THE CHERRY TREE

We used to spend our evenings back in the country popping cherries. The sticky, sweet juice ran down the sides of our greedy lips, leaving us like a vampire after finishing his meal. Nights like those were beautiful. The dusty horizon faded from yellow, to orange, to pink, to purple, and finally into the deep blue-blackness that marked bedtime for most people. But for us, it was a secret thing; a special thing.

A cherry tree at the end of the day is a beautiful thing to see. After hours in the field, one certainly works up an appetite. The dirt and grime of the day seeps into the innermost pores of the skin, filling the cracks in our broken skin with a thin layer of powder. To hold the soft, dainty skin of a ripe cherry, taught and firm, between our thick, meaty fingers, was like holding the essence of purity between the fingers of corruption.

The best cherries always sat at the tops of the tree. Perhaps this was because it was late in the seasons, and all the low hanging fruit had been picked by the passersby. But we would spend hours a day there, watching the time shift around us. We would climb up the branches, until there were but little spindles of tree for us to stand on. We would reach out as far as we could, fingers straining to catch a cherry or two, while the rest of our body was stiff; carefully balanced like a tightrope walker. Until finally, in a moment of release, we would have the cherry, pop it in our mouths, and enjoy our prize.

But those days are long gone. The cherry tree was cut down, replaced by a care facility for the elderly. And while I am happy that my father will get the care he deserves (at least, that’s what the facility has promised, once he come to need it), I am still saddened that our liberties as maturing young adults were torn away from our hands. We no longer spend those late nights together, feasting on the pleasures of youth. We simply sit, and watch, and wait for the end of time to bear us a different fruit.

——

 

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FOUR A.M. BLUES

The party’s over; the party was nice.

Those two little hussies called your name twice,

But here you are at four a.m. alone,

With no one to join you on the drive home.

 

Now it might be good to visit Denny’s.

Scrounge together the last of your pennies

And buy yourself a nice place of pancakes.

I doubt they can tell how much your heart aches.

 

Lather your cakes in a syrup so sweet,

Like you lather your life with women’s meat.

Remember all the girls with which you’ve lied—

How you made them swallow spoons of your pride?

 

But in three years they’ll be a happy muse,

And you’ll still be here with four a.m. blues.

 

 

*          *          *

 

Did you post your pic? Did you sing your song?

How many likes do you need to be strong?

You left him on read, now, isn’t that cruel.

Just ‘cause you think looking single is cool.

 

You sway down the sidewalk while cars drive by.

With heels in hand and a glassy eye.

You stagger to a lonely breakfast stop;

Trip on the Porsche in the handicap spot.

 

Sure, Tom will be mad that you’re late back home,

But isn’t that why he’s in the friend zone?

Slip in the booth with the dapper rich man,

And ask him to drive you home if he can.

 

You might think that you have nothing to lose,

‘Till he puts you in the four a.m. blues.

 

*          *          *

 

You both had your fun, back at his fine place;

Woke up the neighbors with your reckless pace.

The screams, the moans, and the childish grins;

Both ache to relieve the weight of their sins.

 

He rises and smokes a detached cigar,

And you have no clue as to where you are.

The heat in your loins hasn’t calmed the pain;

You know, he doesn’t even know your name.

 

She lies there staring at the crimson wall,

And you have no clue as to if she’ll call.

The ache in your heart set in as she came,

‘Cause she had called out someone else’s name.

 

Tomorrow you’ll both tell friends the good news,

But I’ll still know ‘bout your four a.m. blues.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #29 – WHAT TO DO?

What to do? What to do? What to do?

I really don’t know what to do with you.

 

You can be such a great guy

With a merry look in your eye,

But if the King finds out then

We’re screwed.

 

What to do? What to do? What to do?

Why did I go on that date with you?

 

I guess your head was in Rome

And your brain was your own

But I didn’t want more trouble

‘Fore noon.

 

What to do? What to do? What to do?

Well at least I‘ve got this lovely view.

 

Ah why not! What the heck!

Screw my dad! No respect!

At least now all my troubles

Are through.

 

He’ll come ‘round and demand

Who has taken my hand

And I’ll say…

 

I’ve got you! I’ve got you! I’ve got you!

——

 

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BAD GUY

I turned on the lights of the cell room. I like to think my cells are more humane than a prison’s, where in the place of bars and that dull gray there are windows and colorful walls. There are books, toys, various forms of entertainment—televisions, gaming systems, and so on…except in the unstable rooms, but that is for their own safety. This particular room was a favorite guest of mine. She’s a rough, robust girl with a fetish for pain, but she’s also classically beautiful. Take a Cinderella and add in a little Suicide Girl, and voila, c’est elle. Though her tattoos are only in places the public won’t see. It is quite fun, but also quite frustrating.

