dear ella:

Ella the enchanted, was given the gift of obedience and does everything and anything she is told to do no matter how terrible or physically impossible.

 

 

 

From my back porch I use to watch the prostitutes do their business

in the back seat of cars and wondered, like a smart a*s, is this

 

where lovemaking is fostered? Is this the dream of holding hands

under the moon I never noticed but apparently has been right

 

there all of these nights? That romance comes in the form of a

mini-skirted witch with a long synthetic wig and worn out high-heels?

 

That love is a coerced erection or a search in the dark for a condom

like searching for some endangered insect in the dark of the forest floor.

 

That sweetness is keeping your hands on the dashboard as proof

your not a cop or a priest thumping admonishment?

 

When the only sweet touching is the dollars changing hands

like purchasing gas or lottery tickets. Something is terribly wrong

with love.

 

I use to keep a journal, not a diary of a writers life, but a juju log

as a record of deliberative conquests. But after several years

 

and no entries, sometimes even poking and stabbing at the pages until

my pencil broke or the lead made allantois  patterns on my palms

 

just thinking of the dance I never learned to do. Or that time in

Brazil when my hat was snatched off my head and flung across the

 

room by a person who called me sailor but didn't know my lonliness.

Something in this embrace feels funny; but real

 

like a consomme' of bold behaviors, boiled creamy as the roaring, roaring

night, when the brown, liquid mixture of bliss

shuts the soul down.

Reviews

[Kristallo]

I love the sincerity and the daunting imagery here, it's all very fluid and almost brisk; not really as if you're lamenting these things, but as if you feel a sort of sardonic detachment as you deliberate over the juxtaposition of these isolated moments whom sear at your mind with vivid command. Each couplet is alight with depth and solidarity, each loaded with the emotional embrace of a fleeting moment- it's almost nostalgic. I found this section especially appealing, it seemed to thaw as I re-read it:
I use to keep a journal, not a diary of a writers life, but a juju log

as a record of deliberative conquests. But after several years



and no entries, sometimes even poking and stabbing at the pages until

my pencil broke or the lead made allantois patterns on my palms...

John is right, there is a whimsical disposition around it, in a rugged kind of way. I honestly enjoyed this very much. I think it's excellent.

[sienikeha]

honest and ballsy. beautifully crafted, straight up. i like it.

fdbk:
i use(d) to keep a journal
lon(e)liness

[Emily B]

i've been struggling with wants and needs, there are lines that must not be crossed . . . i made my b ed, and now must lie in it

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlande..]

this is humbling and sincere..it wants to be more whimsical/light-hearted than it is I think, but it's remaining true to itself. The picture of you on your porch with your thought-pad will probly stay with me for a while. I encountered a prostitute once that I actually felt attracted to..I went home and masturbated and then I took a miniscule amount of nutmeg and mushrooms..nothing really all that profound about the experience. Thankfully I've never really had the desire or confidence to be a stud. I have found even monogamous sex (as if I've known any other kind) to be a grinding down of the soul over time...perhaps this is different with a different type of synergy. Maybe I'll live long enough to experience it. Anyone I like the standing back a bit perspective of loneliness. You're a master, and I feel I've rambled long enough