the po~et (the spell of words)

Words cast spells with every line. Or maybe in between where lovers meet. The slur of the r's and the buzzing of the s's line the tongue like honey. Words read in lofts and libraries from books smelling of forgotten trees. Covered by jackets, uncovered in the evening air and in dark rooms under night's light.

You'll remember them tomorrow when they have dusted the corners all night long, when they have weighed the head down making it hard to lift from the pillow.

the po~et (ink)

There are a few reasons why people read the words of a poet. One is to simply humor the poor soul because everyone thinks he is two shakes from being on the other side of sane. Or you read because you too chase away the same demons. You understand the inescapable words or the ones too slippery to hold. You read because you are in awe of those who have mastered the pen. You can see the sweat at the end of each line. You study poets and it becomes a sickness or even a weakness--you can't help yourself. You wonder if to whom the labor is in dedication to has read beyond the introductory page? Or do they just casually mention it at dinner parties to elevate their status? All too familiar. You can hear their loneliness in between the letters. You wonder do they know how invasive you have become? And if so, why do they expose themselves for you to see? Either they humor you the reader or the two, both the writer and the admirer, are equally lonely. They look for someone to wipe the ink from their hands. Like making love, they would rather not do so alone.

the po~et (exotic fruit)

His legs she could climb, search behind and underneath every inch of his frame to find what causes him to make the sounds she hears while she's asleep. To discover the origin of the taste that rest in her mouth when she least expect sending her eyes wandering to see if he is in close proximity. Just the thought of him causes it to surface. The mixture she isn't sure about; but she is sure its moisture is something new--like that of unfamiliar tropical fruit. The kind that won't pass through customs. The kind photographed and chronicled in books that line the shelves of libraries.

the po~et (defining phrases)

To be a fool is one thing but to knowingly be one is quite different. Jack had grown weary of the game. She called it that because the whole "non-relationship" she had with Paul was strategical. Who would make the next move? What would it all mean? At first, she admitted it was flattering, but now she was frustrated. Patience never was an attribute she possessed or even made a conscious effort to aspire to have. But mostly her frustration was due to the lack of physical contact. To have sexual exploits in theory only doesn't exactly define affair. There are those who would disagree. She imagined those lovers who frantically rummaged through one anothers privacy would think otherwise. She had to admit the entire "relationship" made her view the subject differently, made her question the validity in promises made later to be broken. Somehow internally you know it is impossible to keep. Who has knowledge of how they will feel twenty years down the stream when the air seems different, when the definitions change.

the po~et 29 (comprehensive study)

The notes come on brown parchment paper and require acute comprehensive navigational skills to interpret--and a few days to ponder. She removes the last one from its hiding place and imagines the look on Paul's face when he wrote it. Who knows how the thoughts began or where they will end. Sometimes they change with every sentence and then you just hang on for the ride. He does leave clues about himself tucked in between, but you have to have followed him for awhile to discover them. Or have seen him in person read his words out loud. There's a way when he allows himself to get lost inside the words that his body openly responds to his own cleverness. Jack discovered this by accident, well it was intentional, but she was surprised at what she saw. The vision plays back to her from time to time. Each time with a different reaction--or at least a different position. The results are the same. The uncovered up close version is better. She listens to his words, her mind hides them, digesting what they could mean to her. She hides the note as if to make a wish.

the po~et 28 (onward)

The night was to be special but it didn't seem as any day should be assigned to it. Well at least not the ordinary name normally given. It was graduation day!

Jack had stared at the cap and gown all week long. She hadn't tried them on because it didn't seem real. After she took her last final she thought she would feel a since of relief. Numb was all she felt--numb.

When she arrived at the arena she was dizzy--at least she felt something. All day long the one constant thought was, he would be there--dressed in all his scholastic regalia.

When the ceremony began it was more than she had imagined. The years of struggle and the late nights all over, well at least for now. Grateful to God for making it through, she fought back tears with elation.

She looked straight ahead determined to find him in the crowd. His height she knew would make him stand above the rest. He was beautiful!

The floor couldn't hold her feet down. She floated as she went through the motions. She couldn't see him anymore, but she felt him. His eyes watching her. She turned around to see. Beautiful!

the po~et 27 (in view)

Whenever he was near she could feel him. It was if the wind carried his scent to her nostrils. The scent she smelled on her sheets after a night of dreams. She wanted to speak to him , she wanted to hear him call her name, she wanted to put her arms where his body bent, she wanted him to see her watching him--she wants him.

Maybe her problem lies solely there. She's not accustomed to not getting what she wants. She wants him to come to her like he does in her dreams.

the po~et 26 (winters stream)

She missed him,
Missed his words,
Now frozen like
A Winters stream.

She missed him,
Missed his image,
Now frozen like,
A Winters stream.

Waiting for the sun.

the po~et 25 (spun)

He brought her something she didn't have before. Or maybe she did and had let it slip away. She searched her memories for record of anything similar. She was sure he knew he had spun his web of deceit.

He knew he had her. Now she wondered what next?

the po-et 24 (sweet wind)

The first time she saw him she wanted to know who he was. Wanted to know where he lived and if she could follow him there. She imagined a street lined with trees and the wind in them sweet. She wondered where this thought came from and how it had crept into her mind. It (her mind) had been locked for so long. She watched him walk across the floor and listened to his voice rattle the walls. He stirred her within. She attempted to contain her fascination. She attempted to tame her curiosity. But it crept out of the box just as it had crept in.

