Category Archives: carnal

Strand Reading and New Book of Poetry!

I am very pleased to announce that I am winning a 2019 Pushcart Prize fo the poem “Blue Coming” a collaboration with my Thing, his poem, “What You Can’t Know  is that Poetry is Connected to the Body Again”

 

 

 

The  prize winning poem: “Blue Coming”

(published in ABSTRACT MAGAZINE TV.COM)

 

BLUE COMING

(in response to “Poetry Is Connected to the Body Again” by Mr. Bob Holman)

           Thylias Moss

Poetry is connected to the body,

part of my fingertips, just as blue as anything 

that ever was or will be blue–

–blue that dye aspires to, true blue

denied to any sapphire, Logan sapphire included,  even

 if she wears some

on those blue fingers,  blue spreads, consumes her

as if she hatched from an Araucana egg:

SHE IS BLUE, fingers, bluest hands ever, Tunisian blue. Djerban 

blue hands, shoulders, breasts, every 

nook and cranny blue, big bad wolf says: how blue you are!

The better to blue you….

She, so blue today, visits

 Offices of the National Enquirer to report

on this surging of blue epidemic, blue

bottle fly bluer than any sound buzzing,  fly buzzing

as blue as it can, making the Blues,  making 

The Blues mean something very different –such music from 

beating of wings, some of what has spread blue 

throughout her bluing body, 

blue buzz

even layers of atmosphere: blue buzz: name

 of a new Crayola crayon and marker, manufactured 

from her fingertips

Blue Buzz Blood group

She bleeds an orgasmic paint set.  She bleeds 

a blue layer

 her lover’s face becoming 

blue she’s dreaming of again, blue as his face

That defines blue for

her blue orgasm, so much blue everywhere

world become 

blue for her –story of this massive bluing 

–true story on the cover

of papers –turning blue once in her atmosphere

Blue static

Blue stuttering

Blue hands

Blue –Code Blue– 

coming together, what a mighty tincture,

–not exactly at the same time, but coming, connected 

to coming

Her fingertips writing a 

Blue coming.

        In response to a poem by Bob Holman

 

Strand Pushcart Prize Reading

 

Th new poems all come from  my new and unpublished collection, “Shawsheen Memorial Broom Societycover artwork and winter written by Selwyn Rodda

 

Cover: FOR PUBLISHER Selwn Rodda SHAWSHEEN cover art TEXT 01Intro:

Every indicator says 

there is occasion for poetry 

everywhere we breathe.

Thylias Moss pours forth poetry from the very pores of her skin, without pause. From within, so without. Take it from the poet herself: 

I awake in a downpour 

But I can’t shake the feeling that it ever lets up, night or day. Perpetual downpour. In every work of hers I know, poetry is an art of exuberance and daring brought to bear on what really matters, never merely one of detachment or witty, arch commentary, of alighting on a bon mot, a choice phrase, the piquant image, the novel structure – although given her formidable intellect and poetic chops, there’s a river’s bounty of such in this book, and every other. And in this collection, assisted by a power of recall as sharp as 4K, each word and image is an attempt to bring into sharper relief the form of her beloved – and her poetry, blithely impatient with all limits, formal and aesthetic, warps, flexes and weaves in tracing the lineaments of memory and desire. Lines clench, relax, unfurl, luxuriate and linger at the behest of the emotional heft and urgency of utterance, although this is the polar opposite of prosodic mush, the “high ground” of poetry yielding to the floodwaters of sentiment. A complete mastery of the poetic toolkit, of tone and voice, and a panoptic, though never stultifying, control of the material is always in evidence. Image spawns image as thematic material, evolving and revolving in the rapids of her quicksilver mind. And though many poems here are forged in a crucible of hot love, smelted metal tangoing to its ecstatic highs and its terrible troughs, even the hottest are tempered with a smithies’ mastery of material too hot to handle. And of course, as with any poetry tempered to last, each poem here is exactly what it needs to be, like the others in being unlike them. The more inventive the poet, the more generalities miss the mark.

Refusing to yield to meltdown or despair, this is a sustained work of love and art of almost fierce intensity – impossible to untangle the twain. Sustained passages are positively dithyrambic (or shall we say “Mossian”?) in their punch-drunk precision, pitched at an almost incantatory rhetoric that summons and sustains a visionary yet almost palpable presence of love, the shimmer and shimmying of the thing we dare not do without. 

No love poetry of bland, reassuring endearments this, but an amorous saga as somatically savory, as tangy and salty (as “umami”, if I may), as it is sweet. Thylias Moss relishes the sensible world with an intoxicating avidity. Its endless riches inflame her imagination, and she gives back as good as she gets (and lucky us who travel with her: what sights, sounds, smells, tastes!), a veritable welter of pungent and astringent verbal associations, rife with spice, with pop culture pizazz – her “Thing” reminding her of the priest’s first scene in “The Exorcist”, sonic screwdrivers, pop lyrics – and cosmic splendor and strife, things and forces shaped at will. And we are engulfed as we read the balm of her blistering words. Blistering for her, and us, for poetry of and about love, specially erotic, must acknowledge its eclipses, partial or whole, its devastations along with its consummations, its fraught liberation and its willing bondage, 

I walk constantly with these birds

Roped to my heart.  

and this love is made difficult by distance and goodness knows what else (the details, the story of this love, is in the book, laid out with a poet’s and a storyteller’s eye, no point in detaining you with it here)

highest highs

of my life

(also the lowest lows)

 

Furthermore, Thylias Moss, being a poet of the real – that unstable, multi-tiered fiction where raw feelings matter most, and where they color our entire observable universe – can plunge us giddily into different emotional dimensions, from the cosmic splendor of:

bright path of your steps, of course I remember

How you walk, that day you walked to me, fireball out

Of a personal sky,

to this: 

flame tree outside this window 

Matchstick in the dark 

A poet of startlingly real feeling, and so of necessity one of great bravery, for love hurls curveballs as well:

Block nothing, worth the pain because from it, such splendid love

Is born

 

And 

Time to place value on this dark surface    

                                                           door 

to unfathomable depth

Yet the poles of joy and pain will recur, as happens with a poetry predicated on truth, memory and love : 

that note of how very much 

I Love you,  and then my 

father’s casket was closed. 

The sung “note” in this poem, quite apart from honoring a remarkable biographical incident, serves to mark both the genuine originality of the poet herself – reaching new heights in this book – and how every genuine affair of the heart seems unsurpassable, yet echoes our primal first experience of love. And with the closing of the casket, she acknowledges how new love can offer a degree of closure of past loss, a healing long sought. Yet being the final line, it also affirms how closure is never erasure.

So a gathering of poems of love and pain, loss and gain, heaven and hell. And no matter how frightful or grim, few great poets (or their readers) can resist the unreconstituted images gifted from the deep.

black eyes of the sea

where the depths empty what can be seen

onto the surface 

So from the astonishing SHAWSHEEN DEVONIAN CONVERSION, one of the most memorable poems in a book full of such things:

  • wounded trees on their bended knees slashed 

with their own branches bloody from praying

An imaginative and rhetorical sing-song savagery to thrill the shade of Dante (throughout this passage internal rhyme rises wickedly, delightfully, to infernal rhyme); a gleefully diabolical theatre of memory worthy of Bruno Shultz and an intensity fully worthy of the great black preacher cum storyteller tradition of which she is the poetic heir apparent (she has all the fire without the brimstone and the smokescreen), and a thrilling paean to her father, keeper of sensual hot-pepper mysteries that her shame-riddled mother couldn’t scrub away. These people, real, shadowy, tragic, legendary, libidinal and comical by turn, adored or mocked, not only embody some of the history of black America, its divisions, its tragedy, its triumphs despite everything and its genius, but engender the poet’s self, with her magnificent refusal to countenance oppression, political and personal 

Mama knows best, kicking and screaming my way

Out of her petrifying belly

– culminating with her choosing and being chosen by love above all, and the love of a man, collaborator and muse, whose stupendous presence animates and gives rise to much of the invention in this volume.

