Pour some sound over the crowd



There’s a dim hole-in-the-wall lit up by a man with a microphone in his hand.

Behind the bar is little Ming, the woman with the big pour to match her personality. The Vodka is lined up, front and center, the Russian’s are first, then the local infused.  Ming locks her fingers together and with a turn of the wrist, extends long from elbow to palm, lets the satisfying pop of her knuckles hang in the air before flipping back her hair with a turn of her head.

She begins her martinis,  prepared to back up her boasts of best in the west.

The radio guy – a real one, though now retired, once known as Jackson Jax, is jabbing and stabbing at the air with his left hand, unable to quell his YMCA dance moves, those irresistible movements that erupt from the limbs when the sounds of Men at Work pour from speakers flanking the stage into small spaces where faces are turned and tuned in.

Jackson Jax rises up with a half armed Y, a mountain of an M, flings the curve of the C over his head, bends at the knees, to the beat.

He makes no sense in his one-handed writing but the effort is both lost and lauded by the drunks sitting around the fringe and he doesn’t mind that he has only half the dance move flying into the air, because the true focus of his body is on his other hand, which is flipping through the listing of artist and song to fetch the next feature song on request.

The man of the moment, brings his own radio voice, one often put to mischief, put to the ear, to the nape of the neck in a whisper, with a promise to deliver , but never heard over the airwaves.   No he is not a radio man at all. Never was. His fine timbre turns on and up a notch in arguments, channels the bass when he needs to be serious, or smooth, or to charm the pants off of some little white-blond, literally.

Mr. Not-a-radio-man-at-all pulls his sultry voice out of his back pocket precisely when he wants to croone a Sinatra or swoon some pretty thing giving him the eye from the back of the dive. And It works.

He can bring the crowd to a giddy frenzy and get the sound sent back in waves, a chorus of voices swell from the rail, from the other side of the place, from the stools, from the low couches, and the response washes over his tall frame to plant itself inside that little space where he keeps his quiet pride.

It sits there, this core of confidence built on quarter notes and timing, sits and waits to be exhaled and reunited with his deep tones; a voice he frees when ever she requests this kind of touch. He obliges, sends this measure of adoration out to find her, strokes his beloved with lyrical rhyme.

And as anyone can tell, and has, and does, and comments quite clearly to her, to him, after he sings the last line, everyone can plainly see, she is the only one he ever sings to in the sea of dancing hearts.

She knows, but ignores the obvious intrusion. It is not only her heart that finds itself stilled, hushed, filled by her radio man’s sweet sound at the local karaoke bar. 


For Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. November 19, 2017.




The Value of This

RMPorange nailsI used to make the time to sit at a table at a coffee shop and watch the door. I would write about what I saw and the every day underlying messages of opening a door, grasping an elbow to steer her through, the patient holding of the hinges while another creaks over the threshold, delighted to be out with friends.

I made time to sit at a table in the sunshine and write-  a habit of early rising, dressing, arrival and work-like intensity.  I would sit and look at these hands and breathe life into the palms or act like I had some sort of connection to the spirit world when I know, Oh, I know, I am so alone.

I once made time to brush my hair, to put on my face, to walk to the place and sit in awe at the function of the world around me. I wondered what they were making outside of keystrokes in their intricate weaving of the drudgery of process into the systems to sustain the lives we live.

There’s a purpose in every moment.


Pause if you dare, if you take heed, and notice. Stop for one goddamned minute and look up and way from your flying fingers, dancing for rewards of no measure.

#for reticent mental property.images courtesy of the web November 13, 2017. Where the fuck has this year gone? 






Rolling to the side, arm flings over the wing of your shoulder, hand curls into yours, stomach to back snuggles, bury my nose into your nape, breathe your scent

Morning sun wakens, covers thrown back as your warm body beckons and pulls her back to the warmth of the sheets,  and as hip bones press to your bottom, a long leg pulls itself over your thighs, as knee bends, flat bottom of foot finds your calf and strokes up and down once, twice, while toes scrunch to grasp your skin  and on inner thigh, she feels the rising of his manhood

See us at the bar, karaoke waiting, on the stool, near the rail, your mouth finds my ear, whispers, “beseme” and your breath is not near enough to satisfy,  so torso turns to face me and right leg lengthens, as boot lifts this thigh and a long reach, allows the leathered foot, to cross your lap, to dangle from bend of knee, over the edge of your warm jean-clad limb, and your hand finds my inner thigh, thumb kneads it, firmly, ears focus on our banter


She is tactile, there’s no denying. 


