I would like to invite my spouse to participate in this ritual worship of the breasts. Ok, it might get messy. Please have a soft napkin or tissues handy. My vision for this ritual is we get into a frame of mind where my breasts are simultaneously my breasts and some kind of cosmic Great
Thank you for your willingness to participate in worship of the hands. Do you need a drink of water, a relaxing substance, or any words to help you feel good to do this ritual? –I have what I need. Thank you. Great. The plan I have in mind is… We both wash our hands at
“Can I pray for your tummy?” I asked. He was standing by the bed, naked. I was stroking his tummy, appreciating it. “Yes,” he said. His eyes were closed, and he looked so beautiful. tummy prayer “Mother God, please bless the tum of my love. Please bless all the organs of his tummy to do
I was watching a poetry reading online, with several readers. A lady I don’t know read poems about her husband dying unexpectedly in a car wreck. In her between-poem chatter, she said, “Grief is a solitary journey. We have to do it alone, in our own way.” I stopped the video and started to cry
I read something about punishment, and it made me think of you. I don’t believe in punishment–prisons, parents hitting kids, punishment in relationships that are supposed to be sweet, like friendships and partnerships. Seems like consequences are inevitable, but something about the “I am right–you are wrong, so you must suffer,” creeps me out like
I wanted to have a ritual to talk to my dad, who died almost five years ago, of an overdose. He was a white guy, and at least some of my problems with white guys come from abuse from him. White guys I love have way too much power over me, especially when I want
“Hmm, I’m going to stab you with an almond,” I told him. We were in the car, and he was driving us to a small park nearby. “You can’t stab me with an almond!” he said. “Sure I can! It’s pointy. Look.” “No, you can’t.” “Here, I do it!” Stab, stab gently on his forearm.
I believe in other worlds. When I write, where do the words come from? They arrive from a long distance. They feel like spirit, to me. Love feels like spirit. Sex is possible with our bodies, but also our minds, at the same time. Or just our minds, in the case of sex long distance.
I have a friend who is dying. We’ve been penpals for almost 30 years, since I was a teenager. I’ve never met him in person, but I saw his photo: he is an old white guy who lives near where I come from. A little north of there. He’s a poet, and I’m a poet,
Dear beloved Nest, You are fucking amazing, a radiant goddess who is entirely true to yourself. You are brilliant, deeply good, and kind-heartedly love-motivated. I trust your heart 100%. It’s obvious, you’re hurting and hating yourself tonight. I hear your pain, as you wish you were not as you are. It hurts to need, feel,