Post by goldenmyst on Jun 25, 2022 17:11:51 GMT -6
Privilege of Youth
We are refugees wandering the no man’s land between the smoking ruins of an adolescence whose home we can never return to and the offer of asylum in an adulthood whose customs are so strange.
I yelp, “Hey that’s not fair.”
She says, “I won’t set you up to be arrested by the park ranger.”
She faces me like the daylight hemisphere of the earth facing the sun. Like the earth embracing the sun, she draws a circle around me.
Holly doesn’t need women’s magazines to learn the secret language of men. She got on the job training in the sweatshops of romance. She is well versed in bat winks and lip pouts of the luna moth hypnotism of sunbeam delight.
But she told me, “John, with you it is all Zen. I don’t have to plan my next move, just be in the present.”
“Oh prophet of midnight dreams, do not hunch with a crooked back. Stand straight and touch the sky” she tells me.
When a park ranger rounds the curve of the trail, he says, “An elderly couple just pulled in with a bumper sticker saying, ‘Jesus saves.’ You folks were lucky.”
Holly says, “I promise you, good sir, never to treat this nature preserve in such a manner again.”
We do homage to our amphibian ancestors by returning to the water where once we were sea dragons spying fish in the murky depths.
The caramel-hued lake water bathes us under our Cathedral of pines which cast sunbeams and shadow like the stained glass in our church of mind opening. Holly and I swim like otters under the roof of heaven. Holly’s face blushes like a McIntosh but I am the fruit ready to be picked.
I saddle my aquatic horse and the buoy feels like the place where time and space collide. Holly grabs the bull by the horns by mounting behind me on my plastic pony. Like a ruby-throated finch, she serenades me with a song of laughter as she bucks like a bareback rodeo rider. Her wet body pounds my back with the supple gold of a woman teaching me to swim in foreign waters. Yet my rocking horse is a friend that I am loath to give up.
She dismounts and her eyes are like two pentagrams whose confidence alone is enough to tip the battle.
She grasps the end of my floating balance beam and begins to gently bob me. She jiggles my horse with madhouse glee. She splashes the wet cotton swim trunks of my cocoon.
“What if the ranger shows up again?”
“Do not be a prisoner to your fears. Feel the smoke from my pentacle gaze,” she incantates.
And her kiss is our amaretto on a shoestring.
I ask, “What’s next?”
“With me you don’t ever have to ask that question.”
“Not even if it involves a proposal?”
“There are exceptions to every protocol.”
“Where do you want to honeymoon?”
“You mean with my hypothetical groom I presume? Right here at this lake is your answer and in a tent.”
“Would you like an air mattress or a foam pad?”
“Air! All your subtexts are making my freaking head spin! Improv suits you or should I say us?”
We are refugees wandering the no man’s land between the smoking ruins of an adolescence whose home we can never return to and the offer of asylum in an adulthood whose customs are so strange.
I yelp, “Hey that’s not fair.”
She says, “I won’t set you up to be arrested by the park ranger.”
She faces me like the daylight hemisphere of the earth facing the sun. Like the earth embracing the sun, she draws a circle around me.
Holly doesn’t need women’s magazines to learn the secret language of men. She got on the job training in the sweatshops of romance. She is well versed in bat winks and lip pouts of the luna moth hypnotism of sunbeam delight.
But she told me, “John, with you it is all Zen. I don’t have to plan my next move, just be in the present.”
“Oh prophet of midnight dreams, do not hunch with a crooked back. Stand straight and touch the sky” she tells me.
When a park ranger rounds the curve of the trail, he says, “An elderly couple just pulled in with a bumper sticker saying, ‘Jesus saves.’ You folks were lucky.”
Holly says, “I promise you, good sir, never to treat this nature preserve in such a manner again.”
We do homage to our amphibian ancestors by returning to the water where once we were sea dragons spying fish in the murky depths.
The caramel-hued lake water bathes us under our Cathedral of pines which cast sunbeams and shadow like the stained glass in our church of mind opening. Holly and I swim like otters under the roof of heaven. Holly’s face blushes like a McIntosh but I am the fruit ready to be picked.
I saddle my aquatic horse and the buoy feels like the place where time and space collide. Holly grabs the bull by the horns by mounting behind me on my plastic pony. Like a ruby-throated finch, she serenades me with a song of laughter as she bucks like a bareback rodeo rider. Her wet body pounds my back with the supple gold of a woman teaching me to swim in foreign waters. Yet my rocking horse is a friend that I am loath to give up.
She dismounts and her eyes are like two pentagrams whose confidence alone is enough to tip the battle.
She grasps the end of my floating balance beam and begins to gently bob me. She jiggles my horse with madhouse glee. She splashes the wet cotton swim trunks of my cocoon.
“What if the ranger shows up again?”
“Do not be a prisoner to your fears. Feel the smoke from my pentacle gaze,” she incantates.
And her kiss is our amaretto on a shoestring.
I ask, “What’s next?”
“With me you don’t ever have to ask that question.”
“Not even if it involves a proposal?”
“There are exceptions to every protocol.”
“Where do you want to honeymoon?”
“You mean with my hypothetical groom I presume? Right here at this lake is your answer and in a tent.”
“Would you like an air mattress or a foam pad?”
“Air! All your subtexts are making my freaking head spin! Improv suits you or should I say us?”
