N.O.L.Y.M.T.I.D. MEANS: NO ONE LOVES YOU MORE THAN I DO

…I have a new story, "Flower Child," up at REM Magazine, a site out of New Zealand, and also a poem, “Abducted” in Calliope Nerve. Both are also here under "Words In Print."

…Yesterday at the mall my son said, "I feel very serene right now."
Later he told me he wanted to "be a kinder person", even though he already is quite kind.
Kids are filled with magic.
…People at the mall always look happy. Have you ever seen a sad person at a shopping mall? Maybe you've seen a hysterical girl who just broke up with her boyfriend. Perhaps you've seen an angry security guard storming after a slick shoplifter. Over all, though, I bet when you’re at the mall you’ve only seen contented, joy-filled folk, people with a jump in their step, yes, maybe stabbing at their cell phones, but people smiling or half-grinning nonetheless.
I think that's because—at the mall-- you're surrounded by all kinds of stimuli. It's like cramming many museums into a tight space. You end up with a buffet battling for your senses.
Plus, there are lots of attractive people working at the stores, beautiful babes and dudes well adorned, fashionably disheveled.
And there's always a food court or other restaurants.
You can get a beer or cabernet. You can catch a buzz.
There is still a book store where you can pull down poetry volumes from the top shelf where they hide them.
You can grab a caffeine high because, likely, there'll be an espresso bar of some sort, Starbucks or otherwise, every ten yards.
So, my advice is: if you ever get depressed, go to the mall.

…There is a place.
You've never been there.
I haven't either, but I've seen it quite a few times in my head, at night or in daydreams.
The shuffling and settling surf is the only soundtrack. If we step outside the straw hut, a light breeze might kick up some sand across our ankles and we can see skiffs in the distance and one or two blue kites zigzagging in the white sky.
In this place the wait staff have telekinesis. They bring you what you want when you want it without you having to ask.
See? Here come two Coronas with lime and a platter of pineapple and berries. He smiles at us, says, "You two have good times here, yes?"
Someone’s brought us oil and towels.
We have pen and paper to go longhand.
Lamps on night stands.
You look terrific tanned. Your hair's gotten so much lighter, too.
I didn't think your lips could look any fuller, but they do.
What a smile, so shy and mischievous you've become.
“Hey,” I say, when I see your eyes start to water, “what’s wrong?.”
You punch me softly. “This is perfect,” you say.
Your eyes are no longer green. Here, they match the ocean impeccably. I can see all the way through the sea to my toes underwater. I can see through your corneas all the way to my soul, and I look so damn happy.
At night we wear linen and sandals. Who knew we could be this hungry?
The Gipsy Kings play through lofted speakers on a veranda. The air smells like honeysuckle and lilac. We slow dance for a smoldering sunset which is just now dipping its waist into the middle of the far horizon.
Your arms rest on my shoulders.
Your fingers play in my hair.
The humidity has done fantastic things to your own hair. Ropes of it roll and unwind everywhere. I can pull myself to safety, though there’s no need now.
Your breath smells like mint from a Mojito.
When we kiss, the world tilts and sways, but there’s no falling down here.
You start to shimmy to a Spanish conga drum. Oh my, you’ve got swag.
You doe-si-doe me as if I’m blindfolded.
“Come here.”
Your skin tastes of coconut and cream. It has the answer to every question. Even the wind can’t wipe them away.
And your lips have now become wet brushes. You paint lavishly. You spill some here and there, but that’s okay. Go ahead. Paint. Paint by numbers. Paint stream of consciousness.
When you’re finished, there are landscapes and portraits, pictures of people in cabs caressing hardily, throbbing museums and some of dry toast.
My favorite is a train station.
And then it’s my turn.
We turn
and swivel
and clip
at the hip.
The beach and the moon
and the moon’s face
reflected on the creased surface of the water
beckons us on,
and the peer pressure is nothing
compared to the pressure of--
In between,
you gasp,
yank my hair back
and demand to know,
"How?
How did you ever find this place?"


…"The only people for me are the mad ones. The ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time. The ones who never yawn or say a common place thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars" ~ Jack Kerouac