It’s true: I have never read love poems remotely like these. And I rather fancy you haven’t either (need convincing? Try “Shawsheen Standard Equipment Fuses”, “Shawsheen Dream Baby Nemo” and the magnificent “Required Walking in Shawsheen” – and a quick shout out to her brilliantly unexpected titles). So I’m going to assert that this book stands the possibilities of contemporary love poetry on its head, or flings them into starlight-drenched space – does this seem hedged? Only due to my not knowing the field extensively – there are far too many banal and frankly bad love poems to wade through. Yet given the epic yet vividly intimate scope of this collection, such claims seem entirely reasonable, although I simply balk at attempting to convey the sassy, sexy, spirited, sly, wholly openhearted and wholly enraptured tone Thylias achieves: its energized ebullience and effervescence! To say nothing of her sense of drama, her superb delivery and her wry comic gift: 

You told me, “of course I feel amused; of course I feel privileged” —as you should, for I am still trying to amuse you; I am still privileging you  

every way I can! 

—as for your shenanigans, you just haven’t outgrown them yet; why 

do you think I keep writing bad Poetry to you?

And this (not about her “Thing”):

and it is said that all black men have rhythm, well, he had none, not even rhythm method of birth control his infertility made unnecessary.

What I can’t begin to convey, for even her own book strains to encompass her, is for me her largest achievement: herself. As she moves through these poems of love, revelation and longing like the deep current of Shawsheen, as she relates her past and present, as she toys with and triumphs over words, time and contingency, it becomes apparent that her self, as character and as confluence of energies, is one of contemporary literature’s great creations (“presences” or “spirits” are perhaps closer to what I mean). I  do not mean to suggest that her projected self is merely a fiction (nor to denigrate the achieved truth of hard-won fictions). Not at all. Her integrity, authenticity, curiosity, intelligence and imaginative fecundity are the ground from which her voice swells. They permeate this book, and from them issue all the glories poetry has at its disposal: rhythm, rhyme, lyricism, irony, satire, sarcasm, personification, a dazzling eruption of metaphors, memorable lines and the other these-days-not-so usual suspects.

And nothing is too inert, too mundane, too inane, to escape being swept up by her transmogrifying eye (plastic flamingos with their “liquid raptures”), her astonishing ability to locate the luster of love, with its sensual, alchemical and metaphorical possibilities, where it might be thought to least likely lurk. To find original ways to frame, embellish and convey the 3 words that love loves to hear and say, to make of love’s declaration something new, startling, convincing, this is something that might defeat even a supremely resourceful poet. Yet she does this as if it were no big thing – that is the miracle she performs, with a bevy of others. What the Metaphysical poets did with garlands of metaphors and outrageously suggestive arguments to deliciously inflame sexual desire and the promise of its fulfillment, she does with love (erotic and deep): as a source of poetic reinvention, as praise, as pleasure, sustaining its intensity despite everything that would defeat it (herself included). To sing love’s praise, and the lover’s praise, is to tend and fan the flame, stoke the fire. These poems are not just about love, they are themselves engines of love!

Poetry is of course a form of will; the word-intoxicated will to the love of truth and the truth of love (given life’s brevity, why read a poet who would subscribe to any lesser calling?), and then the even harder task of living with the consequences. One thing great poetry does is teach us that living well, like reading well, is difficult but absolutely rewarding. And with this dangerous knowledge in place, the question of meaning inevitably raises its phrenologically vexing head. We know that wealth, power and material excess do not fill the void (they make it larger, so the drive to have more increases), and also how frequently the disempowered and the lovelorn turn to extreme forms of religion or authoritarianism to fill the same. It is a huge part of Thylias’s wisdom to turn instead to her own life. Not in naval-gazing solicitude, or the look-ma-no-guilt tones of fuck-and-tell-all insta-poetry, but with a mythopoetic vitalism that generates meaning by the gathering and connecting of dots, points, vectors and sectors (like her brother-in-word Walt). Love, that bridging, quickening, healing and annealing force, thrums and flows through her life, her past (wrongs against her are fully divulged, and righteous anger felt, but never rancor. She is far too capacious to succumb to such poison) and her projected future. It is the force that drives the melding of tributaries into the self beyond ourselves.

How not to avoid turning the searching intelligence and candor of these poems on oneself? How not to at least attempt to rise to their implicit challenge? They have sent their shafts of light, delight and their depth chargers into me, a painter who usually settles for the mute mysteries of image, finding out corners of my soul too often unexamined. What do I mean when I tell someone I love them? What does it mean to say my love is durable, this time for real? Do I dare disturb my complacency, my self-absorption, and risk real love? – This applies to art as well, for once set in motion, such questions do not stop, but ripple outwards and spiral inwards. And in unqualified, awestruck answer, I admit I want to love (and make art) with the intensity, bravery, chutzpah, smarts and openness of the poems in this extraordinary book. 

Love may be the lodestar, but these are also profoundly poems of formative experience: deep, aching, memory-and-shadow-thronged, questioning and questing. Poems of childhood and its losses and lessons, that lessen yet still have the power to control us, sustain us, hurt us, salve us. And poems of her father, a paragon of love and wonder, tutelary spirit – yet how she can flick a switch and plunge us into recollected pain or longing the years can barely diminish – “a mountain over his heart just stays there” and “thunder pulls my heart into my father’s eyes”. 

Yet all is not lost. See how she can regain paradise, how banality, pain and the shadow of death are no barriers but the necessary, because real, conditions – 

we eat the shadows.

two of which

are my father’s

diseased lungs

yet I float on clouds

into such a clean, pure kingdom

that nothing else matters

just a banana which I eat the moment I arrive.

This “just” is no insouciance, just as “nothing else matters” isn’t solipsism, nor defensive posturing, but a moment of needful, everyday transcendence. In the same poem her father’s scalded skin runs “down the drain”, domestic premonition of mortality, and then the banana’s peeled skin becomes a strangely and sublimely linked opportunity of the internalized possibility of love and inner bliss, her father’s gift to her, and the wisdom of getting under the skin of things, to the pith and pulp, the artful consummation of (imaginary) transubstantiation, of the mundane origins of sublimity – anything “just” at hand: the sun-conjured banana obliterates the shadows. Also, “Diseased lungs” to “clouds”. Ethereal transubstantiation. Vaporization of pain. Yes, Thylias Moss is a poet: Ovidian, Orphic (Hippocratic!) and the rest. The given world and words are not only never taken for granted, they may also be taken for a wild ride: inverted, converted, subverted, cavorted with, poles may be vaulted and flipped, and what can’t be bent into and out of shape, what dread or dross not made divine? The poet makes it so. 

“As for politics?” I hear myself murmur. In substantial part, earlier collections addressed/resisted racism, white cultural hegemony or the horrors of slavery, always with a fully immersive imaginative power, never relenting in an equally, and absolutely justifiable, anger (whiplash irony and tar-black humour too, though she has never been in any sense a reductive poet – beholden to no single cause and no one, indeed, not even to her “Thing”). And appallingly, the trauma of white abuse and its devastating penetration into its victims lives is still unacceptably with us:

That need to cover up what she had naturally.

               Stigma

of being that darkest girl out of a dozen children, all 

6 girls born first, my mother the darkest, nappiest

kinkiest hair

Oh the stigma of being the ugly child, 

the one furthest from European 

standards –as if no black women are European– 

silky and blowing in the wind, just the gentlest touch, 

not even the wind

from a mouth able to start that movement:

strands dance 

that is their strength: movement 

reaction to any other movement;  they pick it up

and run with it, bend with it, groove with it….

