Cool, soft, quiet breezes. Mossy earth. Tiny, bubbling streams. Spring water as cold as ice. The wing beats of a raven overhead, unseen in the fog. Water drips off the rocks on a cliff. Drip. Drip. Drip.

She steps over an old fallen tree. She pulls up a giant rock and finds moths. Right now she is living mainly on moths. Soundless, she climbs the hill, rolling rock after rock, eating moth after moth.

She stops to scratch her neck, then stares off into the fog for as long as she cares to. There is nothing to fear. Nothing to question. It is foggy in the dark timber.

Time does not pass here where she lives. Time just is. There is only the fog. The quiet. The tiny bubbling streams. The mossy earth. And there are lots of moths under the rocks.

There’s no rush. Nap time. So many rocks…so much time.

No Magic Cure

Sober Yogi

Here’s a thing to know about me.  I like it when things magically happens for me.  When I don’t have to do any work and shit just gets done.  Rarely does this happen, but that doesn’t stop me from hoping.   I am currently waiting for this to happen with my taxes.  When a warning light comes on in my car, I prefer for it to magically go  off all on it’s own.  I not only prefer it, I expect it.  Sometimes it works out that way and sometimes it doesn’t.  When I announced to my readers that I am writing a book, I fully expected that I would magically have the discipline to sit down at the same time everyday and write.  Without distractions.  This has not magically happened for me.  YET.  I’m still hopeful.  I’m still writing.  Just not with the magic discipline I had imagined.  Certainly not…

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The Wonderful and Wacky World of One Single Mom

Each step
takes me further away
brings me bitter peace
acceptance of the world around me.
Wrapped in tranquil acrimony
holding my tongue
holding my views
holding my reality
close to me.
No one wants to hear
no one wants to know
no one wants to see
only the same.
Sheep in a huddle
grouped together
wanting nothing more
than to conform
to become like everyone else.
Brain washed
spoon fed ideology
never a thought of ones own.
This is what our world has become
a mouthpiece for the wicked
who look to destroy
who look to raze our lands
taking what they want
never giving back.
it seems to those who…..
ripped the scales from their eyes
opened their ears to cries around
who try to rally
to educate
only to be named….. 
©May 10/19
Picture via Pinterest found by The Eclectic Contrarian

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Sorry in advance, sometimes I get angry at us.

Ever wonder when it was that human beings started thinking they were the most important motherfuckers on the planet?

I have given that question much thought over my lifetime.

Well, it was when some people who couldn’t explain anything started making shit up.

So…They said something they called god, an invisible, supernatural being in the sky, spoke to them and told them that not only did they look like their invisible, supernatural being in the sky, but all the other flora and fauna were put here by the invisible supernatural being in the sky for humans to dominate and use as they saw fit.

So, here we are.

Seven and a half billion of us. Breeding. Headed for ten billion by mid-century.

Human beings. Homo sapiens. A failed species.

Nothing more than cocksplat, run amuck

Up to. On to. In to.

The mountain range was large. The peaks were giant and beautiful. The valleys long and smooth, inviting and welcoming.

At night, the stars would sparkle equally over the highest and the lowest places. Where the mountains were the largest and where those who loved such places were allowed to linger, the stars seemed the brightest. They would streak across the sky pointing out the most exotically beautiful spots.

The mountains spread out. Magnificent. Powerful. Beautiful. Void of weakness.

Strength was everywhere, yet forgiveness existed for one who could find passion and excitement in the beauty.

Streams flowed quietly in the dark valleys. The stones rounded and slippery. The fluid created music for one who stopped to listen.

There was sculpture in each contour of the land. One’s eyes could behold the passionate ebbs and flows, nearly able to reach out a hand at arm’s length and stroke the soft beauty of it all.

I hope to find such beauty again. To touch it. To taste it. To smell it. To feel it. To lay with it.

It is magnificent.

Postscript…This is for someone, who may or may not realize I wrote it for her. Either way, it’s for her.

Beauty Tips for the Apocalypse

Fuckin brilliant!

Gingerbread House Lit Mag

You might be tempted by versatility: the 5-in-1 contouring stick, the double-sided lip gloss. You might be tempted by practicality: face wipes, dry shampoo, a very tiny compact in a durable shell.

