Hustle Meditations

He taught me how to say

“pares”

and bade me repeat it back to him, so I would know how–

Pares

means stop

along the beautiful coast of Catalunya
where the sea is so generous,

her salty
warm embrace
holds one like a lover,

her eyes fixed upon the stars

but,
as he said the word, he breathed it against my neck,
his fingers, firm and coaxing

the tides of climax between my thighs,

the full brimming moon,

and lips so soft and wet, and all around us such
Sí Sí Sí— I

who wouldn’t stop

so sweet a sound

as my own music

found it took

me

a

very long time

to summon breath

for

speech.

The next time you say,

“What do you want?”
Kiss me.

Feel me,

and when I’m slick with wanting

you should touch me

until it drives you crazy and I can feel your body 

alive with electricity.
Then I want you to slide

every inch inside 
me, until my jaw drops and I 

gasp, fill me all the way.
*This alone is enough to make me cum, 

and then,  when you’re so deep and so thick with warmth,

I want you to move us from the inside, slow at first,

until we synchronize
and once I lose my mind

riding 

waves of pleasure, and you have me panting for you, 

hot against your neck

I will be your toy

and I want you to use me pushing, pumping

out 

and in, and out again and again and

again.
I want you to turn me over and grab my hips until I am

face down and  moaning while you 
fuck me hard,

sliding against the sweetest secret again and again, pounding away the way

you like

until you cum inside,

our pulses matched–with

what breath you can summon call me your

Filthy Girl.

In one movement turn me to you, your fingers

sliding hard

through the surrender

you’ve made of us.

Filthy Girl

you say it again.

I can taste us mingled as I cum again and

you part my lips

opening my mouth in equal submission.

Finally, kiss me hard and wet

pinning me beneath

licking, drinking me in

with your tongue.

We consume what’s left until even you must break away

gasping, utterly parted.

And though I am spent entirely,

the shudders continue

How fascinating, 

that light can seem kind

caressing features, casting us in a glow

so perfect we’re moved to be artists, or collectors, surely—

we’d like to paint it, capture it, even

  bring it to our lips to drink it in,

bring it into our hearts.

I remember us making love during that endless golden hour,

waves of light rolling across the terrain of limbs and valleys,

cream sheets gathered in a fist, 

a veil of golden hair,

  when you came suddenly and sure

sending me playfully forward into a mountain of pillows.  You said, 

“I saw the light and

it seemed  then or never,” 

so urgent the light can be.

How fascinating, this light

so precious as it rises, fades, clears, becomes obscured with seasons and doubt, 

as though we could ever lose it, 

as though it were not simply a matter of knowing.  

Is not Winter here another’s Summer?  

Don’t the celestial bodies dance for us in every hue, 

if we just remember?

So come my love,

let us celebrate another moment on this mountain peak,

and, no matter the time,

let us dance under a perfect field of falling stars,

every wish already granted.

Panic

is a sign of elevating possibility.

 

Surrender utterly

so that space may vibrate

fresh frequencies through your bones.

 

Become a new version of that wild, raw

fantasy.

 

Be deeper,

and when they try to find your edges,

consume them totally

with your vast

fearless

nature.

A Summer night,

made just for Darlings:

The moon smiled, and

showed us absolutely everything, without blushing.

 

She lit the earth–

spreading the path beneath our dancing footsteps, or

peeking in between the tapestries

upon entangled limbs

and soft moans–

so bright!

And I swear, his glow

was just as radiant, reaching

to return

Her embrace!

 

I was in awe to be in the presence of such lovers,

who could be themselves so entirely

across the vastness of space.

 

My arm through his,

we drank in every moment She would give us for our wild hunt, and

as my laughter echoed off the trees,

 

I learned something more

about the freedom

a heart can have.

 

 

Some days I just have to remind myself
not to hope
others will try.

 

She had the most beautiful manicure.
At the end of her long tapered fingers, her nails glowed pearlescent silver, small pieces of crystal catching the light with her every gesture, and
even their underbellies were lined

with razor blades.

 

Some things can’t be cleaned. Some things must be remade
into
smaller pieces.

Only the essential

elements are strong enough

tools for composition.

 

And what when a fantasy is broken?
What smaller pieces of dream could be used to build anything?
Is there
a
sort of sanity?

