Pleasure
is a twirling, twisting thing.
Shivering and chilled,
feverish and sweating –
the sickness is catching,
the little death is close,
and whether you’re bound
for heaven or hell
the force of it
will bury you.
Save me, damn me,
obey me, command me –
the little death is catching
through looks,
through touches,
through kisses
that blow through you
and leave you breathless.
Oh, my summer Love…
It isn’t fair.
You are one of the most beautiful people
whom I have ever met,
yet the cruel words from your past
have convinced you that you
are still the ugly duckling.
You are not –
you have the strength of a survivor,
your beauty radiates
through and between your scars.
And while I rage against the world for those very scars,
I question what kind of woman you might have been
had the world not been so insecure
that it felt the need to attack you.
For even though you are hamstrung,
you have weathered storms –
I see it in the way you move:
ever forward, like a charging knight.
You are a modern-day Joan of Arc,
and the world wants to destroy you like it did her,
because it cannot bear to see a beauty rise
that does not owe it allegiance.
So to survive, you gave up your love for yourself.
And now, even though I tell you that you are beautiful,
even though I tell you, frequently,
“You are pretty; you are beautiful.
You are attractive, and hell, you are arousing,”
you do not believe a word of it.
Instead, you remember a laundry list of ex-boyfriends
who treated you like their backup plan.
You remember your father,
how he called you, “Thunder Thighs,”
and made you hate yourself.
And if killing them could save you, I would.
I would wade through an ocean of blood;
I would call in all the debts that you have forgiven,
but never, ever forgotten.
I would take them all to task,
and challenge them because there is no difference
between physical, verbal, and emotional violence.
And listening to you, I know
they were not kind to you.
But that will not save you.
I’m not sure what will, but
I know I want to try.
What I see in you calls to me
like a siren song through the dull-grey fog of this world.
So what I will do is this:
I will tell you that you are beautiful,
each and every moment I can,
and I will never lie to you,
so you know I’m not lying then either.
I will support you,
and throw the winds of my storm
under the wings of your dreams
so your heart can soar.
I will hold you like you are a treasure,
kiss you like you matter,
and, God-willing,
make love to you like you take my breath away.
Because you already do.
I would take the thighs which you find unlovable
and use my teeth and tongue to play a song upon them.
I would use every lesson I’ve ever learned
to coax a symphony of glory out of the body
you do not believe to be glorious.
I would be your shield and sword –
your staunchest defender,
your most charismatic rogue,
stealing back the truth
the world took from you.
I would have you be the last sight of my night
and the first view of each new day.
I would wake you with a kiss,
a cuddle,
and rise before you to get coffee.
I know you’re not a morning person.
But I am, and I would throw my strength into your corner,
and fill the gaps in your defenses.
I would be a man you can trust.
I would carve out a place in my life for you,
give you my first and my very best,
and offer you the vulnerable moment
of seeing my worst too.
I would have you be mine,
but I know that there is nothing I can do
to make that so.
Only you can make that claim.
Instead,
I can only tell you,
honestly and fervently,
that I am yours.
I am yours lady,
and as sure as the sun rises,
I would dote upon your whims,
champion your dreams,
and be the weapon of your vengeance.
I would love you for you,
serve you because I see the value you do not,
and chastise you if need be,
because I do not think you would respect a man
who merely rolled over for you.
I am yours lady,
and I wait upon the day
when I earn your favor
and the reward
that is the echo of my words.
Sing to me a song of twilight.
Sing to me of dates in the dark,
of dinner and dancing,
flirting, romancing,
and stolen kisses.
Sing to me of late-night conversations,
of empty bottles of wine
and glasses so often filled
that they themselves feel tipsy.
Sing to me of sex
of the raw, primal soundtrack
that thunders through our blood
like a sweltering summer storm.
Sing to me of greeting the sunrise
with someone held in your arms,
softly like you’re still dreaming,
fiercely like you never want to wake up
Sing to me of the dusk,
of the vanishing of the light.
Sing to me of the dawn,
and the birth of a new day.
Let me tell you the story of a man.
This man was strong.
He served in World War II,
lived to see 100,
and spent the last decade and a half of his life
living on a cattle ranch in Montana.
He took a kick to the chest by a cow
in his late eighties or early nineties
and walked it off.
He survived two divorces
in which every child but one
sided with their mothers against him.
This man remembered courtesies,
and once thanked someone
for the kind words they said at his father’s funeral
some twenty years prior.
This man was kind
and did not let the circumstances of his life
make him bitter.
Let me tell you about a boy
who idolized that man,
who loved him dearly
across distance and time.
This boy grew to adulthood,
and still looked up to that man
as though he hung the sun in the sky.
That man was his hero,
is his hero,
will always be his hero.
That boy was me,
and that man
was my grandfather.
And on the 27th of August
he died.
I wrote him two letters –
two important letters –
in the past year.
In those letters
I told him in no uncertain terms
that he was my hero
that I was proud of him
that I was proud of being part of his family
that if I only lived to be half as great as him,
I will still have been a great man
and lived an exemplary life.
