Seattle Solo

I was standing in the rain with a gin and tonic in my hand when it hits me. It’s strange to be here without her. Continued drags of cancer while wet sloppy drops fall on my head. My last three visits to Seattle spent here were with Pepita. All three with visits to Kremwork. The first when I met her at this strange basement full of queens, queers, and transgender, gender neutral, non gender, etc people, humans, whatever. The second to see her again, six months later. Sleeping in a tent for three nights only an hour from the city. Then the last four months further on from that which felt like an eternity of waiting. Driving north with Squid to meet her at the airport, our romance in full swing, her then returning from India and our ideas and aspirations manifesting in parallel.

But now I’m here alone, the crazy spin work hurricane of my drag queen friends in full motion around me. Mentally recording conversation in what seems a totally new tongue I’ve yet to decide fully. Stepping in and out of the venue watching an ever evolving alien world breathe from a strange outside perspective.

May, 2017

Is this the love story I’ll be telling

Days in and nights out?

Not – we were entwined and then she left.

But – we hardly met and then we were.

Here, there, everywhere.

Is this the love story we will always talk about, quiet nights in bed. Entwined. Her dark skin soft against my pale calloused soul, self. Bone and skin stretched tight.

She says I love you; I believe her.

Because I love her as well.

Wooden chair, two.

She is gone and I sit in the wooden chair by the sliding glass door.

Thinking, mulling over which steps come next. Lease, Pepita, Squid, home, home.

There is no laundry to drown out my thoughts.

That hurricane named Andrew, that rattled a place I’ve only briefly been.

1986, the year I was also born. The year that hurricane and myself were brought to life.

But it faded with its damage, that wild storm.

While I sit, spin, stagger, and breath on.

Sitting in my wooden chair.

March, 2017

To feel like a welcome mat that sees the seasons, but never any care or cleaning.

To feel feet pressed and released as people tread over.

Whatever, whatever may come. With April showers come may flowers.

Have a nice trip. See you next fall.

Forty Nine : Pensive

Three years ago I would wake up with Squid pressed up against me, the two of us wrapped up in blankets, to clamber out of bed for work, or to make coffee while cleaning and preparing food for the night or day, or whenever. I’d commute to work, spend my day working for someone else, and then return home to continue whatever work hadn’t been finished that morning or the evening before.

Now I wake up with Squid pressed against Pepita, her figure close, but not pressed up against me. I clamber out of bed for work, or on days off lay close, sometimes pressed against each other to eventually roll out of bed. Prepare coffee or make the trip to the dispensary, free coffee and a joint to return home and light a candle, light the joint, and sit in the dining room with music low to fill the silence that sits like a layer of dust, but hanging just above our heads. I sit in my wooden chair and watch the clouds move out the sliding glass door, past her face, smiling at me.

“You centaur” She says with a grin spreading from ear to ear.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re like a centaur sometimes, with your face, and the beard….”

“Give me a word to describe it.”

“Centaur.”

“No, like concentrated? Or maybe Stern?”

“Yeah, that sounds right.”

“Pensive?” I find the definition.
“Engaged in, involving, or reflecting deep or serious thought.”

“Totally, that’s spot on.”

I smile and return to the screen before me, thinking of Ally Sheedy.
“Andrew sits pensive in his chair.”

Yes, I do.

Wooden chair

Now that I’m here in this place, with her, with Squid.
Watching rain through a trees branches,
from a wooden chair by a sliding glass door
something similar, somewhere new
Letting my mind wander to nothing in particular at all
Pepita, bread, bialy, dinner, chicken, life
swish swash rumble tumble hum hum buzz, swish~
The sweet sound of laundry
Fresh skin for a new day, hour, moment,
But it eludes before it can build.
Standing, reaching
Click the lock
Now hoist
Heave the heavy door aside and hang my back and head into the air
Arching back, head up to taste
Lovely springs life returns
How many dinners will I eat by this door?
How many more
With her
Here

Forty Eight : Not With Your Hand

Ka, I read once, twice, three times now it seems – probably more – is like fate, but more. Something brimming with purpose and place. Leading those who are struck by it, marked, to where they should be. Where they will be. Where they already have been. I’ve been walking this circle for a good long while like a gunslinger looking for a tower. Aim with your eyes, shoot with your mind, not with your hand. I am the gunslinger, but I gave up my guns. I no longer need them to find that tower, made of black stone among roses so red blood stands out on their silken petals. I no longer have need for those sandalwood grips that hold the keys to doors on their base. For a moment I thought I did not need the tower, but now I know differently, feel I know differently. Ka has made that clear. I will always need the tower, I will always need to climb it, to open the heavy door at the top of the winding stair and step through its blinding, brilliant light. But now, among a hundred or a thousand twists and turns and start agains I have remembered the face of my father. My father who loves me well. The face of my father, whom I thought I had remembered all this time. I have remembered the voice of my mother, who has taught me to be like the stones that hold that monstrous thing into the heavens. I will drag no one into this world to walk with me, to die for my quest. My name may not be Roland, but I am the last of my kind.
I do not kill with my gun. I kill with my heart.