I am all for sexual expression, and having kinks, and what not. That’s all fine. But I do have a line. I do not much like when I walk in on a woman and she’s covered in blood and violent red marks because it “get’s her off.” Elle—you’ll forgive me, I must use a pseudonym for her own safety, relapse is so common, and easily caused by the lustful—but Elle is one of those people, who I stumbled upon completely by accident. Elle was a prostitute I had hired—I’d say escort but let’s not flirt around like I had other plans for her—whom I had asked to please engage in whatever would make her truly aroused, and while she did that I wanted a shower. You can imagine my surprise when, after my warm, relaxing shower, the first bed was covered in blood. She had opened her wrists with a pocketknife—she must have been carrying it. Logical. There are certainly some freaks (like myself, though in a different way) in the business, even for someone as expensive as she was. There was a thick ruler thrown to the side as well, no doubt the cause of her welts. Not a good time.

As you can imagine, dear reader, I was quite put out. I bandaged her up and we talked for a few hours. I convinced her to stay in my room until she was…treated. She is an interesting character. She is polite, well mannered, genuinely kind…but also extremely passionate. Her sex drive is off the charts (literally, I’ve spent years researching the sexuality of even the most driven people, and they pale), which is unfortunate, because it makes the process more difficult for me. I am only human. But enough backstory. Today was a me day…or rather night. I had woken her with the light. She had worn the silk nightgown I had provided her to bed. A good sign. She was standing up—one hand rubbing the sleep from her eyes, the other slumped off to her side. I entered the room, and dimmed the lights. I crossed the room meaningfully.

“Shh, why are you out of bed” I whispered in her ear. As she opened her mouth to speak, I cupped it. Her eyes appeared glazed over, but I could feel her smile behind my hand. She sank back onto the bed, and I knelt with her. I kissed her, once on the lips, then down in the space between her cheek and her chin, then more and more forcefully until I reached her neck. I bit it lightly, carefully running the skin between my teeth, but with enough force to cause her a little pain. She still liked that. I could feel her heart race. Her hands pulled at my shirt (a shame, it was an expensive material too), but just as she was getting it loose, I stood up and thrust her down onto her back. Like I said, today was a me day. I popped the belt buckle I wore, and tore the belt from around my waist. Her eyes flared open with excitement, but I discarded it. I motioned for her to turn around. She pouted. I felt a snarl creep to my nose for a moment, and in a wave of anger I gripped her wrist hard. She smiled wildly, and ragdolled as I spun her to her stomach. She put both arms forward, flat on the bed, and tucked her knees in against her stomach expectantly. I bit the bottom of my inner lip and gripped her torso, beneath the fabric, admiring her hip bones as a lion admires a recently slaughtered zebra. The rest, well, I’m sure you can imagine.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #26 – VALENTINE’S DAY THOUGHTS

Valentine’s Day.

Gal-entine’s Day.

Pal-entine’s Day.

There’s so much love to go around:

 

Friends posting pictures together,

Lovers singing each other songs.

They’d bet it would last forever

But boy, let me tell you, they’re wrong.

 

Every song has a final note

And the ink on pictures will fade.

Love isn’t quite as it is wrote,

Rather, it is something that’s made.

 

Love is made in the dark of night,

When all others have gone to bed—

Conversations after a fight,

When emotions are colored red.

 

It is found in those few moments

That nobody else gets to see

Where we each share our atonements.

That’s what I think true love would be.

 

Of course, I say that while I sit

In a place that’s devoid of it.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #24 – LAST NIGHT

Last night

I went to the bar to find a girl,

Little did I know she would change my world.

She was standing there in boots and a skirt

I downed my drink and got up to go flirt.

She smiled at me with a grin so tight.

I wondered if she’d keep it up all night…

Or me, because, before I said a word

She grabbed me by the wrist and purred

“I haven’t seen you around here before,

So don’t look at me like some common whore.

I’m a classy lady but I like to sin,

So don’t go looking so dumbstruck, darlin’.”

Then she laughed at the look in my eyes

‘Cause I was caught totally by surprise.

Hand in hand, we walked to the dance floor;

And the rhythm of her hips made my heart soar.

(and my legs sore, for that matter, it’s true)

But I must tell about the lovely view

That I got from my house up on the hill

Of her standing at the widow sill.

She was looking at the sun as it rose

And I was gripped by a sense of purpose

This unknown void that was suddenly full

And the world seemed quite a bit less dull.

I walked up to her from behind,

And kissed her from her neck to her spine.

She smiled and took my fingers in hers

Turned to my ear and silently purrs

“Darlin’ that was such a magical time,

I think that it would be such a crime

For me to run off at the break of day.

