My Hot Coffee and I Were Supposed to Get Wild and Sexy, But…

I kicked Him out of my bedroom for three months. I craved his heat in my mouth in ways that felt indecent—and if you know me at all, then you also know that for “indecent” to penetrate my vocabulary, worlds must almost split in half first.

But this is not about Him… This is about a friend for whose cause I gave Him up for eleven weeks and thirty-one days. My friend needed help banishing a demon. I did nothing that cooked up my lungs, but I still wanted to support determination.

I carried determination on my shoulders, while my friend blew the stinky smoke of omission right into the back of my trust. Was I upset? A bit… Fine! I was about to burst with fire that wanted to blast into my friend’s lie; torch it out of his head until his eyeballs popped, and truth came leaking out of jagged ocular hollows.

My fire had as much to do with my friend’s deception, as this post has to do with my hot coffee and I getting all wild and sexy in a poem about the sensuality of preferred drinks. I didn’t get angry because he couldn’t quit the lung eater; fury masticated my bones because he masked truth… And I had craved my coffee for ninety-one days because someone decided (for me!) that disappointment would hurt me more than a fib.

sun-hidden, my Heart,
keep no anguish-full riddles:
frank amities bloom

Process Note on Steroids: I’m not into the habit of explaining my fiction or poetry. I believe poems and stories should be lived. But I feel the need to say that this wild haibun was inspired by something that has been happening since I began feeding my poetry to the cruellest month: some Wicked Luvs and a few new yummy readers have mistakenly deduced that all my poetry is autobiographical.

That alone isn’t a problem. However, many people who read “Dead Flowers and Torn Feathers”, for instance, were left heartbroken on my behalf—they thought I had just miscarried or had an abortion (my only pregnancies have resulted in kept stories and poems). Other creative works have received a similar kind of attention, but not of much worrying levels. Until yesterday… when some of the readers of “Melancholic Spreads” seemed to think I was drowning in depression.

I almost said nothing about the whole thing. But taking readers’ unfounded good wishes and compassion made me feel like a thief. I probably drove one of my best friends mad with the issue…. I asked other friends about it (some of their solutions left me roaring like a loon). In the end, I almost chose to not say anything. Then the poem above came flying out of my mouth, follow by the longest explanation that has ever inhabited this cyber-home.

I’m aware that there will be a few who will skip this torrent of reasons why. But for those who won’t… I promise I will never again write a clarification that is longer than the work it addresses. It’s just that… well, it’s early, you know? And I’ve yet to delight in the orgasmic gift, which is letting my lips be kissed by hot French vanilla coffee… So my words are coming out ellipsis heavy and… decaffeinated… And we all know what happens to a “Decaffeinated Witch”.

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for NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero 2015, Day 18 – Coffee or Tea… or Do You Sip Both Ways? Write a sensual poem dedicated to coffee or tea or to both. Not in love with any of these beverages? Then dedicate it to your favorite drink or food.

“Abstract Music Coffee Art”, by Mariana Lazarciuc“Abstract Music Coffee Art”, by Mariana Lazarciuc
via

Climbing Trees in a Skirt

I had a threesome of girls living on the tip of my tongue. At fifteen, their separate existence was my living. On Fridays, the girl I guarded most spent hours at the library meeting gods, talking to dead people with a past, and discussing the benefits of flax seed on festering wounds. Fridays were short. Weekdays were womanned by a camouflaged girl who knew patience—library girl would’ve never survived hand-to-mind combat against nuns who believed Jesus rose to save souls while teaching math. Home girl was wicked fun and fierce. She looked hot blood in the eye, never pretended not to know, climbed mango trees wearing skirts, and cackled with the moon.

fifteenth spring of life…
tight triad of one, morphing;
she’s growing her Self

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for NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero 2015, Day 15 – Fifteen: Write a poem about the town or city where you spent the fifteenth year of your life. If a poem about said place doesn’t move your muse, try something memorable that happened when you were that age. Introduce us to fifteen-year-old you.

Defiance, by Angie Wright

Defiance”, by Angie Wright