What part of sanity could bring back the evaporated promise?

No piece of this dream captured in words,
captured in sound,
captured in form–
could hold the life it lived.

It’s better not to resurrect the dead.
It’s best not to start anything at all.

I’ve been told these things, and yet.

There is a poison I would rather drink,

were it with him.

 

They say this world is like licking honey from the razor’s edge,
and we must take every part–

the nectar, the blade, the flesh, and the dream.

Forgiveness is not resurrection.

And, like the world,

it does not exist in part.

So when it is impossible–
start cutting,
and do not stop
until the elements themselves

bow.

It’s been a while since I have been flattered by such a lovely “muse” moment…

A dear patron of mine, who I’ll call The Professor, is quite a wonderful poet.  He is inspired by the Tao and by the play of yin and yang, and also by the playful teasing of a certain dancer who he says bathes the room with her smile.  We have the most nourishing and delightful conversations tracking down inspiration, and when he walks through the door, I know he has a pocket full of poetry to share.  This piece he gave to me this week to help me feel the healthiness of even a broken heart, and it is just so beautiful I have to share…

 

THE TAO OF RESILIENCE

Heaven has no favorites.

Thus, the rain falls equally

on weeds and orchids.

To the bad, bad things happen.

To the good, bad things also happen.

Why?

Heaven knows.

 

Broken heart?  Many causes

Treachery, betrayal, lies…

Disease, famine, death…

Loss in all its forms.

 

Broken heart?  Errant metaphor

the heart still functions

life continues.

And also the pain.

 

Therefore, the sage practices non-action

teaches by quiet example

has no favorites

to the good, she is compassionate.

To the bad, she is also compassionate

does not try, and thus achieves.

Gains by giving

 

And what of Sterling?

 

Is she not like the sage?

Is she not like the Tao?

 

Always returning

countering

darkness with light

ugliness with beauty

despair with hope

depression with desire

 

always bestowing.

In her constant loveliness

brings joy to sadness

overcomes pain

soothes the senses

makes the broken heart

 

healthy

 

Wine, scattered sheets heavy with ink and ambition,
and the flicker of candlelight against restless, prowling thoughts—
only these things keep me warm this night,
and then

the silence
before any words are invented
arrives to embrace me.

Time is
and was
and will be,
and now She takes the form of my favorite dream—
the dream of a white sand beach
where I could alight from my oceanic journey
and glut myself on the richness of coconut and crab—

and while She dances across the tops of the playful waves,

She is strong enough
to pull me along toward her until

we meet, are utterly combined.

I have no choice—so hungry am I for birth
I press myself into her, feeling her slick weight
across my eyelids, pressing down
on my brow, her essence running in streams down either side of my mouth,
carving me like the deepest canyon;

only this
gives any light – even
the moon has turned her face away,
who can be so jealously measured by gain or loss,
and the sky is invisible.

Time is simply as She always was—
that empty canvas,
my sail to catch any wind,
space, itself.

Surrounded by Her
the current does not draw me,
the tide no longer pulls.
Some may think the dream has ended,
for appearances.

But that too, is illusion,
for we in our embrace have touched,
we have felt, we have become.

And the silence before
any of these words
is
Eternal.

He loved when she wore red–

against all that milky skin– the way she seemed to spill,

even when she was barely moving at all, it

drew him in

 

like her lips, red like still fresh blood

and sweeter than iron.

If her kiss were anything like her walk,

her gaze,

like the way her smell enveloped him as she pushed him

past the point of begging,

sweet merciful ___!

He went mad with imagining

the moment their lips would touch,

painted the moment a thousand different ways in his head, finally

 

painting his own lips

gazing into the mirror,

he stood the way she stood.

At first he was quite still, then–as she was nothing but movement–

he performed a small wiggle.

But the dress wasn’t quite the same fit, his shoulders a bit broad for it.

So he leaned in,

offering a little swish, practicing a slight wave.

He smiled her smile and

stood on his toes, higher and higher and

quite loved the effect.

He leaned in,

and let his eyelids drop until

his dark lashes nearly swept his cheek, the way hers did

then he looked up

suddenly

with a breath that parted his lips

forming a soft, perfect

O

that fogged the glass

as he leaned in

for his kiss.