The poetic insistence on resistance, reinvention, self-determination and self-interpretation, is wonderfully unchanged, yet the focus of many of these new poems is radically different, even more personal and revealing in their frankness and fearlessness: the celebration (and calibration) of love and being in love: love as healing, love as an offering and fulfillment of the self, love as a transformative power, love as a temporal paradise (thoughts of expulsion a shadowy presence), love as a weeping wonder-wound that will not heal, love despite all the blandishments to be superficial and selfish, to spurn the meaning and satisfaction love gives, so that our emptiness may instead be filled, foiled and fed with tinfoil trinkets of no worth. Love as the one real thing. No fake love here, folks, and you can keep your fake news too. How’s that for politics? And being a diehard romantic myself, the so very fine conviction with which Thylias loves her “Thing” feels to me, in a culture where instant gratification is promoted as the highest good, the ultimate attainment, the last word in human progress, distinctly radical. Not a program for revolution, no, but something that’s not for sale, not disposable, built to last (also like a bridge, to span distance and defy gravity). The politics of poetry has always been its heady  (threatening to some) proximity to the unimpeachable verities: no more magnificent testimony to that than the love suffusing the book you hold in your hands.

I image it’s apparent how inadequate I feel it would be to respond to these poems with a certain critical detachment. Possible? Of course, but even given the pleasure and profit of spot-the-allusion, astute prosodic and semantic analysis and then the “sober” passing of Judgment, certain poems demand to be read a certain way –

We are measuring our distance from the poem by measuring the poem

– certainly ones like these do, ones that cast spells and thunderbolts. More accurately, such poems read me, lodge in me and find me out. Such poems are galvanic, seismic, volcanic, meteoric and their technical daring is never merely clever, a twinkle-eyed tweaking of rhyme or meter, but an exemplary counterpoint to deadening and evasive habits of mind, of hooded thoughts and throttled feelings. And any pearls of wisdom they may yield come embedded in the whole damn, living, quivering, oozing, fantastic bivalve. They go down whole: tissue, web and sinew of living matter. Anyway, I thought I could get through without saying what should be clear to anyone familiar with the scene, but dang I want to anyway: Thylias Moss is a past master whose time hasn’t come. Attempting to place her in the history of American poetry, just where she lies on the great Whitman-Dickinson divide – (she straddles both, or effortlessly executes a grand jeté from inclusive expansiveness to cryptic compression and back again: accordion prosodic pyrotechnics –  although expansion and flow, like the great Shawsheen river itself, overwhelmingly govern the ungovernable forces at play here) – or what her contribution to Black and mixed race culture is (surely nothing less than essential), to poetry and culture in general, is liable to leave you by the wayside  – she has already danced around the corner or disappeared in a cloud of her own knowing. Yes, delight is instruction. And not to indulge in these poems, to not assent to them –

still wading when 

you have invitations to plunge

 – would be to miss their wisdom

a leap into centerlessness

at the same time a rising in it

– and their myriad pleasures, their carnally cosmic passion and transformative vitality. Also the tonic of their occasionally bracing sardonic wit, their remarkable tonal range, their inexhaustible inventiveness and exuberance and their insistence on a life lived at a visionary pitch, where emotions are not dulled by opt-in opiates. Because poems like these are for readers who yearn for more than self-congratulation and mild, urbane pleasure – poems artfully construed to yield their secrets with all the humdrum satisfaction of solving a crossword puzzle, the politesse of the “well-made poem”. These are poems on fire, whose white heat illuminates the almost daily assailed truth that love is not optional, and they present that truth with an uncompromising strength and honesty that is as moving as it is inspiring. In that way, perhaps above all others, this is a necessary book.

While we have the presence of mind to say “this is not the worst”, the possibility remains, through the alchemy and agency of imagination and love, to make of our life what we all, avowedly or not, want: a thing of wonder and joy. And a strong, unrepentant, unbowed imagination –

will not go down without fighting, will not drown without fighting, and that is the actual beauty:

fighting

– is the right stuff, the very stuff needed to transform ourselves and with it, perhaps, the world. For these qualities are, like poetry and love, to live and die for. And Thylias Moss, without a skerrick of pedantry or ideology, through rare conviction and delight, delivers an object lesson in (forget “positive”) ecstatic thinking and feeling, of choosing paradise – be it “just” a banana, a lover and their text messages, a river, a son, a son’s car, Laytial the stuffed mammoth, the whole wide world and beyond, no matter, all matter – over resignation, banality and the mountains “that just stay there”. And so I invite you to “take the plunge”, for these poems have the power to move and lift hearts as well as mountains.

IMG_0645

 

Again I read from  this book at the Strand bookstore 828 Broadway, New York, New York, on 16 November 7:00 pm

 

From my new Collection, Shawsheen Memorial Broom Sociery.

 

A little info about how the title was chosen:

 

WHY SHAWSHEEN?

 

Shawsheen is where “ocean” acquired meaning, ceased being just a word, but now also had power. Atlantic before me, Shawsheen is convergence, where this tributary of mighty Merrimack, this Great Spring brought Tewksbury, Billerica, and Andover together: trinity.  This is where I learned to love  Atlantic Ocean, a flow that connected me to the rest of the world   Shawsheen Transport of what Shawsheen instantly became.  Water even gurgled sometimes.  I was where I belong.

Reflections of  clouds danced on the surface —just for me  it seemed, but really for anyone.  Seemed to me that stars made earthly visits to this planet by sharing the luminous power with the river.  I stood by Shawsheen and learned my connections.   I like the stars sharing, I  loved their visitation.  I like the promises of “more” more than anything.  Stars sparkled as they fell, and the splashes so cool around my feet; such buoyant ankles

WHY MEMORIAL?

Some things we should never forget, Shawsheen is one of them.

Why Broom?

That power to clean up, to move things, even dust, fine particles of matter. Stardust, that power if you will, fugitive dust in particular.  Particles descending and decorating my Shawsheen, landing on the surface, bobbing there like the most colorful cups of glitter, and the brooms sweep this away, handles like baseball bats sometimes, and this dust rises into air, respiration cycle, enters my lungs and emerges unsinkable, bejeweled Shawsheen so happy to lick my ankles, and when the broom pushes particles they rise and rise, so beautiful and vast, these cosmic particles replace stars, Shawsheen bubbling with this goodness that particles, these cosmic buses, happily share

Why Society?

Group effort.  Belongs to all participants even bystanders afraid for whatever reason to believe that Shawsheen really is for them also; afraid of getting their feet wet.  But it’s true: Shawsheen is for all of you.

 

copyright © by Thylias Moss. Published by arrangement with the author.  All rights reserved.

More than anything, I am pleased to have written the Shawsheen poems mostly in text messages to my Thing.  Every day I would write a poem to him, often combining his words and my own He is my ideal collaborator in so much.  I would not be standing beside anyone else. Not in this life.  

 

and these links might help you understand:

 

A Journey into Collaboration

 

Abstractmagazinetv.com  feature 

 

and here is where I read “Blue Coming” Pushcart Prize-winning poem 

me and my Thingdom

Me and my Thingdom

 Come to the Strand and hear and these poems! 16 November 7:00n pm. 8282 Broadway, New York, New York 10003

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Pushcart Prize!

PUSHCART PRIZE NOTIFICATIOBN - "BLUE COMING.jpg

 

Received notification just minutes ago, abouut my Poem, “Blue Coming” written after a poem by my Thing seen with me  in my featured photo: 

read the essay  Fuckin Muse, Journety into Collaboration here.

 

My Thing,  also a poet, wrote 

What you Can’t understand is  is that Poetry is Connected to the Body again

The essay in which my poem , “Blue Coming” emerges as response, continuation of his essay, extends his essay and takes the poem and meanings to places it skirted, but my poem enters these locations, and the result? A prize-winning poem!

 

This is the best news that has happened in a very long time.  A moment a poet lives for, a moment a poet writes for, Sustaining!

