I have some recordings of my poetry that I wish I could share with you. Collective, you. And there are many new poems that haven’t been recorded, haven’t been tied down to tape, grabado. I have some ways to simply record them but it’s not going to sound so great. But I think poetry takes on a different texture and character when spoken aloud and perhaps they communicate most fully and roundly with sound.

Apparently there may be an advanced workshop like the one I’m still recovering from. Perhaps as early as January. But I haven’t really been able to lay beside anyone to process what I learned and felt and saw and accomplished. I’ve still been lying naked next to myself asking myself if it were a dream, you know? I think January will be too soon for me to tear open that wound again. Can’t imagine what they must mean by “advanced”.

But I almost don’t think I can escape the lure of the warmth. I need to buy postage stamps and send love and tenderness to the women I met.

My body aches for touch, haunted by memories of smooth strokes spanning vast miles across the highways of my legs, my thighs, the way she pressed her palms into mine as I lay there, supine, needing to feel the struggle, needing to know that she would not let me escape even if I tried because I knew that escaping wasn’t what I wanted.

The weirdest thing about the whole workshop is that when I was deliciously enveloped in touch, I wanted so much to kiss the fair muses who had their hands all over me. I wanted to feel lips on my breasts and shoulders and hands. But I felt like I couldn’t ask for that. I didn’t think that would have been okay, so I didn’t… I felt like ask for what you want didn’t apply in that moment. Because a kiss would have made it too intimate maybe? I don’t really know… Something to think about.


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