Reminds me of when my painting of a breast cancer survivor was banned from a group art show, deemed “not-family friendly”. The painting was also censored on television coverage, due to FCC regulations. And when I blogged about it last year, my image hosting service Photobucket removed the image because it “violated their terms of service”.

I have thought of you for 27 years, Howie.

*You were such a joy*.

Listening to gospel tonight… Aretha singing “Precious Lord” and Mahalia stirring the angels… and that bawdy sinner Bessie Smith just cuz I love her sweet voice more than anythang ever recorded. Kin I get an amen somebody? I try to expose Meesha to the great singers, and hear her in the shower sometimes doing Etta or Nina Simone.

Gotta say that kid busted her ass today, helping fat Daddy get this house in order. We had fun, too, goofin’ on each other while we worked. She rode her skateboard all over the laundromat. I’m gonna have to post some pics of the punk outfits this child comes up with. Wore suspenders, white gloves and a tophat and tie she stole from me while we ate square fish and green jello with bumps in it at Luby’s Motherfucking Cafeteria. The old folks stirred their tea and smiled.

PS… I do not like this desk. Its a beautiful executive desk and an “important” piece of furniture, the most expensive thing I have ever owned. This desk and I just never shook hands. I miss the 25 year old worn oak rolltop that lived in my studio. I sold my old friend for less than the rolls of quarters I put in washing machines tonight. This week, I plan to clear this office space and claim it. Do some sort of ritual to bless this biggo chunk of tree and make it mine. Aint no way I am getting this fucking desk down the stairs anyways. It weighs 70000 squillion tons!

The rest of the new apartment feels like home, though, more and more every day. I still need some help with hanging curtains and stained glass and some chandeliers I got for peanuts. Affirmations for a biggo fat Daddy leather club chair with some nailhead trim to suddenly appear on Craigslist for next to nothing. Looking kinda cute up in here, good people! Soon I will post some pics and share.

Puttin’ on an old record for ya’ll. Sweet dreams.

I sat there all those months while the house was for sale, wondering how in the world when the time came to leave I would ever manage to fit my life in my pocket. But it is DONE. Every nail in every wall, every box, every scrap of trash… DONE. It took until midnight working in the dark with the electricity off.

I said I wouldn’t look back, but you know I walked through the dark, empty rooms of my beloved house and felt all the energy of all of the Love that lived there, all the friends who laughed there. Literally, from all over the world. As I locked the gate for the last time, I reached through and touched the old brass knob one more time and said a blessing for the new owners. Oh. The Love Shack was such a lovely, lovely dream of a house. Every brick and every wall, I loved, spackled, smoothed, and shined. I am grateful I got to live in such beauty. Tomorrow at closing, I will take with me a box of Christine’s childhood pics I found. The last thing.

You know I am a sentimental old fool who finds magic in the simplest things. My most treasured memory of that house is the Scorpio birthday party Chris and I had years ago when a bazillion Butch-Femme.com people from all over flew in. It was a ridiculously huge slumber party, except no one slept. We talked until dawn. Thinker and Sonia gave me windchimes as tall as I am, and I had my yard guy hang them high high high in the tree over the hot tub. One by one over the years, the enormous chimes loosened and fell. It was a joke that I would sit in my hot tub trying to relax and look up at those chimes, just knowing one was gonna break away and stab me like a javelin from Gawd. For the longest time, there were three chimes remaining, twinkling together as a delicate symphony and sometimes a banging cacophony with our prairie breezes. Me, Chris, and Meesha. Then I noticed when Chris left, there were only two. And as I was moving and selling my memories and feeling so fucking alone these past weeks, only one lone chime. Aint it like that in the end? The same note over and over as I dismantled my life. Today, a man buying some leftover furniture from me said “Dang, what’s that sound? Church bells?” I said “No, its my windchimes.” But when we looked out the window, there were none. Just frayed strings hanging high in the tree. The sound we heard was the last chime clanging on cobblestones.

