The Arts-Muse Fair

The Geography of Want Take me where the hours loosen their hold and stories go on breeding their small disasters. Between one arrival and the next, we learn the difficult grammar of wanting. At night, the body becomes a country whose borders no hand can fully cross. A name appears. A face flickers. Somewhere, a stranger rehearses tenderness for someone he has never touched. We trade our silences through glass, each offering the other a carefully lit room, each concealing the darkness beyond it. Desire is an old animal that knows the shortest road to the door but never quite remembers why it came. Those I once called mine return in fragments: a laugh caught in the rafters, a shadow crossing the courtyard, a voice that gathers itself just as sleep closes over me. Outside, the trees are keeping their counsel. Something winged stirs in their branches. Something without a face waits at the threshold. I turn towards the night and let the unfinished world dream me elsewhere. An Intimate Perfo...

                            Three-Legged Sprinting  It isn’t so much that she adores him and wants to move in with him that keep me sleepless at night as the image of them trudging upstairs hand-in-hand in a sort of three-legged sprinting. I only have to shut my eyes and he is holding her by the waist, urging her towards the bed. He has left the door ajar, but I can’t quite see what’s going on, only peeps once in a while: the tattoo on her leg, the sweat on her glistening back. I want to turn away, but the horror of her orgasm throttles in my throat, the shock of her tongue flaunting with his tongue, her mumbling sweet nonsense, her letting out a monstrous moan.  Fraulein of Coy She must think me maverick teasing my rod against  her hands of ejection she giggles perhaps  behind my slack before the next smack  certain in her confidence...