I’ve tried my best to stay out of the fray regarding the situation in Gaza, because it’s a very highly charged topic and I have wonderful friends on both sides of the argument. However, in the spirit of bringing these types of issues to light, I’m attaching a link from Huff Post that does a pretty excellent job of explaining things there…thoughts?
So, when I was first laid off in 2009, I took the opportunity to chase a dream of mine. I always wanted to be a singer/songwriter, so after getting out of a really awful situation with an even worse person, I wrote a bunch of songs. I recorded three of them, and this is a link to those songs! Hope you enjoy!
He seemed strangely familiar, this handsome man I stared at from across the room. As I gazed, half in shock, half in relief at his figure moving across the dance floor, I felt as if I’ve known him all of my life. Only he seemed much more dangerous. His dancing was much more precise, giving off the impression of a surgeon in an operating room. He wasn’t entranced by the thumping sound infecting the room as I was; he was dissecting it. When his dart-like eyes caught mine, my fluidity froze. He captured me, this night club hunter.
I was accustomed to moving freely in the club, but now this oddly familiar, dangerously sexy man trapped me in his stare. I was his willing prey. The closer I moved towards him, the more thrilled and frightened I became. He was everything that I am not. He was tighter where I was chubbier. His knuckles were even and delicate, where mine were knobby and rough. His skin was the pale bronze of a tropical transplant, suddenly enduring a harsh New York winter. But, once I felt the tips of his fingers graze the small curve of my lower back, I became whole. How he knew I spoke Spanish, I’ll never know. But his words spoke truths to me that I would never dare admit to myself. Those words revealed a confidence I definitely did not possess. I didn’t think I would ever be able to respond to him; my face was flush in a bashful reddish-pink huge that I’m sure he never felt in his life.
Naturally, he noticed this reaction and it pleased him. A sly smile slowly churned its way to the surface of his mouth, mocking my shrinking confidence. If his goal was to arouse and humiliate me, he succeeded thoroughly . His precision gave him the power to direct my blood to my face, my head, my…well, you get the picture. Then, as quickly as he appeared before me, he was gone, leaving a subtle hint of his fragrance lingering in the air.
I am the choppy water, dominating his thoughts.
My purpose is simple, yet complex for the untrained eye.
I exist as a doorway, a portal to a more primal self, the denied
passion given flesh and mood.
I break down barriers, hold him down and smack him with desire,
So that he might see. So that he might feel. So that he might lighten
Drifting mindless on a raft of raw passion,
on seas of morality, judgment, sociality, kindness,
compassion, fidelity, loyalty, faithfulness.
I can see the way home, find the path that leads
me to redemption. Each time I reach for a paddle
or a ripline to start an engine, my hand freezes in
time and space, unable to make that decision.
If only there were someone to guide me, some savior of sorts
who could step out onto this choppy water to offer me a hand.
I know just what I would do with that hand, and salvation
is not on my mind.
The raft drifts further and further away, heavy with the
choices beyond my control.
Drifting. Through the mathematics of my heart I see the correct
Formula. But I’ve always hated math.
The sugary sweetness glides
down deep, past thoughts of caution
that bid me to put it down.
I can’t put it down, it’s just too good.
The sugary goodness sits for a while,
loafing in my stomach, giving me an illusion
of satisfaction, a brief glimmer of satiation.
I imagine that goodness slowly turning
itself into a slippery, yellow mass, adding
troops to the battle against my abdomen,
meandering through my arteries, forming
a stiff opposition in my otherwise flexible
I slip my hand in my pocket, struggling to
find the change necessary to get my next
Words that once made sense,
linger on the palate, tasteless.
Images that once filled my eyes
Become blurred and fuzzy, myopic
Thoughts jumble together and crowd each other,
fighting for a seat on the train.
No space to breath.
No light to guide the way.
Staring past the poem,
without you in it, lies
a bed, cold and yearning.
An empty coffee mug frowns.
A space on the couch, filled
with a presence, though unfamiliar,
struggling to be. Here.