The Fatale Kiss

Perched high on her bar stool she sits, exceeding Vargas’s airbrushed imagination,

She nonchalantly carries a look that no mere (jealous) girl can ever hope to attain.

Sultry sexy, collectedly detached,

carved nyloned calf crossed

dangles strapped black pump from her toe,

tapping a Camel blue crush against the center of the hard-pack box.  

... Femme Fatale defined...

Bourbon bold he pushes calloused fingers through his touched gray hair,

wishing he was more. 

Intentionally violating her personal spaces, leaning in he offers,

“Belvedere martini, dirty, three olives.” 

“Of, course.” she smiles through amused pursed lips. 

“How did you know?” …

How could he not; Instant stalker from the moment of her scent, he knows all about her.

She is just like him; plush life jailbreak, wanting something more.

Knowing unpassioned everything is well decorated nothing

A lifetime of 'pretty' banal traded for a moment such as this,

the precarious precipice of parlous passion portended

by three empty long stemmed triangles and last call

A light mist envelops as they stand in the middle of four lane route 27,

rush-hourlessly empty except for the

damp black tarmac reflection of red neon lights.

Soft firm breast pressed thick heaving chest,

blood red bow lips engage his, waiting

mentholed smoke she exhales into his mouth succumbed and out his nose

Raining in earnest, her wet white shirt clings, hair dripping, pressed up against her open car door

His caution long killed by her fatale kisses

His hardened heart yields what he said he never would

Faithleaping

Make your stumbling blocks into
stepping stones
As you spring, faith-leaping into
your new day

My Desperations

“What is real” asks the Velveteen Rabbit.

“I think, therefore I am”, answers Descartes.
The problem is that Rene’s answer leaves you inside your own head with nowhere to go.
The Skin Horse knows the answer though… He was loved… loved into existence.

I know there are those that look upon my soul as undeveloped and needy, immature because I believe. I believe that souls connect and that LOVE is what makes us real… real beyond the boundaries where logic and razors Occam fail.

A mother’s son, old friends fast, and a lover dear; each encounter is a new birth, a celebration for both. For I believe in you, and you in me,
and that is what makes us real.

Descartes; “Cogito ergo sum”. He was wrong.
The Skin Horse got it right.
So out into the day I go, trying desperately to loose some fur…

Ego sum diligo proinde ego sum.
(I am loved therefore I am)

Baroquenhorse

The Baroque horse is a term used to generally describe the type of agile but strong-bodied descendants of Horses of the Middle Ages. They are characterized by powerful hindquarters, a muscular, arched neck, a straight or slightly convex profile, and usually a full, thick mane and tail. These horses are particularly well-suited for the haute ecole discipline of classical dressage. (From Wikipedia) 

Dressage... Training unnatural movements for a wild thing. 'Trained'' from birth to conform to the will of man, like some sentient bonsai tree, 'trained' before it was big enough to assert its nature. 

Wild horses are broken, Baroque horses are 'trained'. A 'trained' horse that is broken, is sent back to the wild. So it follows that pain brings freedom. So it also follows therefore that I am FREE.. busted trick pony that I am.. i am free.

Balls on Women

I am tired of sitting on my back deck, praying for things that do not come. The cigar just gets me dizzy now and numbs my tongue. The songs are all played out and I don’t feel much like dancing anyway. There are things that I need to do to bring this to an end… and as usual, they fall to me. Household budgets, valuations of assets, final house repairs… I just don’t want to do it anymore. It was different when being the daddy brought me pleasure. This…. this is like planning my own funeral because I would not get buried if I didn’t do it myself. The pisser of it is that I get yelled and scolded for my shortcomings here. The balls on these women.

I get up to make coffee this morning and the ‘not soon enough to be ex-‘ wife is cleaning the sink area. Usually there is a mountain of dishes and old food while she lies drunk reading in bed. I don’t know what caused this sudden spurt of normality, but as I set the coffee pot, she tosses a cook book in the garbage in front of me. It was one of my mother’s. I take it out and wipe it off. “Please don’t throw out things that were my parents.” She starts to yell at me. “You are accusing me of being mean!” wow.

I am just so tired. I would pack a bag today, but then she would settle in and nothing would ever end. I will be a slave forever, and I cannot support two houses with my son in college and the other two still unemployed and living home. GOD I need a break. How about a break GOD?

HE does not answer

BaroquenHorse’s Balsamic Dipping Oil
By: BaroquenHorse

This is my favorite for a warm summer’s night …Fireflies and stars competing…

The bread and accoutrements:

One Portuguese round bread (or Italian bread, plain cut on diagonal)

Fresh tomato, sliced

Fresh basil (whole leaves)

Fresh (firm) mozzarella, sliced

Suggested Wine:

Frascati

Pino Grigio

White Corvo

Suggested Music:

Getz/Gilberto

Chris Botti

Frank (of course)

The Oil :

(to fit in empty 500 ml balsamic bottle, I shave down a champagne cork for the top)

1/3 cup Balsamic1

1/4 cup Virgin Olive Oil

Four large cloves garlic

1/2 small shallot

1 tablespoon sea salt

1-2 teaspoons oregano

1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper

Mince and puree the garlic/shallot/salt into a paste and place in bottle using a funnel. Add Olive Oil and Vinegar. Let stand at least one day… do not refrigerate

Serve all on large cutting board.Shake and drizzle generous amount of the BH Dipping Oil on bread. One slice of cheese, one tomato … basil leaf

Smile … Happy summer, my beautiful friends

The Test Drive

There are two things you don’t want to let me do; 1) dance with your wife, and, 2) test drive your car. Neither of them will come back to you the same way they left you. I am looking for a Porsche… a Boxster S to be specific ( I want the extra hp and the 6 speed)…. I also want good sound… (can you blame me?). So I bring three things to a test drive…. cash (a spread in hundreds is very hard to resist)… comfortable shoes and a CD….. Chick Corea’s ‘My Spanish Heart’.

Ding- Dong… “Hey.” (hand out)… “I called about the car.” (hand shake). “So do you have the service records?..... “Any accidents?” …..(I crawl under the car at four points, inspect the brakes through the spokes, measure the tire depth….pull the dip stick and check the color and smell of the oil.) “ Have the keys?...Here are mine. I’ll be right back.” Out to route 18… NJ Turnpike exit 9 and head south to 8a. I know these roads well. The CD is in and the drive begins…. ‘Armando’s Rumba’ on repeat. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JxcW_Lj7aFg ). Oh!....the empty tight right hand curve on a Saturday afternoon accelerating on the ramp…. mid engine balance… I am in heaven… I am not here for the straight road, I am here for the ramps … running fast…. 8a is a sweeping S and is a good test, as will be the sharp (but illegal) U Turn before the toll booths. Now the Boxster has the tachometer between your hands, and the speedo is covered by your left arm, so you really don’t know how fast you are going…. and that is as t should be… a true driver’s car. Sweet and deftly she moved through the alternating turns… i can not push this car hard enough… she just slips her little dance…. The Rumba… through the turn… and she didn’t even chirp in the 180 degrees of the U… not a roll… not a complaint only Armando, the road and me… and I was the limiting factor not her. Back to exit 9 with at quick run through ramps of the rest area. The wind made a wreak of my hair and I remembered my 914…. My neck and shoulders were uncharacteristically relaxed as I handed Sushill back his keys…. “I will call you.” We shake. I’m gone. Lovely…. To bad it’s silver..