--cides

bare after born

side-effecting dissolution sprays airy 'sols stained stained

efface

please, retreat

spurt-urge finalizing first

for wah and weeeeaning

never this or here then there for why

discombob-jessy, concrete poesies

too fast too far it wasn't there but almost here just barely not and then if where was then then it went

I remembered it was a butterfly or ladybug landing on my forearm yesterday.

I remember that this is autobiographical. And very sad for only me.

They named her Brandi; I choose "Goddess"

. She is all one could want: a veritable dynamo in bed (willing, eager, accessible, accomodating, sensual, lusting, tender, extraordinarily affectionate); she is a workhorse, a woman who pulls ten hour stints as if it were nothing, a woman with a work ethic worthy of the grandest dreams of the most idealistic communist ideologue in the beginning of the last century; she is, especially when up-close and all of that tenderness bleeds softly from her blue blue eyes, spilling over those dark eyelashes, the marvelous and unique curvature of her mobile little mouth maddening me with their motions, a beautiful woman; she's exceedingly witty and funny, having me laugh aloud from the gut all day; she listens attentively and responds thoughtfully; she's intelligent and always eager to know more; she accepts me with all of my flaws and faults, without hesitation; she adores me; she's inclined to domestic life, cleaning and cooking with nary a thing on her perfect lips but a whistle and song; she's immensely talented in the written word and in song, with a networking and business savvy as adept as pros long greyed; she has the laughter and voice of an angel; she's incredibly generous with time, thought and material; she is the most loyal woman I have been with and could imagine ever knowing intimately; she thinks as I do: we're always on the same page; she's active and energetic in pursuing her dreams, even as her dreams converge with my own; she's relentlessly encouraging of all my efforts and has the utmost faith in me, which inspires; she often has the cute innocence of a child, relishing the snow as an awe-eyed seven year old would, as a child unleashed into the splendours of winter; she charms half the world, aptly, with her demeanour; she's direct and appreciates directness in all things; she's unfailingly honest with me; she is enthusiastic about all undertakings that suggest productivity or love or the two or something else; she accepts the limitations life places with grace and with courage; she heals with smile and intonation of voice; she always says something that's always about loving and bettering me, the world, everything around her; she's optimistic; and she looks sexysmart in her glasses.

The most remarkable thing of all, the thing that astounds me as I sit here and write, is that every single thing I said in describing her is true; there is no hyperbole, exaggeration, inane attempts at self-deception or flattery of her or of myself in wanting her--there is nothing but truth to me in these statements. And as I read them back in my mind, think about what I just finished writing of her, I am again and again astounded, redoundingly awed by the profundity of the meaning of this all. She is indeed the perfect woman, a gemstone, fire in an icicle, cedar brimming with hugging frost, the hearth and home of this world, the central comfort of life and all of its inspiration. She marvels and has me marvelling. Somehow, through the layers of illusion cast our way; the gullies of deception gouged from a soul disabused by successive disappointments wrought from a world whose promises and actualities too often sit in opposition, I find the one woman where dream and reality merge seamlessly; where as if patterned after my most furtive, secured thoughts she was born. I'm all agape jaw and stunned mirror image.

And I hear her breathing in slumber behind me not seven feet away.