lone field warrior, wildly slashing away when lightening illuminates this scene.
i didn't take the red pill, i didn't take the blue pill. i took them both. you call it the purple passion pill. now, here i am, neither here nor there, still where i was, no different, yet utterly different. when i look at you and ask why? why did you give me a choice when you knew i'd take both? you laugh and say, what i'm feeling is only the effects of a drug, and nothing more.
what is the answer to purple passion? like love, it's a joke without an end. there's your answer. that poor fool, who spent his whole life searching for the answer, only to die just before he found it. "he died trying." yes he did.
i suppose, one has to take the drug, to know the drug. (that's right. the first time is free, after that it's gonna cost you.)
may i be the first to tell you, i like it, even though you seem to give it away all the time to everybody.
. . . . .
lightening flashes of rain. sweet rain that smells like your skin, like the desert after a rainstorm when you can smell and feel the desert coming alive and you know, instinctively know in your blood what green smells and feels like and tastes like, and salt crystals on your skin catch the sun like mica: little mirrors flashing y-e-s, and i-love-you, and oh, how i want to see you gloriously naked in this environment, sunkissed and smiling.
there is no one like you.
wasabi-papi: you are a raw piece of fish in my mouth. you are such hot sake, hot mustard, hot n' spicy, naughty, nicey, my fingers burn when i touch you. captain california roll-in-the-hay, when you take a break from making hay while the sun shines, let's lock the door & toss our clothes to the floor....
it all began when we were climbing mount everest. we had decided to push on past the base camp, but it was getting dark fast and i had begun to shiver uncontrollably, my clothes soaking wet from the snow climb and my fear of heights.
you made a fire and a bed of skins. undressed me quickly and put me under their warmth, then set up camp.
when you noticed i still shook from cold, you too undressed, and lay next to me, holding me close. your legs intertwined through mine, your heart beat faster persuading mine not to slow.
i remember feeling nothing and then suddenly everything: the sharp crack of pain that told me i was alive, your breath when i inhaled, the feeling of undulating water and waves, as if we had melted all the snow and ice around us. in that time, to know what it felt like, after waiting so long, to not need you, to not want you, to not reach for you, because you were already there.
some people don't like it. oh, but for those of us that do. boxed and buttercupped, lying redolently in the impulse section of every grocery store, deli, 7-11 and hudson news. you made me beg for it in a hobo costume every october, you are the pillar of the unholy holiday, where in mexico we can wake up on november 1st with chocolate-smeared hands and mouths to mourn those poor dead souls who no longer know the joy of almond joy. it's bad for you. or maybe it's good for you: what a nice earthly balance.
i like it straight up, no chaser, big piece, milk or dark, put it in my mouth and suck on it till it slowly melts.