Revisit,Rewrite,then spill

I often get inspired by the photographers that I work with. Sometimes I visit their work and wish that the photos were not of me, but taken by me, so that I would not look so egotistical by surrounding myself with them. I honestly get bored of looking at myself. Anyway, when I am not “being over” myself I get inspired by minute details of a photo that I may have missed before, or a line from a random “napkin poem” makes it’s way to my consciousness, while updating my portfolio, then PADOW! I’m newly inspired for another five minutes and I try to catch it and this time, fortunately actually blog it.

So, that was a lot of build up for my “napkin poem photographer envy,” but here is the result. I forced myself to write the first sentence of the book, poem, script, I am going to write. This was it.

“Northwest Invasive Plants” -this is a working title lol

Black chipped nail polish lazily slathered a top mermaid blue, also chipped. Half shadowed by manicured evergreens, an invasion. Northwest black beauty, blackberry. Thorns red, and blistering into shiny tips awaiting a frail lacey breeze to tangle, squeeze, juice the sweetest ever tasted, spilled drop by drop onto  own leaves.

She Spills


Shout out to Byrd Waters for a random rainy day photo date.



…for the art of it


Erotic Beginnings

I am challenging myself to write more. I say that I want to, but rarely do I actually it down and take the time to do it. Usually I give myself about 30 minutes of concentrated time, and whatever comes out during that time period is all there is. No edits, no revisiting, nothing. So I figured I should commit to one style of writing for a week and see what happens. So for the past few days I have been writing erotic stories and poems, just to get my juices flowing, pun intended. It happened to actually be the beginning of something really nice, in my opinion, so I thought I would share. It is truly a work in progress and may or may not be extended, cut, or turned into a performance piece at a later date. Enjoy!

Cargo Shorts and Boxerbriefs

Her “get it girl” thunder striking pavement like matches, she’s breathtaking.  I have never seen a twitch of hips so elegantly downplayed by vegan boots, she’s stunning. Her Aura cascading around her, and interrupting my breath.

Catching it only to loose it again as I sputter some nonsense about the weather, I mean her eyes, I meant to say, hi.

Her uncomfortable laugh somehow untying my tongue, and we find common language amongst awkward beginnings. Somehow this was endearing. Somehow, her “get it girl” and my “sorry I spilled my drink on your shirt” were moving off the pavement.

Her thunder molds soil into promises then washes away her tracks before I notice we have taken another step. In sync, I think. She’s staring at me, through me actually, but not past me, definitely through me, to me.


Way past greetings, but I feel I have been reunited with my _________ from another life. I believe we may have been different parts of the same leg, I believe, I ‘m talking to myself when “get it girl” thunder is gracing me with her presence.



I was heading to a coffee shop to send off some emails, but none of that seems nearly as important as the pressing deadlines would have you believe. I am pressed nonetheless. Thunder is usually a sign that it is time to stay still for a moment and let the storm past. Thunder is the sound of hunger in my belly when presented with a delectable offering, so I’m staying put. I’m famished.

Off the pavement, the grass is sparse, but effective. We ground effortlessly, mindfully, intentionally, deeply, we ground deeply. She talks in a heavy whisper that I have to lean in to hear. Her breath of beets and celery, salty and sweet…deep. I inhale deeply, and she moves in with  my breath.  I start to fidget with the pockets on my cargo shorts, seeking a distraction, she’s to close. She’s to close, and she doesn’t know, and she will be disappointed, and I can’t keep up this charade. Her thumb on my third eye brings me back into this grounding on sparse grass.

She smooths the frown lines from my forehead and closes her eyes. I watch her take her time to connect. I watch her see me. She sees me. Now understanding, she takes my hand and puts it on her heart. It is on fire, my hands turn red from the intensity, and it sends a buzzing sensation up my arm. When I try to remove my hand she arches back so that it floats down her sternum. The silence before the storm is beautifully maddening. My fingers rest on the belt loops of her baggy jeans, and I give a playful tug. It’s clear neither of us have ever been on this side of the fence.

I quickly release my grasp of her reality and search my pockets for distractions again. As I finger through loose change I dip into a softness I am embarrassed to recognize and even more embarrassed to retreat from. She senses my shift of consciousness and leans over to investigate. Before I can readjust the source of her intrigue, she slips her hand in my pocket and smiles. I look away shyly as her hand vacates my pocket. When I turn to face her again I am greeted with melted dark chocolate dipped fingertips to my lips, and without thinking I lick them. When she does not pull them away immediately, I return to lick them again, more intentionally, more leading. She traces my lips leaving behind chocolate covered possibilities. Before her fingers depart I gently take them into my mouth and hold them lightly between my teeth. Licking between each finger, around her nail beds, and suckling away residue of reason, of our venture into where the grass is sparse.

More like my reflection than my partner, I am not sure the two can coexist. She assures me they can, and should, and are about to, with a knowing glance. We both bring thunder back to the pavement and walk with purpose to the abandoned building around the corner. The vandalized walls and deteriorating doorway give a preeminent danger warning. We climb through a boarded up window that clearly spoke to other explorers before us. Inside, the day peeks through the holes in the roof and sends lattice shadows across her face. She looks at me through the solar display and licks her lips. We are no longer what we are perceived to be. Her broad shoulders soften and her gait sways as she walks towards me. I lean against an old refrigerator and she traps me there with hands on either side of my head. As she leans in, two primal beings reveal themselves.

I grab her locs and pull her head back forcefully as I take her neck between my teeth, my lips, then teeth again. She growls and I pacify her with a kiss.

She is not use to being taken.

I lift her by her thighs so that she straddles my waist, and we kiss our way to the rickety table in the corner. She pushes me away forcefully. I went to far, comfort does not conform readily. The silent space between her shoving me away and her quick spin to turn and lay her chest on the table with her arms sprawled out in front of her seemed like a lifetime. Maybe it has been a while.

I part her locs with prayer hands and wrap each handful around each hand for leverage. Pelvises mirroring white water rapids, I’m glad I thought ahead, “leverage.” Her arched back strong , thick with muscle, and flexed expertly like an aimed bow and arrow. She shoots, and hits her target again and again, she is cruel and relentless, and I like it. A trickle of sweat begins to collect right above her boxer briefs, and the weight of her hips bounce the droplets down around her waist.

Synchronized. I know longer need reins to navigate through her terrain, I release her locs, and she melts back onto the table. She turns around and pushes me again. This time harder, this time repeatedly, this time I push her back. Shoving becomes grabbing, becomes wrestling. she pins me to the floor with her knee at my throat and each of my legs gripped between each of her her biceps and forearms. I resist,  but I don’t want to escape.

…for the art of it