Love,
Perhaps I have been gone too long; I’m getting quite giddy with thoughts of returning to work, to the stage, and the thrill of naked flesh against the murky light. I wrap a lock of hair around a finger. It’s shorter than last you saw it. The ends curl with the summer heat, so much more humid here than in Colorado. I sigh, imagine myself close to you, imagine the play of breath between us, the power in a locked gaze. An electric trill resonates through my nerves, tiny leaps of anxiety of which I thought I’d been cured quite thoroughly. ha. A strip club is quite different from a meditation retreat center.
The breath reaches into the body, brushing the dark, spreading bones, meeting space with space.
The body rests on Earth, practical, and reaches into the limitless sanity of Heaven.
Two friends dance along a path. Sometimes it looks like they are making love.
Relatively, that is. And a stripper is quite a different incarnation of this “me.” Relatively. I eagerly await the final layer of re-integration back into my city life, my livelihood that is humorously, a shedding. They say enlightenment is a shedding, an awareness– illumination–of that state of being which has always been our nature, ultimately, absolutely, unconditionally. Thus have I heard.
I indulged myself with writing some imperfect poetry while I was away, stealing moments in between practice sessions, looking out at the expanse of surrounding mountains, and filling pages with short musings. Just this once, I’ll let you read my diary, soon I’m sure this pretty head will be filled with all those oh-so-sweet-just-one-more sex fantasies again. I hope so. You’ll have to come in soon, be my muse…
xx
Ster£ing
*
Love sweet Love
my mind can’t help but
join with you here as my heart spreads
against the sky
I am exhilarated at the
closeness of Heaven,
my feet planted on a mountain peak
Even the clouds dance up here,
in seeming salute to we visitors
the beautiful wanderers
homeless and ecstatic
we are a dreaming dance
a dancing dream.
**
Training the mind is a
relief,
not needing to craft some punishment here,
with coveted collars and paddles
elaborate lovely tricks and games
just coming back
again and
again
and againbeing carried a little less far this time from
home.
***
Imperfect poetry
frees me from spinning on the wheel,
from planning the plan that I’ve planned and surmised, and edited and revised,
habitual mind thinking, pleading, convincing
that it will be different this
future–
As if a world without the senses
without breath
without you,
could be worth investing in at all.