I’ve been living in ashes all year. I am so grateful that part of the transition is over. And no way can I say I was alone! I’m grateful to all my sweet friends, lovers, and neighbors who helped me and Meesha move. Our new place is much, much simpler, but still full of Love. I have so much to be thankful for.

(The pic is of my adopted emo Meesha, looking out at the yard today as we were packing away leftovers from the estate sale from hell. The Love Shack was the nicest place she ever lived, too.)

We both felt cheated until desire was literal,
To singe our tongues with flames,
To gorge on that brave dark cherry.
Her miracle innocence somehow salvaged
Was the only gift she truly had,
The only promise she could keep.
I polished her gift golden and whole
And gave it back to her as I said I would,
Ravaged and reborn.
More sacred than we could have known.
Poetry’s own promise.

She tried love on like a thrift store dress
And twirled around for me,
Wanting me to find her beautiful,
Not broken.
The hunter laid down her sword for a moment
And told me her truth,
That she did not yet feel rich enough.
My truth, I found her most exquisite that very moment.
She pressed the tiny silk rose
Ripped from her slip into my open hand.

I came to her with two plump grapes,
Handed her the prettiest one and said,
“Here is your heart, as promised.”
Poetry says she should have slipped her heart
Into the lips of her lover.
Instead she plucked the other grape
With her sweet tiny fingers
And crushed us both
In a lovely, greedy mouth
That only played with promises.

So deliberately careless,
Doll hands playing with knives.
It would take a bloody blunt chop
To finally sever this bond,
Damning all purity recovered.

Poetry says you never know what sunny day
A feral cat will saunter away
In search of a fistful of grapes
And juice on her chin.
Leaving you with your hands
Aching for softness
And your habit of warm milk wasted.
I kept my final promise and closed the door,
Thinking surely, surely with those eyes,
Poetry promises shelter for a kitten
In the heart of some other loving stranger.

————

rhon drinkwater © 2008

and even as I bruise my lips
unholy on an angel,
I still believe there is no god.

we melt passion like chocolate
in our mouths,
and slosh wine with our toast.

blow out the candelabra’s sacred flames,
one by one by one,
as if goodnight could ever end it.

wet wings of the butterfly,
like satin rain-soaked and shrinking,
your lids flutter in a dream of flying

while the ghost that billows summer curtains
floats inside your door jamb,
smiling at you as you sleep.

not every lovely eye has love’s vision.
not every stout heart has meaty chambers.
not every sweet dream has butterfly wings.

————

rhon drinkwater © 2008

Beneath your parched stillness,
roots cleave stubbornly to earth,
resistant to the winds.

But I can hear the great ache
of your branches creaking,
shaken by the loneliness of night.

————

rhon drinkwater © 2008

I had a dream.

I was laying on my back
in a damp ditch outside of the walls of my beloved city,
a place of great feasts
where I once sat at the head of the table.

My terrible longing for home
tethered me to this familiar earth
and I could not stand and walk away.

I shivered in a bloodied torn shirt,
wet with the spit of strangers
and my own tears.

I stared up at the stars,
remembering youthful vision,
a time when this ground was nothing
but a barren field.
But I imagined music
when I looked out across the empty horizon
because I could picture all of you lovers dancing.

There is not one brick I deplore laying,
not one hour of labor I regret.
I forgive your spit and your scorn
and will always remember you dancing.

I am going to begin again,
with love.

—————

rhon drinkwater © 2008

This is about my web site Butch-Femme.com, a community I miss very much. My ex-wife changed all the admin passwords and locked me out when we divorced. She’s never said why she did this. Reposting this July 2008 and its still not resolved.

the source of life shocking warm skin
& seizing a heart
feet rutted in the sucking silt of love
while rage flowed around you

loosened your hold
took you downstream
fists flailing
fumbling
to the calm of your surrender

imagine the quiet after the roar
when you stood on wobbly legs
& realized you were not dead
but drenched
& more alive

————

rhon drinkwater © 2008