Recipe for Joy

The chill of a night air.

The overcast sky hiding the soft shimmering moon.

The solo string of outdoor lights that somehow, dimly yet barely, illuminate the whole back yard.

The top half of a lawn ornament flamingo teetering, nose-first, on said string.

The aftermath of two hastily drunk Moscow Mules.

The cool beer in my right hand.

The faint murmur of ambient conversation with the compliment of loud, live music -- 

   The talent. 

     The energy.

The fairy being handing me a beverage promising me, "It tastes good.

  Like juice."

The silhouettes of the two giant palms in the yard next door -- 

  The trunks so large it would take two of me to wrap my arms around them.

The company of friends and Phamily.

The hugs.

The soft blur resulting from the mixture of the vodka, Tecate and that fruity beverage.

The laughter.

The subtle tug of fatigue and a perfectly timed

  "What are your thoughts about heading home?"

The late night raiding of the refrigerator.

The purr of the fuzzy ball of fur.

The gentle slide from consciousness to slumber.

Joy.  

Sometimes the name...

Sometimes the name that sits at tip of your tongue tastes like ashes.

And as it slides down the slippery slope across the tops of your tastebuds

It takes on new flavors as you continue to struggle to grasp its true form.

A bite of bitter as you curse your memory.

A smack of sour as you recall the recoil.

A slight of sweet as you savor that one Summer that made sense.

An indescribable umami that tickles your throat when you can't help but salivate for just a little
                                   bit
                                       more.

A smack of salt to sting the wounds, still soft and smarting. Still strange and sore.

And as it swims toward the throat, the build of the hot hot heat.

That hint of spiciness compounding quite covertly until

You wondered if it was even possible that you thought this might be tolerable.

To spit it up and out.

That name -- that elusive name

To rid yourself of that fear and fire as it burns still hot.

Then ashes, soft and slate.

You cast it off your tongue

And reach for another bite.

An Ode to My Shoes

An Ode to My Shoes:

It's impossible to say whether or not you still loved me or not when you gave me them two Christmases ago.

The thought hadn't even crossed my mind.. until a misplaced, 

  ill-timed,  

    poorly put-together joke fell flat on the sidewalk as we strolled

-- fast-paced and sure-footed --

down the steep street that led us away from my home.

My mind traced through the memories.. 

Slithering snakes through a maze of thick-thatched, barred and barricaded half-remembered truths.

Your gifts -- masquerades attempting to pass off as some sort of affection.

Guilt-laden apologies for the lack thereof.

It was my fault for not noticing sooner.

For taking gifts at face value.

For not understanding that the hugs were hollow.

Words were wanting.

Kisses like corpses --

Cold.

Lifeless.

Waiting for a breath of fresh air to stimulate the skin,

  reanimate the soul,

    and remind you of that feeling you thought you felt so long ago.

An Ode to My Two Feet:

Carrying me swiftly, sweetly from one universe to another.

Fast-paced,

Sure-footed,

Callous-strong.

Clad in these two solid shoes.

A gift of a ghost of loves past

and the promise of a destination to come.

What Does Your Body Remember?

The touch of your skin, for one.

The humidity of the night.

The sweat caught between the fold in the back of my knee and warmth of your thigh.

The tangle of arms and legs and miscellaneous us.

When we woke, we could feel the change in the air.

The breeze.

The promise of cool and the sweet smell of moisture.

As I motioned to grab something to cover up with, your hand stopped mine.

Our fingers intertwined and you motioned toward the ladder.

We scrambled down from the loft.

The wind was stronger outside.

Blanketing.

Wild.

The sky swirled black and grey.

A rumble of thunder shook the bare souls of our feet.

The tickle of grass between my toes.

A flicker of lightning in the distance.

We could feel the storm coming.

The warmth of your arms wrapped around me from behind.

Your head laid atop my own.

The clouds, the rains, the storm. ..

Approaching.. 

Approaching.

The first soft droplets of precipitation on my arms.

Thin sporadic tears.

On my legs. My bare belly.

Then harder, faster, fatter.

The wet, the warm and the cool all at the same time.

My hair clinging to my face.

Your laugh ringing in my ears.

Your laugh shaking my body with yours.

And we waited in the rain.

Until it felt as if our skin was soaked through and through.

Until we ran laughing for the shelter of the shed.

My Body Remembers.