Resist these temptations. Instead, choose glitter, tiny glass bottles of colorful dust that emit their own light—champagne, aquamarine, fuchsia, aluminum. Choose bold, creamy lipsticks, eyeshadow palettes with a hundred shades, scented body butters in delicate little pots. Bring the fake eyelashes, the acrylic nails. The box of purple hair dye you’ve had in your bathroom closet for the past three years. Bring your brushes, every one.

Bring it all, even though your father/brother/boyfriend/husband will not understand. He will stare at you, a couple packets of freeze dried beef in his hands, and ask what in hell you think you’re doing. Don’t bother explaining it to him. He won’t understand, but soon he will.

When you get the news…

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Gingerbread House Lit Mag

(for Katie)

We are in the same woods again. There is richly pine-scented air. There are quiet places to bear our babies. There are other people, just a few. Other people tired of the towns. | We moved to the woods because we wanted other currencies. Not hard metal ones, but one arm for another arm, one broom of dried sage for a jar of fresh jam, rustic things that are good enough for the bears. We did not want to be stuck waiting for sunlight to come through our window once a day. We wanted to live in the sun-spots. | Here we see faces of the bears. They eat raw fish when they can catch it. They rest deep and heavy with tree trunks between their thighs. Rain wets them. Wind shivers them. At night hunger growls from them like the rumbling of the earth. That is the…

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One day, millions of years after human beings are gone, the entire time we inhabited this planet will be viewed in the rock formations as a quarter inch layer of filth and disease and plastic and failure. It will be infused with fragments of hundreds of flags and pages from religious books.

Below our rock layer the formations will be routine. Moving slabs of earth, ice ages, changing oceans, an occasional super volcano and now and then, giant asteroid hits.

And above our layer of filth and radioactive remnants the sediments will begin to clean and become pure again. For an eighth of an inch or so, the formation immediately above the time of Homo sapiens will continue to show the last microscopic remnants of cement and steel and plastic and then above that very thin layer the rock will clear and no memory will even remain that we were ever here.

Our species, when it evolved a brain capable of reasoning and thinking, immediately began to fail. The evidence in the rock will show that we simply bred ourselves into extinction, with estimates made by explorers from other galaxies of perhaps thirteen to seventeen billion of our failed species trying to inhabit the planet right before we suddenly vanished.

And the geological record will show nothing to reveal the joyful celebration that was held among the surviving species upon their realization that Homo sapiens were gone.

And the biggest fact humanity will have failed to realize is that we were not important at all. We were disgusting. We were a wasteful, filthy, heartless, greedy, selfish, ugly, murderous, worthless species.

And after we disappeared, evolution continued on and peace on earth returned at last, and every living creature smiled in its own way and took a nap.

Pleasure and Pain

Sensual Desires

Lowering head to kiss once at the tip,

Massaging balls and stroking up and down,

Then  letting moist lips, caress over crown,

Before down to your balls, my tongue does slip,

Licking scrotum, before teeth gently nip,

From pain and pleasure, softly moan and frown,

Stroking cock, over balls tongue goes around,

Up to tip of cock, kisses softly trip

Pausing to gaze upward into your eyes,

That look of excitement and wantoness,

Your smouldering eyes, just cannot disguise,

Nibbling at your glans, know I have your trust,

As I trust you implicitly, likewise.

Towards mouth, your hips impatiently thrust.

Wonder if groans, are of pleasure or pain,

As I bite gently, all over the head,

Knowing that this prolonged teasing, you dread,

I scrape my fingernail, down throbbing vein,

Finally  take you into mouth, again,

Giving you the relief, for which you pled,

Into back of throat,  your cock…

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Permission Slip…

I’ve thought often of how different the sensations must be between what a woman feels as a hard cock enters her and what a man experiences as he slides himself into that wet wonderland.

I have little doubt that, for me, the most wondrous moment of the encounter is when she takes my cock into her hand and helps guide it into her. When her fingers gently grab me, she is saying, “Yes. You may do this. I want you to do this. Come inside me and feel how warm and wet I am. You have my permission to enter me.”

I may have just come up from eating her, my face glistening from forehead to chin with her wetness as I grin a bit and silently ask with my eyes, “Shall we?”

Perhaps she has been sucking me, stroking me, getting me as hard as I can be, before she rolls over, spreads her legs and quietly lets me know she wants me inside her. Now.

Whatever has led up to the moment, when a woman takes my cock in her hand and slides it into her, I know life is beautiful and we will ride each other until we moan together. And best of all, she wants me there and is giving me my permission slip.