When I could stay with you—what do you say?”

 

It’s hard to believe that it was just last night

That I found the girl that could make life right.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #21 – LUST (LOOK IN THE MIRROR)

See the look in her eyes,

Like a fire in the skies,

Burning through house and home.

It’s like a mirror of my own.

 

And see the curl of her hair

That makes her suitors stare;

Making married men groan.

It’s like a mirror of my own.

 

And see the shape of her body

As she crawls up on me,

Aching not to be alone.

It’s like a mirror of my own.

 

And see the biting of her lips

As she rocks upon my hips,

Calling out a primeval moan.

It’s like a mirror of my own.

 

But then see her walk away.

I’d hoped that she would stay;

Think of the seeds we’d sown.

This broken mirror is now my own

——

 

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LOVE POEM #20 – THREE LITTLE WORDS

When it really boils down to it,

Changing a life only takes three words.

I’ve written paragraphs, essays,

And, afterwards,

They still walk away.

Until one day,

I met a girl who caught my voice

And silenced me.

 

It was very very frightening

To feel my heart race heightening

Or that my throat was tightening

From such bolt of lightning.

 

And the pause.

 

The little silence out in the air

As the wind blew through her hair.

The little pitter-patter of the rain,

Breaking against the concrete.

 

She’d smile,

And look away,

While I choked up

The nerve to say…

 

I was scared.

I had waited too long,

Like a wrong noted played

At the end of a song.

 

Her eyes looked down

And she hinted at frown

And I felt like a clown

At a formal dinner.

 

Because

All the paragraphs; the essays;

All the words I knew

Paled in comparison

To her saying

“I love you.”

——

 

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Also! I don’t own this picture! I can’t find the photographer, but if they come across this page by chance I would love to credit them!

LOVE POEM #9 – FIRE AND ICE

Love is composed of a singular soul

Inhabiting two separate bodies.

Maybe that’s why love can be hot and cold,

And why sometimes things can be so rocky.

 

The neutral soul has been split in two parts.

One like an ever-burning crimson flame,

One like an iron glacier’s frozen heart,

The other’s extreme can they alone tame.

 

And in an uproar of steam they will find,

The rage of winter and scorch of summer

Come together as one season most kind.

Spring, the season of Nature’s great wonders.

 

For it takes love of those hot and heartless,

To find your way from out of the darkness

GENDER ROLES CAN BE GOOD

Hello everyone,

Isn’t today exceptionally nice out? Well, maybe not, but a day it is nonetheless. Anywho, I wanted to get away from politics today, and yet that is so difficult with how nonstop this election has felt. I mean seriously, just when we thought Trump couldn’t get any worse, that Access Hollywood tape came out. Now look at where we are. Anyways, today I’ve decided to steer away from politics as much as possible, and instead talk about something different.

Today we’re going to talk about gender roles. However, I am and have been very anti gender roles for most of my time writing on this blog. Specifically about the objectification of women and the role of a “passive woman.” Which I think is totally fair, but I realize that it’s important to look at how gender roles can be good sometimes too. So I’m going to try to put aside how manipulative, unfair, and cruel they can be and see what is positive that we can take away from them.

So what is good about gender roles? Well, although it devalues women as a whole, gender roles do in some ways provide a greater respect for women. For example, while professionally men are held higher, women often get a leg up socially. Phrases like “never hit a woman,” or “daddy’s little princess” come to mind here, in which the female life is being looked out for more than a male life. Women also harbor some more power in their sexual lives because they are not pressured to have sex constantly, which can allow for a greater separation between sexual desire and professional achievement.

For men, gender roles provide avenues in order to succeed. If nothing else, a man can always work hard. He can work, get money, and have a family. Men get to be socially lazy, which permits an exploration of hobbies during their free time (since the gender role for women is to cook, clean, etc.). Men also have a sexual freedom in the sense that they don’t have to worry about being “impure” for excessive sexual indulgence. These can allow for a greater sense of power and freedom, which can relieve mental stress.

Which I think is a good segue into my counter points, which is that I’ve used the word “can” a lot to describe these scenarios. Often times, they do not lead to positive outcomes, and that is the problem with them. While the goal of gender roles are respect when it is not given and freedom of self when it may not be otherwise available, these method cause for pigeonholing people into binary systems that do not work for everyone. Likewise, of respect and freedom are the goals, these can be achieved by actively taking a part in being a better person to the world. Simply working to treat everyone with respect, and helping create programs that provide an avenue to freedom is a wonderful way to promote the core concepts of these roles while not restricting people to them.

What do you think? Is it crazy to say gender roles are productive in this way? Are the aspects I missed? Let me know!