Spring: coats are shed, women and men emerge in their light cotton clothes; the women in their strappy shoes and light spring dresses and the men in their seersucker and linen suits. See how we shoot admiring, side-long glances at each other.
Such fun to watch this dance; how we move and how we shoot sparks at each other like fireflies flashing in the evening.
Not every season is all joy, and i find Spring to be the hardest - many people do - surprisingly. Perhaps because the season itself can be isolating if you are alone and surrounded by the "in-love." All that "Lover's Spit" as one group sings. If you are among the in-love, beat a path down the broad city avenue with your headphones on or the sounds of the city all around you and know that Spring and love are "just like honey." Perhaps most important of all, and i say this at great risk of sounding utterly cliched, fall in love with yourself so that others may love you back. Learn to love that curve of your hip-switch, the fine-step of your ankle as you step off the curb, the sway of you breast as you beat a path down Madison, down West 11th and 6th, whereever you are, but know you Are That One and be It. When you know this, others will know it too.
And so the sap rises,
s.r.p., april-may, 2007
image: 'pure joy, s.r. on pogo stick' copyright, i.d. baker.
God, I am so tired of writing of wanting about you.
It is boring even me.
Did you know, it is tiring the way you stitch in and out of my dreams,
wending your way down the chalked alleyways of Israel, always a step ahead,
always calling my name, some game in which I am to pursue
Love, I cannot say that I am impartial.
I am not.
I think only of you and of your sweetened kisses,
Speaking of which, why are you not here to remind me!
Why I’ve forgotten all about taking my morning dose of honey!
It is just a question of time before…
our cadence will meet as we walk fall into sync,
to pentameter, iambic (of course), before we
share the same scented tea from same pot (same kind)
You slip in and out of dreams. A marble gliding across a grate;
I can almost hear the pleasing clack of it remembered so well from childhood.
The slide of the swirling glass as it slid across the iron and landed where?
My side? And for keeps? For the moment would be fine…
In a dark hour I saw it. You with you red-black eyes and slick black hair the scent of your skin, spiced and heady perfuming the space around us. It was then
It must be so easy being you..
To not have to worry who is hanging on the line,
who is out to dry, which way the wind blows, rain or snow –
does it take a weatherman? You tell me…
Just me, on the eve of the Ascension.
Such heights, such ecstasies these, could, would be.
This, after so many months of religion unrelieved.
The go-away closer; the volley in play.
Match Point Love.
It is just another Spring day and you are gone and while I am sure I should miss you, I have to tell you that I don’t. Or I have but just a little. Not in the ways you would
Gooseturd green. Not moss, not leaf,
instead the green left by the pond’s lifting geese
those graceful birds that break the spring settled pond-pollen glassine surface;
croix de bois, croix de fer, si jer meurs je vais en enfer - cross my heart and hope to die
Des clous – not likely
j’ai le fou rire – I have the giggles