The children in the forest again. The sun's rays defining them through the canopy and the forest moaning and creaking indifferently to the children. The meaning of the forest's music lost on them. They looked out from their world that was bound by their loyalty to the old man like a family of foreigners. Their child-fingers on the muddy low parts familiar and reverential. Their line creeping among the different instruments of the forest's will. Dawdling between tree trunks like a toddler among his mother's legs. The forest's sensuous organs secretly seeing them without seeing them like a blind kiss like a mother's peeping. The presence of a tree in a child's life. The nature of the Earth's organic endeavor unobservable from inside of its own clockwork. It keeps its own rhythm despite the ebb and flow of human enterprise like it did before this ambitious animal elevated itself to dominate the Earth and yet remain asleep to the aethereal presence of nature's multitudes.

I watch my child's things crash on the sidewalk.

They fall from the forth story window, their funny animal faces cracking like egg shells, their charm scattered but not lost on the concrete sidewalk.

I would now like to tell to you the difference between men and women, and don't ask me how I know, the whispering wind told me.

First why do women permit themselves to be the dogs of men, why do they submit. Why do they do things that would make a man ashamed, this is a question men fail to ask themselves because the answer looks obvious, because they're women. But why are women allowed to be cowards.

The answer requires me to admit something men and women have in common, they both have something to hide. Lets not pretend that outer appearance is anything but a deception, there is no pretending in this cafe, the cafe of truth. We all have things inside ourselves which are antithesis to our image, the priest's sexual appetite for children, the sweet and innocent girl's love for having her pussy licked by other girls, the doctor's all consuming power hunger.

What was my point.

Listen, this hidden space for men is not really hidden and not very secret, even from themselves. But in women there is a place hidden behind yellow tape then red tape then a led bunker with walls ten feet thick where there is a secret they don't even admit to themselves, the secret is that when a man submits he submits completely, but a woman never gives all of herself. She lives in this small space and plays with her secret fantasies and the knowledge that she is really the master, and only leaves this place to half heartedly to pretend to submit, which by the way she practices since she was little.

Keep this bit of golden knowledge to yourself, because to know a woman's true self is offend her unforgivably, if a woman insists to you that her lies are true and you look back at her with a knowing, she will hate you forever.

Hidden away in the destitute village are pockets of things worth traveling for. Things worth looking for behind closed doors which can be opened if one possesses the means. Things such as beautiful girls with flowers in their hair, their skin an exotic golden brown unlike the pale blonde princesses of your own childhood. Things such as new flavors and textures of food, such as the a smiles of the brothers and fathers of the beautiful girls, who are neither naive of your intentions for the little girls, nor disapproving.


Power plays in a cabin faintly aglow with orange light in the snow. Intrigue and politics of an animal called human, murder as the snow melts, new generations born, on their way in the ecstasy of youth, and dead again under the eye of the sun rising and falling. You may come across a man who inhabits the cabin in your journeys. He may be out there on the perimeter of the property to gather wood for the fire, and by chance you two may lock eyes. Know that whatever notion you have of his existence is false. Know that you should be glad not to be a part of his world, and that there is no way of relating to him anyway. When your back is turned and you walk away, the way you leave the cabin, so will the cabin remain for hundreds of years hence. You may come back again in three centuries and find a very similar looking man, or perhaps a completely different man, but a man none the less, the wretched stench of humans will never leave that damned cabin.

Present your neck to me for consideration.
I see you, girl who shows up at parties alone dressed like a doll.
You are well on your way, you hone your fashion sense, and now the girls you want to be look at you as one of them.
You get a tattoo on your shoulder.

You let the love of the women you imitate in.
You let yourself contemplate what kind of boyfriend you would like to have.
The choice is obvious, the kind with a beard and little tattoos here and there. Bad skin. You put off getting one for now.
You consider the love of other types of men, little do you know how much the love of a man can change you.

You come before me now with your wealth of knowledge, you have forgotten that you which wandered the streets like the echo of a lone trumpet in the night, you hate that you. You have divorced yourself of her.
You let my gaze in like you will let my tongue in.
The way you move, which is really a dance, the way you talk which is a song - it is all good and well.
Now present your neck for consideration.

My Darling DNA

She puts her tongue in the space between her teeth, she relishes the feeling of fabric in her fingers and a man's gaze is something like the sun's rays to her.

In my strange dream last night she shrinks before my eyes, she ages backwards.

She is twenty three in the coffee shop. Her eyes don't dart around, they look on steadily in the context of her love life, which is now so much better than her college years. My professional lover whose new happiness, which begins at her clitoris and ends in her anus, embues everything that she does.

She is sixteen in the front seat, at the beach. She would like to introduce you to her friend the cervix. Quite mysterious and hard to reach, it's a dark skinned man with a funny accent, it's eastern Philosophy.

She's drunk on the power of her growing breasts. Lying eyes closed on the sand, her ecstasy rides the waves.

She's a little girl now, doddelling around her bed, her hand always on something sturdy so she does not fall. Her stare is ignorant. Her voice is something she will mimic in her 30s. She has not been plucked like a dandelion from the field by the stares of men yet, she has learned no lessons of power.

My darling DNA. My disciple who has not learned to imitate what I want her to be.

The wind of a hummingbird's wing on a flower petal: the child holds a candy sweet with his thumb and forefinger; the tension in the corners of your mouth. (The measure of a loving touch)

The new emptiness

The new emptiness coming on like a movement, like a thunderstorm. All the kids are raving about it. They face it bravely, and having disappeared into it completely, come back out with their sleepy eyed teenage bravado and exclaim the virtues of apathy. I play my mandolin under the olive tree.