 

Read the Abstratc mag initial interview all suroundng ths poem 

(“Fuckin’ Muse: Journey into Collaboration”)

 

and read Blue Coming here.

 

 

 

 

THINGDOM! LITERARY EXECUTOR!

 

Well, I have several pojects underway, the first is closest to my heart:

 

I, at age 64, am finally in a Thing, my featured photo is me and my Thing, age 70.  Oh the wonder of this because I love this man so very much and will I never love another the way that I love him.  

 

Who knows how long a Thingdom witll last?   I do, Forever!

 

What you do not know is that I was cooking in my apaertment in Michigan when flames leapt from the gas burner, and ignited my my hair! My waist-length hair, I was a regular 4th of July sparkler.  Just a couple of weeks ago.

 

Here is the stove:

 

stove that burned my hair

 

Here is the hair that burned off:

 

 

 

 

I am lucky indeed to be alive!  My dilemma: My Thing, Thomas Robert Higginson, always liked long hair which is what I had, completely natural.  Was I ever proud of my hair, the way I could swing it, the way I never had to use extensions or relaxer that other women used,  no doubt, some men also.  

 

Me with the 100% natural hair I had before:

ON THE BRINK OF 64

 

How I looked after going through the fire:

 

 

HAIR BURNING INCIDENT-48

If you need anything done to you head, go see Pat Freeman.  All hair types, any length.

More of how I look previousl, “Breathtakingly HOT!” is what my Thing said.

 

 

and me right now:

also this:

 

 

 

Are there any set limits?  No.

As long as we want, the partners in this crime of Love?  A long time coming to be sure! I asssure you, I have no idea what the protocols of Thingdom are, but I am very glad to have it.  I have been in love with this man for quite a while, and he surprised me with this Thingdom.  I was texting with him all night, and during this, he had put his name on my featured Fb photos, and I opened my eyes to see that he was admitting that we have a Thing after so many years.  I have known him for around 20.  

 

Between hair and my Thing, which would I rather have?  My Thing, fof course.  Nothing can take the place of him.  Nothing in this world.  I went through the fire for this man! —and only for him would I do anything like this.    That’s how much I love him.  Always.

 

Chaka Khan, “Through the Fire”

 

 

Oh, by the way, my Thing is now my Literary Executor! 

New Kiss Horizon Review

It really pleases me that one of my books, New Kiss Horizon” has received such a great review:

 

 

Link to a great review of “New Kiss Horizon”

4CC5B7BC-B54C-4A36-9EED-FD17BE50E041.JPG

Here: http://mythicalbooks.blogspot.com/2017/05/loving-her-in-his-dreams-new-kiss.html?spref=tw&m=1

 

 

Saturday, May 13, 2017

loving her in his dreams – New Kiss Horizon: A Romance by Thylias Moss

18++ 

This book sizzles. […] And the language of poetry is beautiful, reminiscent of Song of Solomon.” A. Customer, Amazon

Description:

Published: November 2016

Vashti, a sexually repressed 60-year-old female poet finally finds the courage to divorce a man she married as a teenager, a man jealous of her looks, of the very equipment that makes her so appealing and this freedom allows 66-year-old poet Thomas Robert Higginson to act upon the fantasy he’s had for thirty years of loving Vashti, actually holding her, making love to her, a fantasy he acts out by visiting a store of Vashti, his fantasy come to life, and of course, entering that store is really a sexual act, for he’s entering Vashti, even if just in his head that somehow Vashti seems to control for she has awareness of all of these Dream Baby Tienda events.

Novel begins with Vashti revealing her past to her friend Thomas Robert Higginson who continues to enjoy his fantasy at the Dream Baby Tienda; he’s been interested in Vashti and loving her in his dreams, in his fantasies for 25 years. Every aisle has forms of Vashti on the shelf. He feels a little guilty because he’s married, but Vashti is thoroughly irresistible to him. He tries not to give in to his fantasy’s demands, but he fails, realizing the attraction he feels is much too powerful to deny.

He invites Vashti to be in a movie, and he wants to begin making love to her right then, but he doesn’t, as both of them are married, but he wants to anyway; he finds Vashti to be the most beautiful woman in the world. He comes to the university where she teaches, and Vashti is in the audience, and Vashti loves how Thomas Robert Higginson performs, but Vashti is married to a non-poet spouse, because beautiful Vashti was raped and became pregnant from that when she was fifteen. Then Vashti meets the man she marries three weeks after the abortion… He is not sensitive to what has happened to her; she is 16 when they meet, Wesley is 23, not a good match at all. Thomas is a much better man for Vashti; he always knew this, but takes a little longer for Thomas to charm Vashti twenty-five years later when his weight gain worries him that he will not be attractive to his fantasy woman.

During the twenty-five years since they meet in person for Thomas’s movie, Vashti marries an infertile man, and almost doesn’t get to have a child of her own. Vashti’s spouse cannot accept his infertility, and refuses to accept a sperm donor, but Vashti insists on having a child.

And ultimately this child more like Vashti than anyone else in the world causes the dissolution of a marriage that never should have happened, but Vashti’s mother was only too glad to get Vashti married off, and since Wesley was interested, Vashti’s mother agrees to the teenage Vashti marrying a man much too old for her. Now that Vashti is free, and Thomas Robert Higginson’s wife has died, Thomas and Vashti become friends on Facebook, and as soon as Vashti changes her relationship status, he contacts Vashti, as he has during those years since the filming of his movie in 1988, as friends not as lovers.

Once Vashti finally divorces in 2013, this sexually repressed woman tries online dating and is extremely disappointed, so when Thomas contacts her to begin dating, Vashti is occupied with a man from an online service, and Thomas has to wait a little longer. But Vashti soon realizes what Thomas wants, and Vashti is fascinated, although this man has gained a lot of weight, at least thirty pounds. But after 25 years, this man and woman meet, and Thomas is delighted, but Vashti fears that she cannot compete with the fantasy version of herself, and they agree to meet in Chicago, once Thomas is convinced that she will become not involved with the man from online dating, and when they meet, there’s instant attraction, and Thomas makes good on everything he has promised Vashti. Vashti has the best intimacy, best kisses, best sex of her life.

IMG_3739
About the author:
Thylias Moss is a multiracial maker, an award-wining poet, recipient of a MacArthur “Genius” grant, and was twice nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award in poetry.

And here:

http://mythicalbooks.blogspot.com/2017/05/loving-her-in-his-dreams-new-kiss.html?spref=tw&m=1

 

What Amazon Customer says about Nw Kiss Horizon on Amazon:

This review is from: New Kiss Horizon (Kindle Edition)” On Amazon.com:

This book sizzles. A must read for anyone who has ever been in love. The anticipation, longing, writing to the beloved then meeting face to face keeps the reader enthralled and wanting more. But Moss doesn’t leave you hanging, oh no, she carries the story to fulfillment and happiness that only two people who love can find in each other. And the language of poetry is beautiful, reminiscent of “Song of Solomon.” (by Toni Morrison)

SongOfSolomon-1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Facebook response to this review:

“This is incredible to me; a comparison of “New Kiss Horizon” a book I love for so many reasons with “Song of Solomon” by Toni Morrison, a book I also love.

To get to Oberlin College from Cleveland, I had to drive through Lorain, Ohio where Toni Morrison was born and I had the pleasure of meeting her at Oberlin, even adapted “Song of Solomon” into a play I titled “The Third Beer” (I have not a single copy of that play),

but to be told that my little book is reminiscent of “Song of Solomon”, a book I admire so much!

and that was was so crucial to a well, workshop I was asked to convene at the University of New Hampshire (in the early 1980s) when black females had no dates, rejected by the black males who were athletes and had their pick of multiple white women, so I shared the passage where Hagar dies for want of silky, wavy hair color of a penny, the right clothes and creamy skin; the black males all laughed and the black females cried, including a biracial young woman with a barely brown complexion, but she had short, kinky nappy hair and was rejected.

