God damn the man in this reoccuring dream

Not sure why he feels the need to still bleed into my dream space

Haven’t seen his face reflected in reality in years

In these dreams I am needing him with intensity, wondering why he left me

Wondering why he returns, only to burn me again

He gets me in that soft space, that naked place where our skin is the sin we slip into

I fall harder in the dream, because it seems to me that I have control

I can have you now, forever

Then the weather and climate change in this ethereal brain

And you pull me close only to push me away

again

Repetition, again and again, searching in the safe space for you

Unsure what it’s showing me, as this part grows in me a seed of confusion

The illusion is purely in my mind this time

I try to deconstruct this reoccurring mind fuck

it’s been six years, I’ve shed enough tears,

I have shared you enough in these dreams

Now I want to go back to me

It isn’t serving me well to see you this way

after all of this time has past

I think we are beyond the rehash

Not sure anymore what I hold you accountable for

as our relationship has changed

from once in reality to now, all in my brain

….”she said it’s all in my head, he said so’s everything, but he didn’t get it…..”

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Vessel

My life like a glass pipe, blown into perfection at one time.
Detailed color runs through clean glass, a delicate solid; hoping to pass the test of time.
With time comes wear and tear. Exterior beat with heat and elements from the Earth, acting as a hearth for herbs and smoke.
Define my life by a pipe; I just might. A smooth design under swirling pigment as individual as me, yet created by someone I have never seen.
Seems a metaphor for existence.
Tough but fragile. For it while it functions near perfection.
Chips and nicks may break me, but I still function.
Sharp edged cut you, if you do like you want to.
Listen to me, grab carefully or I will cut you.
My pipe and I survive until the time of her life has passed us by.
And now, I find myself with a pile of shattered glass.
Glass coated in resin stinking of time invested into a pipe.
How raw material made what once was intact, ready to act upon request.
But like the best, we all eventually die. Pieces of us live on in sections of glass pipes and bongs.
Like personal kisses, I remember every pair of lips that kissed my pipe.
At night, in dark allies through more than one state of mind.
Passed into hand after hand.
My pride and joy from the Haight.
Couldn’t wait to use her, take her home and admire her.
Watch as I light fire to her.
She glows. She knows my smoke of choice.
Sweet and green. She gleams in the light of a match.
Alive and kicking for only two years.
The tears fell that day when she hit the tile.
All the while, preparing to take me to a higher place.
I knocked the glass to the floor, in one instant, she was no more.
In awe I scooped her up and slid her to a plastic grave.
I save her body on my shelf.
My first one, the best.
Pieces of glass to show homage to the past.
Sections of me built delicately into a new piece of art.
Broken and reborn.
Images torn by time.
Something mine, all the while changing form to fit a new phase.
The rays of hope shine into tomorrow.
No sorrow for broken glass or shattered pasts.
Smile at the chance to begin again.

Apparently I am missed, but I was never lost

In a world of wanters wanting to be wanted, spring has sprung. Pheromones float in the air, beyond sight, ready to infect the masses. Winters nesting melts away into the stir craze of spring. For this particular individual, it seems as though the pot o’ love is just about ready to boil over into a frothy and unpredictable spectacle.
I call this segment of life, Six Beau’s, a Dame, an Old Dude, and me.
Finally for the first time I can remember, I am being called out and appreciated.
It apprears as if I have created my own motley crew, an entourage if you will.
None of these followers hang out together. I am pretty sure none of them know one another. I am the Princess of the Ports. Somehow, someway, the hormonal aching of spring has drawn some unlikely suspects in persual of the Princess of the P.
Firstly, we have the Isreali. We met haphazardly last spring. After required service to his country, this ex-military turned bohemian was spending the last few weeks of the ski season hitting up Eldora. Minding my own business as usual, I was embarking on a frosty brew and a heady writing session at the pub. Tokman, as I will refer to him, brought about a certain nostaligia in my mind.
Who did he remind me of???
Ohhhh, right, that guy Tyson I had a crush on in 7th grade. The guy who treated me like shit, and wrote “dyke” (though spelled “dike”) in my 8th grade year book. Yeah, Tyson fuckin’ Grebe, who dated my (at the time) best friend Lisa. Tyson, whom I ran into at the age of 24, working at a gas station in Cheyenne. Good ole, bad assed, Tyson, who found my face familiar but my name escaped him. Tyson, who has the worst case of “monk hair” anyone has seen in this era of plugs,sprays and implants. All this, probably due to all the harassment he gave people like me back in the day. Yeah, Karma can be pretty heinous.
So, dear Tokman, resembles Tyson, in his youth and once hairier prime. Tokman, however, lacks much of the abrasiveness I associate to Tyson.
Two weeks after our initial meeting this traveler was bound for foreign seas. Apparently I made an impression… a year later he is back in Colorado’s western slope and anxious to hang out… My biggest mental deterrent is knowing his hooked up with a red light district Miss, in Amersterdam.
Next we have the pleasantly reclusive artist, we will call Bud. After a momentary interaction, I have realized that artists that reclusive must be sought out if they are to be interacted with. I ride my own rainbow, and honestly going too far out of my way to hang out with someone who isn’t “that into beer,” leaves a dry taste in my mouth. As luck would have it, the crazy spring vibe must be tickling him too, because he just started calling again.
Respectivly in line, is a handsome Punk Rocker. Dark, robust, pleasant to the palate, and more tattoo’s than me. The universe would have this hard-kore hottie living in the rough’s of Denver. It seems we can never connect via phone, and I am dying to see his band perform, because from what I hear, there is stage diving and EVERYTHING. The truth is, I have never been with a musician… my ego wants someone to write me awesome songs, to call me muse and a find a fountain of inspiration in knowing me… This is something I may need to wait for. In no way am I even assuming that this specific rocker things I am song worthy… it just gets my imagination roaming.
Now… as if three fine young lads wasn’t enough, we have number four. Tall, ironically Jesus like in appearance, and very, very Southern. I can’t help but slip to a silly drawl when I imitate the things he says. This fine example of chivalry found himself in my way during a Lotus show. I only had a severe warning of flailing elbows for him, so he moved. Past the first set, we found ourselves sharing a smoke… and well, let’s just say he is anxious to show me all the South has to offer.

And finally, and most wierdly of all… Missed Connections on Craigslist, has recently allowed me realize someone from my long lost past of lifeguarding and high school dances, still flirts with the thoughts of me that run through his head. I am almost certain I know who he is, and I wonder if all this nostalgia is just a quarter life crisis. A crumbling moment most likely found in inebriation when one realizes all of the friends from their wiley youth are either married or with child. Realization that the singledom that was so bravely fought for in our early twenties is now slipping away into a need and desire for a partner in crime, not just any partner though… No, a partner you want to sleep with.

Long lost are the days of misunderstood youth, and awkward moments of teenage alienation. I have found my worth, and now those around me share their appreciation…

All the while, I am starting to wonder where the hell my sex drive went, because despite my ever broadening options and my wanting to be wanted, I know I don’t need to be needed, it just feels nice to be held once in a while…. So until someone get’s those old fires burning I guess I’ll let my imagination run wild, there really is nothing safer than masturbation.

A portal of inner exploration