She found him sitting alone his silhouette a shield from the world. She wanted to invade this world. She searched for the opening to the place holding his thoughts, the ramblings roaming every corner--blowing through.

the po~et 23 (from his cave)

The paper lies drunk saturated with his fermentation. Having waited to be quenched--to taste his foliage. Odd phrases morphed together in a conundrum of expressions. They seep out from his vineyard. His mind has found some cave like cellar. It permits his request and invites him in. A chaser of stories, inside he finds the lives of those who once crawled inside. Their passage, a relief pattern, adorn the walls.

He stands at the mouth of the cave. He recites their tales. Tales of unknown men , common men, white men, insane men, intellectual men, simple men.

To her his echo is vintage. To her he tells these puzzles hoping she'll discern their color.

the po~et 22 (the length of a hall)

The hallway was long, but it appeared to grow even longer. She could see there was no need to continue. She braced herself again for the feeling of disappointment. Earlier she couldn't control her eyes from roaming his frame. It wasn't even subtle. This, of course, sent the rest of her mind to wandering. It wandered down the hall and into his car where she imagined him driving home.

She opened her front door and turned down the long hall into her room.

the po~et 21 (papier-mâché affair)

For now theirs was a love affair that existed only on paper--only in theory. If the opportunity presented itself to say out loud what they wrote to one another--would it hold? Would the words sound as sweet when they parted the lips and reached the ears of their intended seduce-e? Would the elixir of words and imagery work to penetrate the foreskin? Or would it remain as a relationship of words?

Sometimes Jack thought they were like school children and the entire relationship was childish. The way they taunted one another and openly blushed when within close proximity of each other. Still she couldn't breathe when she saw him. She couldn't speak when in his presence. And when she walked she wanted him to admire her the way she loved to see him walk. The way he moved made her want to stand in his path of travel.

And the notes they left for one another she found charming. Something she believed set them apart from other lovers. Well, actually they weren't lovers at all. The definition would imply certain action. To her their affair was endearing even if it was only on paper.

the po~et 20 (peripheral view)

He was a few steps ahead of Jack. It's amazing how seconds can change the course of things.

Paul is absolutely gorgeous! Those words came up from that deep place.

He steps briefly into a side room, she re-calculates her steps. She passes by, as she does she catches his eye. She can feel him, she can see his linear frame.

And the view from those seconds lasted all day.

the po~et 19 (tennis anyone?)

Jack rushed to get to campus Monday morning. She had anticipated all day Sunday Paul's reaction to the books. She carefully wrote a note to him in a card choosing her words as not to sound too forward. She had always been pursued now that she was actually initiating contact was a new experience and she wasn't quite sure she knew how to do so.

As always, when she enters the building that houses his office anxiety takes over. As many times as she has visited him, she is still nervous like a silly teenager. That has been the one thing she has attributed to her infatuation with Paul, she seemed younger--re-vitalized. Her mind reset to a new way of thinking, no a new way of living.

When she opens the door he is quite surprised to see her (she hadn't given him forewarning of her visit) but he is pleased. She wanted to look and smell especially nice this morning. She was hoping that he would notice her efforts.

When she saw him she was almost speechless, but she had promised herself she would allow words to form and be released from her mouth. He was pleased with his gift, she was relieved. His eyes always told how he was feeling and for her to see satisfaction in them made her want to hide in them. To lock that moment away and store it in a trunk where moths couldn't come and corrupt it.

Then Paul does something he had restrained himself from in times past, he rises from his desk and hugs her. His body towering over hers offered a semblance of protection. The kind of protection that would keep her warm at night and delighted in the morning.

When she left him she could still feel his body against hers. As she walked away, her body responded to his touch and her heart followed, she was content with having made her move now the ball was in his court.

the po~et 18 (the black swan bookstore)

Jack stumbles across a used bookstore and gazes in the store fronts' window. The books in the window immediately peak her interest. She opens the squeaky door and the aroma of old pages immediately excites her. It is hard for her to know where to begin. She decides to start with the collection in the window. The owner of the quaint little store is amused to see someone enjoy his collected treasures. He gives her a quick tour, offers her a ladder and tells her to spend the rest of the afternoon indulging herself.

She searches through the shelves hunting for the authors words that speak to her as well as those that would satisfy his appetite. She wishes Paul was there to share her enthusiasm. The lust for words artfully orchestrated to account for events past, present, future, real--of fantasies, dreams and visions. Stories that haunted until they were told. Shelves filled with accounts of far away lands from the Mediterranean, the coasts of Africa, to the waters off the shores of exotic islands. Although he already posses an impressive library, she believes he would be just as enthralled with this place as she is.

She has been there for quite some time now and the aroma of time weathered books has aroused her. She imagines them there together passionately scavenging through this treasure chest, and after they would have satisfied their hunger for words they would search out a corner between the shelves. Their love for the power of language, it's meaning and usage gives them a common place. A place to meet undisturbed. The characters they create and those they discover through these volumes are who they have become. She finds a collection of an authors work that she knows he admires and decides to purchase it for him. She pictures how his face full of pleasure as he opens the gift. She has given up on trying to prevent herself from falling in love with him, it was hopeless, he now owned her heart.

Soon she looses all sense of time and place, intoxicated from this new found space, her mind succumbs to fantasy. She envisions them standing surrounded by stories old and new, his hand would move up her legs and find a way to uncover her hidden secrets. She would have him, make love to him down on the floor between the shelves, shielded by their volumes and under the watchful eye of Poe.