Not me however.

(I had the hair Milkman would have liked):

 

TUESDAY AFTER MATH-04

There was nothing I could do as the workshop made clear that these intelligent females, most of whom were majoring in hotel management as UNH was the hub for that major in New England,

and for my book to be compared with a book that has meant so much to me is the icing on every cake.

There are no words for how deeply I am gratified.”

 

And maybe Thomas Robert Higginson likes this also.

 

 

I hope so, considering how much Vashti has been falling in love with  him,

and I like the real man on whom Thomas Robert Higginson is based; well, (I believe ) I love him.

 

Well, Love Song #1 says it all and then some.

Love Song #1 MeShell NDegéocello”:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVU0f6h2Puo

How about twice to double the pleasure?

Love Song #1 MeShell NDegéocello”:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVU0f6h2Puo

 

 

3 poams from LFMK coming to Outlook Springs!

Three prose poams from my LFMK collection of Prose poams: “Looking For My Killer: Where Controversy Breeds” currently being considered by Jamii, a publisher (I am hoping for the best possible outcome, and for women taking back the night; what sacrfice this woman is.  

 

 

Let those of us who live thank her every day);

 

These three prose poams from that collection, will appear in Outlook Springs:

 

(Personnel of Outlook Springs)

  1. “Earthquake Vash (Predicted by the Seismograph in the Heart)”
  2. “Small Virtue And Gimme Some A+Bliss
  3. “Status Report on Slinky Lust “and the video poam that reveals the public service that the narrator provides in this video poam: “Looking for My Killer, Where Controversy Breeds”

 

Words written by, sung by, text cheorography by Thylias Moss in an attempt to save other woman from such assaults and slayings.  I also made the film itself, filmed myself walking streets of Saline, Michigan.

 

Why not there? Isn’t that the point? Women may be brutalized anywhere, even in their homes.  

 

Music composed and performed by Ansted Moss; I arranged the music for this video poam and for the book itself.  

 

and now some of the tortured ad brutalized women:

 

https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/trans-women-of-color-face-an-epidemic-of-violence-and-murder-673

 

The incoherent response by cops is just making the problem worse.

Photo via Eisha Love’s Model Mayhem page

Between October 2013 and the end of this September, according to international reports gathered by the European group Transrespect versus Transphobia (TvT), 226 transgender people were murdered around the world. Most were trans women of color. Those numbers were gathered by painstakingly raking through news articles and by reports submitted through partner organizations in places like Honduras and Thailand.

The website for Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDoF) has its own list of names of the dead, featuring some 700 trans people—mostly women of color, again—brutally murdered in recent years. TDoF’s list goes back all the way to 1970, but the bulk of the homicides took place between 2000 and 2012.

Both lists offer a horrifying record of hate. No murder is pleasant, but the killings of trans women tend to be particularly sick. Victims are dragged behind a car, burned alive, stoned to death, skinned, or—far too often—beaten to death in the middle of a crowded street or party.

It’s clear from the descriptions of these homicides that transgender women, especially low-income trans women of color, face an epidemic of violence and murder.

When two black trans women were murdered just six weeks apart in Baltimore this summer, trans women in the community told reporters they were terrified to go outside for fear of both the usual police harassment, and what appeared to them to be a targeted attack on their identities.

“It’s scary trusting anyone,” Baltimore’s LaSia Wade told the Guardian in August. “That bus driver, he could be the killer; that taxi man, he could be looking at me and thinking: ‘That’s a transgender woman, I’m going to knock her off.'”

So why do police keep arresting trans women of color who defend themselves during violent attacks? And why do so many murders of trans women not only go unsolved and remain under-investigated, but not even tagged by law enforcement as hate crimes?

“Usually what we see is homicides of low income trans women of color are the ones where police don’t respond as fast as they should with the forcefulness that they should. It’s not just a trans issue, then, but an issue of income and color,” Osman Ahmed, research and education coordinator for the National Coalition of Anti-Violence Programs (NCAVP), said in an interview with VICE today.

NCAVP tracks violence data through 54 member organizations in 24 US states and Canada. Because the Department of Justice doesn’t currently track data on gender and sexual orientation, it can be frustrating to try and gather homicide statistics through law enforcement agencies.

In addition, the FBI’s annual Hate Crimes report is inherently flawed due to low participation. Critics cried foul in 2011 when the state of Mississippi reported only one hate crime, while cities like New York that have entire divisions devoted to tracking and investigating hate crimes consistently report more.

“In terms of the hate crimes stats the FBI publishes every year, it’s not a complete national picture,” said Ahmed, whose organization works directly with law enforcement agencies to increase both sensitivity and accountability when dealing with LGBTQ victims. “Whatever they are reporting is lower than what’s really going on. Especially with low-income trans women of color: they go missing and there’s no follow up, there’s no investigation.”

Ahmed told VICE that law enforcement doesn’t arbitrarily decide not to care about the homicides of transgender women. Instead, this is a deeply layered problem that has just as much to do with a history of police violence and community mistrust.

“Trans women of color are very much more likely to experience police violence after reporting hate violence,” said Ahmed. “Friends and family members of victims are less likely to approach police because of this kind of victim blaming as well as mis-gendering and transphobia.”

In fact, when transgender women of color go to police to report a violent attack, they are often themselves charged with a crime and jailed.

Take the case of CeCe McDonald, a young, black trans fashion design student who went to jail for manslaughter. Her crime? While in the midst of being attacked by a homophobic Neo-Nazi amped up on meth in Minneapolis, McDonald took a pair of fabric scissors out of her purse and held them in front of her. Her attacker ran toward her anyway, and later died from the stab wound.

McDonald was finally freed after 19 months of a 41-month sentence in a men’s prison, a place she never should have gone in the first place regardless of her conviction. Her release was on terms of good behavior, but the international protests and support of Orange Is The New Black actress Laverne Cox certainly didn’t hurt.

If only Eisha Love could be so lucky.

Love and friend Tiffany Gooden stopped to get gas at a station in Chicago when men began yelling slurs at the two black transgender women. One of the men punched Love in the face, and after realizing they were under attack, the two women got in the car and attempted to drive away, only to be pinned from behind by one of the men’s cars while the other tried to open the driver’s side door. Terrified, Love maneuvered the car around and hit one of the attackers, severely injuring his leg.

The two women escaped with their lives. But when Love went to file a police report detailing the attack, she was arrested.

Love is still in jail, charged with first-degree attempted murder. Her passenger Tiffany Gooden had no such luck—two months after the attack, she was murdered in the very neighborhood where the attack occurred.

Gooden’s mother has since told reporters that threats were made against her daughter. “They were saying they was going to kill her. They were saying they were going to get ‘his’ ass because ‘he’ was riding in the car.”

Chicago police are severely fucking this up. If law enforcement had investigated the attack on Love and Gooden instead of bizarrely throwing Love in jail, Gooden might be alive today.

Likewise, Orange County police fucked up Zoraida Reyes’ murder probe this June, at first claiming there were no signs of foul play even though her body was found in a dumpster behind a dairy queen. After regular community protests, OC cops later ‘fessed up that Reyes had been choked to death, and her killer was found in October. But even then, police refused to acknowledge the death was most likely a hate crime.

“For many, the lives of transgender people don’t matter and they’re viewed as disposable,” Reyes’ friend Jorge Gutierrez told the Los Angeles Times. “We know that her identity as a trans woman was a huge factor, whether the police want to acknowledge it or not.”

After four trans women were murdered over a 20-month period in Ohio, community members became frustrated with what they said was a refusal on the part of police to view the murders as even potential hate crimes.

