Damn, this man
just keeps throwing another
log onto my fire.
Category: saucy
I’m a sucker for a sexy poem (Margaret Atwood’s).
One of my favorite small poems (A.R. Ammons).
Their Sex Life
One failure on
Top of another.
Life; lemons; sexy sailors (image).
When life gives you lemons…
you make blood orange lemonade and mix it with vodka.
When life gives you sailor-themed thigh highs with little silver anchors hanging from the top, you…
purchase a ship?
get your freak on?
prepare your sexy sailor halloween costume very, very early?
What I receive at the farmers’ market is not only vegetables.
Some facet of my Saturday is in this photograph (Sally Mann).
It’s something about the stance, about looking perfect but wrong with a cigarette; something about that dress, about having a sister nearby with hands on hips and a kid on stilts in the background, about that knotty sideswiped hair and the frills on the side of her stark white dress and her watch
that reminds me of today with Elspeth, buying fabric in National City to make a dress and seeing little kids dance in a Subway where we bought a Sprite and used the bathroom, receiving flowers and wrapping stones in gold wire, drinking coffee with milk and sugar from my tea set, staring at the pinks in paintings, some or all of that is in this photograph, titled “Candy Cigarette” by Sally Mann. (More Sally Mann here, on Artsy.)
(photo via art-folio by michèle laird)
Real friends wear your hats (photo)!
Oh I have so many hats! And all I ever want is for my friends to wear them. And here they are, imported from Georgia and New York: my friends. In my hats.
My California vacation (photograph).
Cup of Coffee and Cigarette. John Guttman. 1950.
(except I don’t smoke cigarettes & we have a lot of windows)
Poem of today (mine).
At Peet’s Coffee & Tea, San Diego, CA
Two trannies play a game
of pattie-cake
at the back corner table
New favorite poem (Galway Kinnell).
Last Gods
She sits naked on a rock
a few yards out in the water.
He stands on the shore,
also naked, picking blueberries.
She calls. He turns. She opens
her legs showing him her great beauty,
and smiles, a bow of lips
seeming to tie together
the ends of the earth.
Splashing her image
to pieces, he wades out
and stands before her, sunk
to the anklebones in leaf-mush
and bottom-slime—the intimacy
of the geographical. He puts
a berry in its shirt
of mist into her mouth.
She swallows it. He puts in another.
She swallows it. Over the lake
two swallows whim, juke jink,
and when one snatches
an insect they both whirl up
and exult. He is swollen
not with ichor but with blood.
She takes him and talks him
more swollen. He kneels, opens
the dark, vertical smile
linking heaven with the underearth
and murmurs her smoothest flesh more smooth.
On top of the rock they join.
Somewhere a frog moans, a crow screams.
The hair of their bodies
startles up. They cry
in the tongue of the last gods,
who refused to go,
chose death, and shuddered
in joy and shattered in pieces,
bequeathing their cries
into the human breast. Now in the lake
two faces, floating, see up
a great maternal pine whose branches
open out in all directions
explaining everything.
Pelican poem (mine).
Deep
A gathering
of pelicans:
now that’s a lot
of throat.
panache, perhaps 