I’m glad I got a chance to tell him that
before it was too late.
I’ve always planned to give
my grandfather’s name to my first son
as his middle name.
He never got the chance to meet that son,
but I still want to give him that name
because the heroes who live in our hearts
never die.
Goodbye Grandpa.
I will miss you
always
in fact, I already do
with tears streaming down my face as I write this.
I love you Grandpa,
and I’ll do you proud.
Just keep watching,
I’ll do you proud.
To the first of my heroes
and the greatest of them,
Solomon K. Meyer
December 22 1914 – August 27 2015
When I was younger, I found a sun for myself.
I don’t remember exactly when or where. Perhaps it was at a local faire, or passing by on the street somewhere that I found my sun.
I’d like to think it was amber and gold, but it probably wasn’t. It could have been copper, brass, or gilded. It could have been amber, or just colored glass. But it was my sun, and my sun was amber and gold.
There was a drop of amber in the center, with six or eight teardrop-shaped ambers surrounding it, and the whole piece was set in gold. I’m not sure though. I don’t remember anymore, because I no longer have my sun.
I gave my sun to the first woman who was ever my lover – five years after we broke up. I thought she needed strength, and I wanted to give her my best and brightest. I knew she’d have some long, hard years ahead of her, and she did. She does. But these days she seems happier, pursuing a new career path and telling me about her current relationship with such cheer that I can see the smile on her face even though we’re speaking over the telephone.
But there are those days when I need strength as well, and my world is dark in the absence of my sun. I miss its weight against my chest. I miss the strength I drew from it.
I remember the time in high school when I had an internship, and they had me clean out their basement for a month. I remember how dark it was down there, how lonesome. And how I realized that if I wanted light down there, I had to bring it with me.
So I sung, for hours every day, to bring the light with me. I stopped feeling lonesome. I let go of my fear. The light in my heart chased them away, and I shone like a beacon in the dark.
But some time after that, I lost my light. I don’t remember when or where. Now, I feel lonesome. I am afraid. My heart diminished from all the pieces I gave away to others. Most did not treat them kindly; few returned them when they were done. A few years ago I gave one of the best and brightest pieces of it to a friend who needed strength.
I hope I still have enough to get by. I hope I still have enough left to share with the people I meet who matter to me.
Because when I was younger, I found a sun. I don’t remember when or where. It was a drop of amber surrounded by six or eight teardrops set in gold. I don’t remember anymore, because it’s been years since I’ve seen my sun.
But I still remember the way it feels.
When I was younger, I felt happiness like a wind.
It blew across my face, my arms, and my skin like a gentle caress. It laughed and teased, but never too harshly. The wind blew through me and my heart and washed me clean.
Depression was like wandering into canyon caverns and losing my way out. It was hot, dusty, and dry. The ground was parched and cracked; the air was sticky and stiffling. But no matter how long or how far I walked, I could not find the way out. I could feel the wind crashing against the cavern walls, but no puffs of clean air found their way to me.
I lost the wind, and I withered in the heat of my despair.
I cracked and broke, and lost pieces of myself. I lost my smile and laughter. My feelings numbed and diminished to dull, grey echoes of their former glory. And slowly, the holes in my heart grew. Little by little, I lost more and more of what made me the person I used to be. I wandered and wondered, quested and questioned. But answers were as elusive as the wind, and I began to lose hope.
Until one day, I had a revelation.
You, the fears and insecurities that cut at my heart – and you, the sorrows and self-pitying judgments – I have a message for you: bring it. Bring your worst to bear against me. Burn a brand new set of scars into me; take each and every piece of my heart you want and tear it out of me. But you cannot destroy me.
All your efforts to diminish me will fail – and I’ll tell you why. For every piece you steal, for every hole you leave, you do nothing more than deepen my song. You’ve turned me into an instrument, and while the hollows left behind by your efforts grow, my music is not for you. And on the day I find the wind again, it will blow through me, and we shall sing a breath-taking duet.
While you sing a song from the soundtrack to the breaking of the world, the wind and I will sing its counterpoint. We will sing of joy, celebration, and love. We will sing for havest dances and wedding waltzes. We will weave the melody of the someone meeting their first-born child. We will compose an opera to the end of oppression. We will forge an aria to tears of forgiveness. We will trumpet triumph through tragedy.
So do your worst, and I’ll show you my magic – and transform my scars into something beautiful.
“You hit like a girl.”
I wanted to tell her that
when she came up to the register
with her arm in a cast
because she broke some of her fingers
punching a bouncer at a city bar.
I want to watch the indignation
rise on her face like a rose
as she goes on the defensive
from my perceived insult.
I want to listen to her
read me the riot act
about a bullshit
and sexist comment.
I want to see that look on her face
as I take off my apron,
step around the counter,
and tell her to throw a punch at me.
I want to knock her on her ass
when she throws a full-body punch at me,
and I control her fall
to keep her injured arm safe.