“We hear from police departments that there is no reason to believe a crime is hate-motivated,” Aaron Eckhardt of the Buckeye Region Anti-Violence Organization (BRAVO) told Buzzfeed. “For us in the community, that sounds like an affront. Prior to any real investigation happening, it is used to deflect conversation. We would like to hear that they are investigating all possibilities.”

When law enforcement agencies refuse to take murders of transgender women seriously enough to recognize them as hate crimes, it perpetuates a community mistrust that comes full circle when and if police do seek answers in murder investigations.

“Very often, from the beginning of investigations into the deaths of trans women, there is a lot of transphobia coming in to play, and that translates into the alienation of community members who would otherwise be able to help,” Ahmed told VICE.

Follow Mary Emily O’Hara on Twitter.

from https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/trans-women-of-color-face-an-epidemic-of-violence-and-murder-673

 

and this article:

http://www.express.co.uk/news/world/746797/Fort-Worth-Texas-Racism-attack-woman-daughters-arrested-police

Fort Worth arrestSTAR TELEGRAM

The woman was arrested by the officer after the confrontation

The officer asks Craig: “Why don’t you teach your son not to litter?”“He can’t prove to me that my son littered,” she responded. “But it doesn’t matter if he did or didn’t, it doesn’t give him the right to put his hands on him.”

The officer replied: “Why not?”

Next, Craig is seen getting closer to the officer and angrily shouting at him before her 15-year-old daughter attempts to stand between them.

The officer next wrestles Craig to the floor and handcuffs her before pointing his Taser at the daughter forcing her to lay on the ground. 

Craig’s 19-year-old daughter Brea Hymond, who is thought to have filmed the incident, was also arrested. 

Fort Worth arrest

STAR TELEGRAM

One of the daughters got in the way of the officer and her mother before she was pushed out the way

Craig’s 15-year-old daughter was also taken into custody but was later released.The Fort Worth police department released a statement which said: “The investigators worked throughout the night and into the morning interviewing witnesses and reviewing video evidence; including video from a body own camera that was active during the incident.

“The involved officer has been placed on restricted duty status by the Chief of Police pending the outcome of the internal investigation.

Fort Worth young daughter arrestedSTAR TELEGRAM

The young daughter had a taser pointed at her before she was arrested by police

“As this is an internal investigation, state law limits the information that may be released, including the officer’s body cam footage.”About 100 protesters are thought to have gathered outside the old Tarrant Country Courthouse on Thursday night calling for the officer to be fired.

At a news conference earlier on Thursday evening, Star Telegram report that Lee Merritt, an attorney representing the family, said: “It’s not a situation where someone used a racial slur, but racism is still all over it.”

“If a white mother had called police about their son being choked, I guarantee that the officer would not have bypassed the suspect and arrested the mother.”

The man accused of assaulting the seven-year-old boy has not been arrested however police are still investigating the incident.

from: http://www.express.co.uk/news/world/746797/Fort-Worth-Texas-Racism-attack-woman-daughters-arrested-police

and this:

Woman brutally beaten in Santa Ana nightclub attack

Police are still searching for five people who beat a 23-year-old woman unconscious early Saturday outside a downtown Santa Ana nightclub.
Copyright © 2017, Los Angeles Times
______________
Time TO “TAKE BACK THE NIGHT!”
(JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE)
AND FINALLY, RANDY CRAWFORD, “GIVE ME THE NIGHT”:

My Birthday weekend ((me ∞ me))

 On Monday, I will turn 63!  –provided I live that long, and I really hope I do.  It has taken 63 years to get to this point, and I will revive a custom began when I was about ten, of recording my thoughts as I walked up and down my street with a clipboard, my thoughts for the last day that I am a particular age.  

I typed most of these crudely on an old Smith & Corona typewriter –long gone, nit even a phto of th typewriter I had, on which I wrote many short stories, including, title may be stated incorrrectly, “Great Catastrophe of the Mysterious Clock/Watch? ”  –sounds like the language I would have used back then.  

 

Different this year, because I will ponder my last day as I remain in love, really for the first time in my life.  I know I was married for forty years, but I have never been in love like this.  Say what you will, but I am delighted to finally love ths way.  Means so very much to me, a lifetime, you know.  

What I cannot say is that he loves me as I love him –that would be perfect wouldn’t it?

I remain confident that the day is coming when I will be able to say that.  I just feel this; no, it is not a feeling like the supected presence of a ghost; there is nothing at all hostile here, more more like a calming breeze, he wrote to me:

“Sitting by a calming fountain in Kiev, just after the bells of St Sofia rocked the plaza — real rocks of noise

I can say a few things: how crazy are you? am I? we?

Pretty crazy, I’d say!

You are a Go For It All woman finally free

You constantly inspire, and I wish to too

Standing off to the side and cheering you on

Hey! Watch out for that banana!

The Mnemonic of Yr Palindrome

TMnOYP” 

 He also wrote a poem for me from which my Dream Baby nickname derives, and his : Higgs or Higginson, for the most remarkable thing, the Higgs boson! –explains why partcicles have mass, could not have mass without them, and please allow me to talk about right here, the mass of his kiss, and the necessity of writing an entire book about his kiss, “New Kiss Horizon” 

 

new-kiss-horizon

There can never be a better love than this! –never!  –all I can say is that I always want him in my life.  I have enjoyed an entire new life because of him.  I do not know how to thank a man for doing what he has done in my life, but he must be thanked.  I can’t allow what he has done to  pass along without recognition, and even if I can’t reveal his name, I assure you that he is real, the gravity of Higginson is very well known to me. I feel his profound gravity most of the time, I am a celestial body always leaning to him, never out of his orbit, never, the cream in his coffee, and that fine journey down his throat, me a bulge in his neck as I continue my warming track descending through him, all six feet of him, the very aroma of me even bursting throgh his blue eyes like dew, drops of his Dakar cologne manufactured just by thinking of him, and what it meant that the first time we kissed was after he had waited 25 years just to kiss me?  

Can you comprehend just what a kiss that was, is?

 

I said to him, “You like my Forked pink Facebook hair, don’t you?”
“Of course, I do. Fishing lines, every strand; that’s part of how you got me; you know that, don’t you?” (He always liked that hair, video still from my youtube video” “Forkergirl Particle Pops a Beaded multiverse):

 

pink-hair-forker-gyrl
next time, I will bite some beads in your  presence, Thomas Robert Higginson

“What I really like is how you get the sexy science; you understand Forkergirl Particle Pops a Beaded Multiverse —and you fill every universe in this multiverse, my multiverse is all you. I know that you like the forking me on Facebook where we reconnect, and you like even better the theory behind her, that pink hair just like those pink flowers I love so much, especially Clitoria, you like that flower too” — that flower that is part of this tiny body, Thomas, and you kiss it on the iPhone when we talk, daily now leading up to when you can kiss it in person. And I kiss you on the screen also…”

Excerpt From: Thylias Moss. “New Kiss Horizon.” iBooks.

 

“Vash, you’re not alone. You do have me. Don’t forget that. You do have me. I am not lying to you. You really do have me. I mean that. You do have me. And I love that video. Helped me get to know what you’re all about; helped me understand the child-woman you are. It’s not just your size, if that’s what you’re thinking… It’s your way of engaging with the world despite all you’ve been through. You don’t know how sexy your attitude is. If there aren’t hundreds of men beating down your door, I’d be surprised. I can’t be the only one, despite what you say, PSOG aside; he doesn’t count, to be expected from your first taste of much needed freedom. Other men have to see what I see; other men must want you too, Vash. Even dead men if you pass over their graves would live again just to want you, Vash. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it. You’re making me say things I should probably keep to myself. But Vash, what I feel is so powerful, and that’s because of you. Vash, my feelings have been growing for 25 years

“These are not sudden or shallow. They have powerful roots. What I feel is deep, deeper than anything I have ever known. And it’s for you, Vash; all for you.”