#for Reticent Mental Property. November 2, 2017. Images courtesy of the web.




go beyond the peripheral appropriateness directing your life

go around the curves and over the cliffs that limit fluidity

go under if there is no way to bring your authentic courage to the forefront

we aren’t what we are supposed to be

few are

we aren’t more than we think we are- though we would like to be,


Define the poetry that captures you-

does it bleed survivor or victim?

you want to claim survivor,

yet, how can you be one without the other? Be honest.

Take apart your dreams-

You are left with impossibles. Yet, you dare.

because you are superhuman? no.

–because you are alive.


Don’t stop lying to yourself

 if this is what it takes to get you through to the story you own. 


#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. October 3 2017. On the Eve, of Libra.





Telling me what I want to hear


I want to know where you go because you want to tell me that story and want to share inspiration.  I want to be the person you confess to with confidence in my care of your mess.

I want to know whom you met today because I want to be able to give you the nuggets of conversations from my  day,  from my aha moments and observations- many made about you being amazing and this person was well, merely likeable.

I want to know why you went where you did because I let myself go where I go and you should know what led me down that curious path and whether I’d walk it again- and whether I’d walk alone or bring you with me, to hold my hand, to stand in another spot on the map of reference I carry in my head.

I don’t test you to see if you are where you say you are.  I don’t make you share your day. I don’t check up on you. I want to give you privacy because I believe we all need a life of our own. But when you are ready to share, know I will have already shared mine, blurted out my little existence in snippets, given you my moments because I want to pull you into my life without reservation or censorship of how naive and limited I am from a stifled coming of age.

You live a big life. I live a big life.  And together why not meld these lives and build a third shared experience that inspires blinding passion from putting them together?

There’s comfort in the exchange of a day,  and while I’m running my fingers around yours, and up and down the lean lines of your forearm,  over the bend of your elbow where that divet holds a sensual space just under your bicep where I press and pause and press  and pause, while I lie next to you, my thigh draped over yours, chin nestled in the curve of your shoulder. I’m tracing the tatt on your tricep, ink which will someday be a sleeve with the story of your life, and the colors of our life.

I believe in this telling-time,  this pouring out of innocent awe, this is where we find our adventures complement and combine. We surprise ourselves again and again. We put images and memories in our heads to create the stamina for stories that we will want to hear for another 50 years, well into those longer days when we are on the front porch, rocking in our chairs, talking, re-telling, laughing, still holding hands.


Give me your life- not in the golden band on the right left hand this time- but your mind’s life, the one that spins up there in that creative space where you reveal your naked self to my soul and I cradle your words and dreams with trust and fearless belief in your integrity and we honor each other in the safe keeping of hearts. 

#for rEticent mental property. Images courtesy of the web. September 24, 2017, the day the NFL stood up to #45 and locked arms in solidarity to support those who chose to stand Or take a knee without worry of repercussion.





Those battles we’re supposed to have lost.



She is a giant among women, breasts heavy, full, rounded, uneven.  Her shoulders carry the burden of healing old wounds, patching up cells that disobey orders,  attending to blood that cannot run clean.

Her shaken form is a salute to life itself but it is not of the life she left. Remission robs, recklessly, and in its retreat leaves barriers to ward off tenacious and happy endings. She looks no further than the day. She cannot see beyond one minute more. She must master the moment, one foot plodding in front of the other, and walk through the forest of stillness cursing damned death. .

The mind tells stories to lull us to sleep. But, vigilant, we watch you creep up into the clearing. These meadows are re-planted with wildflowers. Don’t you see them? There’s thistle with cactus, dormant but growing.  Something strong always rises from weary roots, withered and grey.

Talking in the riddles of sunshine she stretches full force, sips on the wicked fall air. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. September 19, 2017






Was it Kundera?

Who is the writer proposing that true love is made of freedom? No rules. No conformity. No expectations. True acceptance of another in failings, flailing, flat-lining on mistake after mistake.

Who is it who writes about love and its ability to thrive when given free reign? The understanding that holding on to some ideal is only going to tether the love you have created and drown it under the rock of burden.

Let go the ropes of tradition.

Let go the desire you temper for Sunday’s pew.

Let go the callings of should do’s and shouldn’ts.

Let go the anchor of security. Find the heart, beating wild, in you.


Breathe freely the love of acceptance. Give abandon its place in your world.

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. Posted September 18, 2017