for Jane,
for my sisters

Jules International
1997

The WWW Edition
1998

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Printed copies of the original version are available

Built for patting, smooth as halves of honey-dew melon, umm... softly firm.

I was in a state because of the burnt cornbread, what is it about service that makes me so nervous, so tense, it should be a dance of pleasure, not something to get worked up about. I just want everything to be perfect. I want to give people the feeling that they've been thought of. Looked after. Maybe it's not even a conscious thing, just a tone that underlays all the fabulous voices, a phrase here and there, a dozen counterpoints, and even the sound of the dishes being washed all combining into a symphony of nurturing nourishment.

our eyes connected as we stalked each other, in the grass, he in tune with my steps, knowing my breath, stalking like an animal on the prowl

and now here we all are sitting around the supper table and sharing in some kind of experience, the magic of gatherings, really it's just the being together and trying not to blow each other off, if someone has made it here they must have some sort of story to tell, a little respect, and when that falls it cuts quite deep even if it has no meaning, or if it is motivated by jealousy or who knows what deep in the heart, learning releasing the glow of firelight how it moves and changes, full of life and rhythm, the smoothness of water, the chaos of growth and green, how each flower so beautiful alone, and the whole so splendid, reminding us that the middle ground where we spend most of our days is really the least pretty and sensible of worlds, even when it is the most manageable / when a man's an empty kettle ----

sitting around a campfire glow singing, lying in a tent or gathered round a songbook and all of these men remind me of other men I have loved or love, the uncanny connections. Here I can feel like I've found my match, someone who shares enough to feel like it's not such a loss to have no one to share those early memories with. The anger of loss, the disappointment that P had to leave when he felt sick, just when we were beginning to find a rhythm where we could spend some time together, actually looking forward to the intimacy of massaging him, even if that's all there is to offer, it's something to open up enough to allow yourself to be touched. I remember how hard it can be, to touch with no intention but to love and give pleasure; play mates, these are my playmates, rediscovering pleasure and the nastiness of sex play

Dull Cuckoo, just how transfigure Thee into swell Bird-of-Paradise?