Excerpt From: Thylias Moss. “New Kiss Horizon.” iBooks.

NKH COPYRIGHT NOTICE:

copyright © 2016 by Thylias Moss. Published by arrangement with the author.  All rights reserved.

 

“It takes time?” he said, and I quite agree. Took me 63 years to really be in love, and I just hope that he doesn’t mind that I feel about him as I do, for if he doesn’t, then my life really will be shaping into the “terrific” life that he also told me was in front of me, not that I can’t have a terrific life without him, but now that I  love like this, I don’t ever want to love another way.

I can’t say for sure, but I am willing to wager that there are very few men loved the way that  I love him, and even fewer men can say that I love them; as only he can say that.  

There are times that I feel rather foolish loving like this for the first time in my life –I am no longer young, but I feel so young thinking of him, and I no longer worry that he may not be worthy of a love like this, because he is; my heart tells me so.  I can’t explain it, but as each day goes by, I love him even more.  

 

I so want to post a photo of the two of us, but I am not so sure that he wouldn’t mind.  Oh I could post photos of him alone, and I think he would like that even less, because I would be posting them without his acknowledgement of that, or just my simply telling him, and he is such a private man, although he is a poet like me, so a few more pics of me; I know it is all right to use these.  

 

He called my the “Cream in his coffee“, so here I am:

Cream in my coffee

Cup of latte I had at B’ 24’s in Ypsilanti

now the song” “You’re the Cream in My Coffee”:

and here’s his poem:

You are the corner of my eye:

          Thomas Robert Higginson

                (for THYlias Moss)

You are my rent-a-poem

You are love jungle — Yoyo, hula hoop!

You are my closing costs

My plasma vibrator my single malt

You? You are my Tampa manatee

You are my Occupy

You are an eucalyptus octopus

And a haircut on an autumn day

Also submarine. Surreality check.

You you…! You YOU you!

That’s who. The Temple of Shenanigans,

AKA Shenanigan Temple.

The complete works. The leftovers.

You are what I’ve been waiting for

And now I’ll never wait anymore.

Dream baby, you are, and indefatigable,

That, too. And you are the cream in my coffee,

And you are the one, and you are my everything,

And you are everything I could hope for.

And still you are more, and still you keep coming,

You are coming like a river, like a torrent,

Like an all day-lollipop where every day is today.

You are the Castle of Doubt on the Plain of Forgetfulness.

You are one more and able to laugh it off.

My sunshine, that’s what you are.

A rocking chair and a band-aid. Violin castanets.

An elusive perfume. You are all history. You are

Breakfast and you are on your way and all

I can do is list, name, and hand out passports.

Because you are who you are in a way that is all

Your way and which, as a poet trying to set it down,

Failure, I am a failure in that you will always be

Something to me both bedrock and ineluctable,

A passion of opposition and an unchecked probity

Of Probability and yet a chemical formula not to be

Tested. The Higgs bosun, that’s it exactly. A gluon.

A ramshackle melody. A forgotten memory that

Never happened and when all is said and done,

Actually nothing was said and nothing was done.

That’s why I keep writing endlessly penning, because that’s

Who you are and when I stop, Surprise, you are

The surprise, you are the inching to the summit,

The chocolate razor, the tadpole’s pole and the

Gate to the Fields of the Lord. I sing you praises and

The answer is more like a light fog saxophone, a

Kingdom Come revelation, a hunch that blossoms

To birth a new species. An appointment for lunch.

Some nectar in a tube, a pillow. Like the new language you

Are, if I could write that I would, you in a race car,

A pendulum, a fire tower, a blimp. A pothole, narcissus,

An a capella cantabile, a big bucket of milk. I can run alongside

You but can’t keep up with you, your tapdancing

Shadow, your clothing made of earth and spit. But I know you

And when you wish me Happy Birthday I trade it for yours,

You not growing old, you everlasting, you infinity you.

–It is my birthday weekend, you know. 

And now some photos of me age 62 –for just 2 more days!

I am wearing his hat; it’s in the drawer of this desk, right beside me.  The photos of “Higginson” street signs were captured by Nancy Boutiler, who told me this about them: “I thought you’d like this photo that I took in Salem, MA
As you probably know the Rev. Francis Higginson joined the Massachusetts Bay Company to form a “plantation” in New England.
Higginson led a group of about 350 Puritan settlers (including many of his own congregation) on six ships from England to New England.
His son, Rev. John Higginson was a leading investigator in the Salem witch trials of 1692–1693…oh, and there were others…
Enjoy the pics.”

Dream Baby” – “Cream in My Coffee”  –two of my nicknames from his poem’ black dress is my “Dream Baby” dress, I wore on my last date with him at Vermilion in Chicago.  Had Duck Vindaloo Arepas,  Sri Lankan Whole Fish, Gin and pomegranate martinis , my fisrt drink of alcohol.. made me sick.  At the time he didn’t believe me, but when I saw him in Minneapolis,  he restricted me to one drink, knowing what had happened and how I had been honest when I told him I had never tasted anything stronger than Chardonnay.

Some of my photos that I know are some of his favorites; he, probably, like any other normal man likes all of them, and the natural hair, no weave, no extensions, no relaxer –he can run his fingers through it without fear, just under 5 feet tall, and just under a hundred pounds without ever dieting.    He’s a foot taller than me and about double my weight. Sure wish I could post that pic of us; it is wonderful! –you’ll have to take my word on that, but then again, for my birthday?  I turn 63 only once, Forgive me, please if it is wrong to display this, but no name.  Just a man , no “THE” man I love….  Don’t get me wrong, nothing makes me happier than to care about him, but to touch him, to kiss him to b kissed by him –I wrote a whol ebook about his kiss, oh yes! –his kiss is that spectacular, just look at him –I wrote New Kiss Horizon wbou what kissing him is like, in which Thomas Robert Higginson says this: “

“Vashti doesn’t know that when I first saw a book of hers with her face all over the cover, I was instantly drawn to it. Her book was in the window of a small bookshop, a new poet, but poets don’t tend to look like that, oozing such sexiness, her lips parted in such an exciting way; I immediately imagined what could slip between those soft pink lips. Me in her mouth, in and out, as natural and as rhythmic as breathing. Vashti kissing me between my thighs; my hand in her hair, pulling it a little, wrapping those long strands around my fingers, burying my nose in her hair.

What a dream baby she is; I knew that with just one look. I got ideas for my fantasy right then, a store with only Vashti products.

Right then and there, I made it a point in my heart, although I was married, to get to know her better, to be able to hold her; maybe pure lust, but I felt it instantly. What a sexy woman she is, and aging in a way nothing else does, as if her clock moves in reverse. She looks more stunning and younger all the time.
I just stare at the picture of her in my mind, as I always do anyway.

“Almost too young for me, and I no longer look my best; I have put on so much weight, but she talks to me as if she doesn’t see it, but how can she not? I know it’s there, and I don’t like it.”

Excerpt From: Thylias Moss. “New Kiss Horizon.” iBooks.

copyright © 2016 by Thylias Moss. Published by arrangement with the author.  All rights reserved.

