Lust of the Daughter of Sekhmet

Here I Am

walking in the desert

daughter of the lion-headed goddess

marked by her flaming hair

Her hot winds

have burned up my caution

sent my sanity up in steam

I am drunk with heat

mad with passion

Here You Come

as rain

plump, hard juicy drops

beating down on my fevered body

bursting open

and dripping down my skin

Why shouldn't I dance in the low country?

Why shouldn't I shed my clothes?

Why shouldn't I revel and relish?

Why shouldn't I bathe and frolic?

why wouldn't i drink my fill of you and

puuuuuurrrrr

?

Brief note on Perspective

If you walk through life using the shaky rationale of "caution," or "self-protection," to justify why you choose to look at every glass as half-empty, all the while hoping to be pleasantly surprised, chances are that you won't be. Lose the candy-coated fear, and realize that you must change your perspective to change your experience. It is a rare occurence for it to happen the other way around.

xoxoxo

Brief note on Passion

True passion is marked by the presence of pure, unavoidable vulnerability. The possibility that the object of your desire/love/inspiration could be lost or change fundamentally always exists. If this happens, you will be equally as devastated as you once were passionate.

However, this does not make passion a weakness or a character flaw. In my opinion, those who are determined to experience the best in life actually pursue it.

we are that we are

it is significant
that the god of the Hebrews
never gave himself a name
he didn't want to be boxed in

*

but look what we have done
how we have changed in the 50-odd years
since we sat down at the table
and said
"here's what you can call us"

would've rather they kept calling us the boogieman
it's easy to know that you're not that
and keep creating your own image
keep evolving
keep being yourself

but they needed a name for us
and we wanted to be called
and so we gave them the secret
things we thought it might be nice
to hear

but each one turned foul in their mouths

we kept trying

*

god knows
that when the name of a holy thing
is spoken
its magic is taken out
the breath of its life is sucked back out into the cosmos
and the moisture evaporates
it loses fluidity

and so
the beautiful mud people
have hardened into
dry clay
baked under the harsh gaze of voyeurs
definers

*

we are no longer ourselves
stuck in poses
like statues
names on placards
explained in a paragraph
for passers-by

we have lost our lives
but we are not dead yet
and now
when they call us the boogieman
(though never to our faces)
we choke on wondering
is it true?

*

Fantasy of the Day 10/19/2011

I want to go to the market before sunset, and see the mats glow like felled rainbows, colorful produce made brighter and more tempting by the orange-pink rays of the hour. There I will find the woman with the long skirt, eyes glittering, kneeling before her offerings. At first, her face will seem dusty and sour from a full day of work so close to the ground. But then she will smile, and teeth that are surprisingly white will set her whole face inside the halo of the ancient Mothers. She will dazzle me with her beauty. I will kneel, meeting her eyes with mine, and ask for the fruit that hides under the protection of her skirt. She will cut her eyes a bit, but joyfully. "You have chosen well, daughter," she will say in a language locked to my ear but open to my soul, as she hands me the plump scented thing. She will overcharge me, and I will pay double her price; this is all I wanted. I will walk home, grinning, with the most sensuous mango I have ever encountered wrapped up in linen like a jewel, and we will both be satisfied. Her spell ending, and mine beginning...

The Land of Sapiens

it is extremely humid
here
impossible to breathe
being swallowed up
in thick vapor
and stepping
into grayish-pinkish
slimy
quicksand
sinking down into
higher thought

how nice to be
human
what a miracle
to be able to
think

there are no wheels turning here
no perfectly placed
spokes and axles
no gears
there is no order here
just synapses
firing wildly
electric storm
dangerous hyperanalysis
obsessive compulsion
that we credit
with
creation

how lovely
to reign
superior

there is no light here
only pictures seen
in the dark
illusion

we have created a world
in our image

this is our fate


the others
they do not
wish
to be wise

the priest

i watched him set down his glass

as the ice melted
the second cat's-eye lid rolled back
and i realized why i had been trying
to put my spell on him

i watched him
bum a cigarette from
the woman at the end of the bar
he thanked her too kindly
and i realized
that he had gotten to me first

that bastard
the priest

walking me outdoors for fresh air
speaking to me of visions and
peace
all the while tending
my desire

the spirit
in his eyes dancing
around the fire
in mine
offering itself up for consumption

i glowed brighter under
the street lamp
as he hailed me a cab
kissed my cheek
softly
grazing my back with his thumb
he said goodnight

bowed his head in recognition
watching as the driver pulled off
then turned and walked quickly
away

***

i am certain he is returning
to the woman at the bar

but i
surely
will have the best of him