I want to pick her back up
and teach her how to throw a punch.
I want to show her
how to make a fist,
explain why you never
NEVER
put your thumb inside of your fist,
explain that I was taught
to put my thumb on top of my fist,
instead of beside it,
because it makes all the muscles and tendons of your arm
line up like a hammer.
I want to explain to her
how to stand,
how to strike
like a bathroom towel,
like a bolt of lightning.
I want to explain
how you’re supposed to hit
with the first two knuckles of your fist,
how it’s easier to use a makiwara,
a tool used to train calluses,
to harden two knuckles
than it is to harden
the entire face of your fist.
I want to see
the look on her face
when I explain that this
is how you train yourself
to break someone’s bones,
without breaking your own.
And I want to tell her
how I don’t want her to listen
to any of this.
I want to tell her
how I think she punches
like a breaking wave,
how I think it’s beautiful
that she throws everything she is,
her whole heart,
into a full-body punch.
But I tell her anyway
so she’s able to protect herself
while protecting herself.
I said none of this,
of course.
Because I do not know her very well,
and my employers
would not look kindly
on me teaching someone
how to break bones
next to one of their cash registers.
And I wonder if she even needed my help,
if she was already strong enough,
hard enough,
to protect herself already.
And I wonder if she’d appreciate my help,
despite that hardness,
because it means someone cares,
and is trying to take care of her.
So I said none of this.
I just spoke politely,
wished her a good day,
and watched her walk away,
my heart breaking with each
and every
step.
I had a dream once, and in that dream I loved someone who was sick, who was dying.
She saw how difficult it was for me to tend her, and so, she told me to leave.
She told me it was OK to go.
These are the words I had for the woman in my dream.
“I want to run away,
like all those hard times in my past,
when I left a relationship
not because I stopped loving them
but because staying to love them
hurt too much.
But I don’t want to be that man for you.
I wanna be your ‘fuck you’ man.
Because I’m scared,
I’m so fucking scared.
And I want to run away again.
I want to run away
and hide
until the problem is gone,
but I won’t.
Because I don’t want to be that man anymore.
Because I want to stare down
that man and those feelings
and say,
‘Fuck you.’
I don’t want to be the man
who makes a terrible time of your life
even worse.
I want to be the best part
of the worst part of your life.
I want to stay by your side,
brave in spite of my fear,
strong in spite of both our weaknesses,
giving at a time in your life
when you need everything I can give you
and maybe then some.
I want to be one of two kinds of man:
I want to be the man
you can turn to
once all this is over,
years down the road,
the one with whom
you look back on it all and say,
‘Thank God you were there.
I don’t know how I would have made it through without you.’
Or if I can’t be that,
if God or fate,
disease or this shitty world
makes that impossible,
then I want to be the man
you look up to
from your deathbed and say,
‘Thank God you were there.
I don’t know how I would have made it through without you.’
So fuck you,
I’m not leaving.”
Loving someone can be hard.
Loving someone can be terrifying.
But love can be brazen and audacious.
Love can be as profane as it is profound.
And love…can be fucking stubborn.
The electric telegraph was invented in 1837.
by two teams, independently.
One was Cooke and Wheatstone,
whose model was accepted by the UK.
The other was Samuel Morse and associates,
whose model became the standard for Europe and the United States.
In 1844, Morse sent his iconic message, “WHAT HATH GOD WROUGHT”.
The last telegram was sent in July of 1999,
and a signoff followed the message.
And 155 years later,
the words echoed:
“What hath God wrought?”
God hath wrought war:
The American Civil War,
The Boxer Rebellion,
The Russian Revolution,
The Mexican Revolution,
The Great War,
World War II,
The Korean War,
Vietnam,
and the Iraq War
to name a few.
But not all.
No, not all.
God hath wrought equality:
The 13th Amendment to the US Constitution,
The 15th Amendment,
Brown vs. The Board of Education of Topeka Kansas,
and The 24th Amendment.
Feminism:
The First Wave,
Women’s Suffrage,
and The 19th Amendment.
The Second Wave,
Equal pay,
Roe vs Wade –
the fight continues.
The Third Wave,
fighting The Man,
discarding old labels,
redefining yourself,
redefining the world
and what’s to come.
God hath wrought shame:
an indivisible nation divided,
the shadow of Jim Crow,
and Segregation.
Prohibition,
The 18th Amendment,
the rise of The Mob,
and the 21st Amendment.
Watergate,
Iran-Contra,
W.M.D.s,
or maybe there weren’t any,
and Enhanced Interrogation Techniques.
God hath wrought nobility:
Harriet Tubman,
Susan B. Anthony,
Mother Teresa,
Rosa Parks,
Mahatma Gandhi,
Martin Luther King Junior,
The Tank Man of Tiananmen Square,
Nelson Mandela,
and many, many more…
What hath God wrought?
A brave new world that has such people in it.
I taught myself to kiss,
all by myself.
In an almost empty room,
I studied diligently
for a test that never came.
A (wise) man of two faces 