The first real kiss from him was so, so special! –in the taxi from O’Hare to the Mandarin Moon  hotel:

“—we sit beside each other, and you can wait no longer… You pull me as close to you as possible, as if I’m already part of your body…
—Now I’m going to do what should have happened to you years ago! But I’m glad I get to be the first man to kiss you this way. I pull you to me —gently — I don’t have to ask you about this; we’re alone on this back seat; the show is on my road now, my desire has built so much that I cannot wait a moment longer; I will not wait a moment longer! —why should I? —
—we could not be closer —
Every fiber of your coat is now part of me; and the scratchiness of the wool is just the texture I crave! —I don’t want anything about you soft; just some of the things you whisper in my ear, and even then, I’m hoping for some edge.
I can’t believe the strength, the possessiveness of the pull. Strong, but I am not forced. Powerful, but I am not forced.
I willingly allow myself to be pulled into you. I no longer have to wonder how to negotiate the transition from friend to lover as that transition is already in progress — so smooth; I can feel myself  twirling and spinning in your arms (fantasy galaxy that I also am)… So easy to imagine dancing with you… You want me, Thomas, you claim me, Mr. Higginson. You don’t say anything, just pull me closer and closer as you take me to the “Mr. Thomas Higginson School of Kissing.” I’ve never been kissed like this… I have never kissed a man the way that I kiss you…
I remember when you said this to me and wrote me this just a couple of days ago, and seemed impossible then, but not at all now:
First,
Baby
I can’t wait
To taste your kiss again
and again
Kiss kissing kisses
Slow you lead your
Beautiful tender lips
Just to rest there
So quiveringly touching
The moment itself
Kissing
 
That is exactly how you’re kissing me… and I cannot resist you. I don’t want to.
You kiss me and I kiss you back —I can’t help it! —not what I planned; I had no idea that you would kiss me this way —as if this is the only kiss you get to have for all your remaining life, and you want to make it last, make it count; best kiss on every scale of measurement, I have to quickly learn how to kiss you —you already know how to kiss me, how to make me feel that no man has ever kissed me before. You want me to feel the depth of these kisses… Depth charge kissing, Fuse-ignition. I’m surrendering to you already… I can’t help it…”

Excerpt From: Thylias Moss. “New Kiss Horizon.” iBooks.

NKH COPYRIGHT NOTICE:

copyright © 2016 by Thylias Moss. Published by arrangement with the author.  All rights reserved.

 

 

Thylias Moss (Dream Baby) and Bob Holman (Dream Lover

Dream date with a dream man, as we stand on a bridge forever connecting us, Chicago, 2014

If you have not yet been kised the way that this man and I kissed, making me forget 40 years of marriage with a single kiss, making me feel orgasmic just from kissing him  –just wait util we got in room 304 of he Mandarin Moon —you better believe that I plan to be in that room with him again.


Thomas, I hope you will always cherish this picture of us; it is hre in honor of my birthday, and how you say I am “not getting older, me everlasting, me infinity me: (me ∞ me)

I invited him the fist time, and now, it’s his turn to invite me.  I will definiteely  come     there.

He will be 69 on 10 March; I will not forget. I never do. He is too important to me to ever forget his birthday.

______________

Read all about it in “New Kiss Horizon” on sale now!

copyright © 2016 by Thylias Moss. Published by arrangement with the author.  All rights reserved.

new-kiss-horizon

More info available here:

 

“New Kiss Horizon” my 13th book (a romance) links:

NEW KISS HORIZON LINKS:

Link to “New Kiss Horizon” on Smashwords:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/683373

Link to “New Kiss Horizon” paperback on Amazon:

https://www.amazon.com/New-Kiss-Horizon-Thylias-Moss/dp/1540584496

Link to “New Kiss Horizon” Kindle book on Amazon:

https://www.amazon.com/New-Kiss-Horizon-Thylias-Moss-ebook/dp/B01N1K0PLC

Link to Thylias Moss Amazon writer page:

https://www.amazon.com/Thylias-Moss/e/B001JSBOQQ

Vashtis Blog (narrator of NKH, maintaining a blog so that readers may keep in touch with developments in the character’s life beyond the book):

Vashti’s blog URL:

https://vashtisblog.wordpress.com/

Love During Nine Climb

Walked up and down the three staircases in my building nine times today.

And these selfies are the outcome.
Hiding nothing, not even my bad teeth.
I am so very tired.

Tired and impatient.

I want my life to begin; I want the closing on my house so that I have only one address. I want to be loved just a tenth of the amount that I love. Surely I don’t want impossible things.

I live in Ann Arbor, not Ypsilanti, and I can’t even get facebook to understand that.

my ex called me this morning to say I obviously “love” the wrong man, if he can hurt me and not care that he is hurting me, saying noting, and that may be true. I do not care anymore;

and my ex is the last one to tell me how to get a man, since he is a man who couldn’t keep me.

 

VASHTI IN John's lap

I was 17, sitting in the lap of my ex.  He was nearly 24. I made the pink skirt.

 

It has been a trying day already

So many people tell me not to love him (see below), but it is too late for that, because I do, and it is my heart to break, not yours. Because as I have said, once I give my heart, I give it, and if he chooses to abuse my heart, that is his choice, but tells me things about him.

I gave it, foolishly perhaps, as if I planned this, I didn’t.

If he wants to be just another in the string of men who have hurt me, starting when I was sixteen; I will be 63 in two weeks; if that’s what he wants to be, I guess he gets what he wants; I sure don’t since I –ouch!– still want him.

 

THYLIAS MOSS AND BOB HOLMAN on a bridge in Chicago 2014

love in full bloom in Chicago

I don’t think I look unlovable. I have been completely honest. This is simply how I look, how I woke up, bad teeth and all, yet I smile anyway. At the end of the world, I will be smiling.

fullsizeoutput_328a

in his hat, of course.

 

I had the best conversation ever with my mother today,

 

wheelchair-mama

 

and I will be posting a transcription on my Facebook page shortly, after I say this: You know I love you, and if you don’t want me to love you, that’s my problem isn’t it? I fell in love with you. You loved me also, I know you did. Everything you said you did, everything you said, every kiss, every caress, everything you wrote, including this:

“You are one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. You’ve meant so much so deep to me and I just can’t let it go this way.

Loving you, connecting with you deeply via life and poetry, fantasy and caress, was like a new skin. I wear it, but it’s yours.

You have inspired me, informed me, danced me. Your beauty is a trauma to quotidian. I relish your attack on life. I’m in awe of it.

My heart sang to you and you heard and your response, to me personally and in your writing, in our talks and in our shredded breathing,

There’s an electricity of positivity that charges me still.”

and in answer to a letter I wrote you, you said:

“Of course that means ongoing, and how that works with collaborating, mutual performances, seeing each other etc etc —it’s all there, we just don’t know what yet, and that’s the beauty you have given us in this letter. The truth of it.

It means so much
It means everything”

I am naive enough, trusting enough to believe you –have you really never been loved like this? The love is still yours for as long as I feel it. Please treat it with respect.

You asked me to respect something, and I do. But, Sir, you also have to respect me.

 

On 3 Auguset 2016, you told me that you love me.  Has the cat got your tongue now?  Specifically, you said this:

 

“Thylias,  It is Love & that is all, it is kin and Life itself. 

Sending you strength

To which I said this:

You know that I accept this.  I like hearing that it is Love. 

I’m just afraid that it might not be love tomorrow.  

I love knowing that it is Love, I need that more than anything… 

As long as it will continue to be love, I am fine.  

No one can say how long it will continue to be love on this Wildest of Rides, but I am glad to take this ride with you.

Thylias

 


For more of this fascinating love story, read “New Kiss Horizon” by Thylias Moss. Wannt to know what I say to him? Read the book.  I say it all.

new-kiss-horizon

NEW KISS HORIZON LINKS:

Link to “New Kiss Horizon” on Smashwords:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/683373

Link to “New Kiss Horizon” paperback on Amazon:

https://www.amazon.com/New-Kiss-Horizon-Thylias-Moss/dp/1540584496

Link to “New Kiss Horizon” Kindle book on Amazon:

https://www.amazon.com/New-Kiss-Horizon-Thylias-Moss-ebook/dp/B01N1K0PLC

Link to Thylias Moss Amazon writer page:

https://www.amazon.com/Thylias-Moss/e/B001JSBOQQ

Vashtis Blog (narrator of NKH, maintaining a blog so that readers may keep in touch with developments in the character’s life beyond the book:

Vashti’s blog URL:

https://vashtisblog.wordpress.com/