Song of a Reformed Headhunter

Too tired to post anything substantial, but do want to record a couple of things before they fly out of my head. Yes, this is a mishmash. Watched, or was it heard, Wynton Marsalis at 50 on PBS last night, while unfriending more than a hundred people on Facebook whom I have never talked to and who never talked to me. I liked the more complex, more "classical" compositions than the more populist ones. But what do I know about jazz? Zilch. I heard jazz at Iridium once, a long time ago, and did not enjoy the music, though the company was delightful. In New Orleans earlier this year, I heard an old-style jazz band, and imagined that this was the kind of music that Larkin loved and hated Charlie Parker for destroying. GH and I watched Weekend last Saturday night. There are at least four different movies that go by that name on imdb, not including movies titled The Weekend . You would have thought that directors or studios would try harder to come up with something original. The...

Sex with Big Hands Desire, sight, Eyes, lips, seeke, see, prove, and find      Lady Mary Wroth, “Pamphilia to Amphilanthus” I want to hold up a boy’s big hands and kiss him on his lips, gently first, feeling the slight shock of contact pass into a warming, then fitting like a screw-top on a jar of jam, when lips become mouths, mobile, deep, and moist, tongues touching. You know that moment when a body that is holding itself in, looking out, curious, cautious, from behind a gauzy curtain, relents and follows itself out to greet your eager hips gladly, that moment’s a proof, finding.

domed/doomed/deem'd This reading light on the poems of Lady Mary Wroth is like my spot of consciousness. It decodes the marks, grievous and oddly spelled, as in domed for doomed , straightens out the urgent inversions, reconstructs the labyrinth of sense into a familiar sonnet form, and bathes (and I mean bathes ) in the aura borealis. Just beyond is darkness. Unseen, in the next room, you finalize your drawings of the church renovation. You said before, you love knowing that I am near, hearing the couch sighing, or smelling my coffee, whereas, submerged in my books, I am oblivious to your existence, and so you feel outside of love. Dear, you may be outside the circle of my thought, but not the influence of love. As Lady Mary Wroth writes, The knowing part of joye is deem'd the hart. Know, if you must, a greater part lies in unknowing. I am more than the heart, more than a reading light, this coffee, this sighing, this darkness, is love too.