Although it is much too premature to announce that my 14th book might become reality. a book about an exceptional man that I was lucky enough to call my father,
a former student now an editor, Jason Kirk told me how he liked the part he has read, and he was kind enough to make room for me today, a visit I surely needed in a time of enormous upheaval in my life. It was not my mother who understood me and tried to make sure that I existed in a world where any opportunity could be mine as long as it was in human possibility.
I will not say more as I would not like to spoil the book.
It was my father. 100% Daddy’s girl right here although I am 63 years old.
Here’s Jason Kirk and I,
If there is any kind of justice in this world, then the book about my father will be book #14 for me. Unfortunately, my father died before the most important things happened, the birth of my own genetic son, the only person other than myself who has the gift of his DNA.
I wrote this book to show my father the greatest happinesses in my life, the highest highs, all of which he missed. I wanted my father, my son also, to know what it is like for me to really be in love. I wanted to introduce my father to the real man behind Thomas Robert Higginson, but I guess Thomas Robert is not ready for that level of TRUTH,, so instead I introduce him to a proxy Thomas Robert Higginson (proxy images above), but in my heart, and I hope that in Thomas Robert’s heart also, he is aware, and likes that it is him.
He was there when I was learning that theory myself. I will be learning it for the rest of my life. It is that important and transformative.
so far Jason likes the book! –and that means everything tonight. The book is a way that more people can get to know this man. And I wanted to introduce the persons most important to me to him. The gist of my ambition.
Getting closer to Fruition!
Title of BPC Event:
LFMK (Looking for my Killer)
Looking for My Killer (in the math of emotion)
I will be sharing
—decadent, malicious little vignettes as delectable as string cheese, refreshingly irreverent as you digest it, perhaps also blissfully irrelevant
—pure indulgent naughtiness
—splendid, if only for the wickedness
—ghastly! bereft of redeeming values; mocks our most esteemed institutions, even life itself
—written by the light of hellfire; dazzling touches base with the base
LFMK is a collection of prose poams that may see publication in 2018 at the earliest from Jamii; what a fine bit of service to the community.
My very own Olivia Pig, sitting by my printer and an extermal hard drive.
I am eager for this but l am also terrified, and there are many reasons for my fear; I cannot express them. Whatever happens happens.
I have purchased my ticket. So it is definite now.
I will do my best, and Olivia Pig will help me.
At my BPC (Bowery Poetry Club) reading / performance on 9 July at 3:30 pm, my LFMK event (Looking for My Killer in the math of emotion) in which I will share;
–decadent, malicious little vignettes as delectable as string cheese, refreshingly irreverent as you digest it, perhaps also blissfully irrelevant
–pure indulgent naughtiness
–splendid, if only for the wickedness
–ghastly! bereft of redeeming values; mocks our most esteemed institutions, even life itself
–written by the light of hellfire; touches base with the base
You can hear one of the prose poems I plan to share, “Olivia Pig Falling Zone” from my LFMK collection of prose poems that could be published in 2018 at the earliest, by Jamii, right here (of course the version to be performed aloud at the BPC will differ from this version, a sneak peek as it were):
location of “Olivia Pig Falling Zone”
From the author of “New Kiss Horizon” [a dense parcel of Genius] and twelve other books)
$10.00 in advance / $15.00 at the door.
Tickets at: <http://www.brownpapertickets.com/ event/3014365
An episode of Olivia Pig from Youtube:
My LFMK (Looking for my Killer) video Music composed and performed by Ansted Moss, all vocals written and performed by Thylias Moss who also made the film, captured all footage and is responsible for the text choreography):
Well, here I am, apparently ready for anything!
The featured image is of my paternal grandfather, Frizzell (never sure how to spell his name, one “z”,or two, one “l” or ‘two”?) a most interesting and confusing background, Caucasian, and Indian from India —
My joy at the moment is because a real man who meets my father in the book, informed me that he has received it and he calls it “a good one”; shouldn’t make me as happy as it does. Let’s just say as things fall apart as they do, he and I have something, and I do not always know exactly what it is, but if he says it’s a good one, then I can’t help but glow.
It is a good one but for more than he may think… if I didn’t already care about him, this would be reason to. Now I will just lean back in the joy of this accomplishment.
I am so glad that these men meet, and that they like each other. He has no way of knowing what this means to me.
I have been thinking about that arrow of time a little bit, and well, wondering if I can cause that arrow to move differently, and if I had that opportunity, what would I do?
Wondering how I would make that arrow move? These men would indeed meet, and I believe that my son would be joyous… Well the first (and only, I say sadly) time my son saw me with this man, he said, “It’s the first time I’ve ever seen you happy with a man.” I had been married for forty years when he said that, not the son of my ex-husband, but with a Bangladeshi sperm donor father of necessity.
Well I will not post his picture, st this time; perhaps that goes much too far, but at least I know he likes it, and knowing that is everything right now.
I will rest with this interlude of joy.
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);
- “Earthquake Vash (Predicted by the Seismograph in the Heart)”
- “Small Virtue And Gimme Some A+Bliss
- “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.
and now some of the tortured ad brutalized women:
The incoherent response by cops is just making the problem worse.
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.
and this article:
The woman was arrested by the officer after the confrontation
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.
One of the daughters got in the way of the officer and her mother before she was pushed out the way
“The involved officer has been placed on restricted duty status by the Chief of Police pending the outcome of the internal investigation.
The young daughter had a taser pointed at her before she was arrested by police
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.
Apparently publication of my Good Hair: essay remains on track in Mythos Magazine illustrtions and everything. Here are the inital comments from the edios o Myths:
“Thanks so much for your submission to Mythos Magazine. I loved your piece. The richness of your narration was powerful, smart, and unapologetic, and I’m interested in working with you in the coming weeks to publish it for our site. I know it would be deeply appreciated by our readership.
Let me know if you accept this offer to publish, and I’ll reach out with more details. We have an illustrator for pieces who would likely do some accompanying artwork for yours, which we can coordinate a bit later.
Looking forward to hearing from you!”
and here is the followup just received minutes ago, a wee k befor my 63rd birthday!
Hope you are doing well, and sorry for the long delay on my end!
Our illustrator is going to work on a piece to accompany yours in the coming weeks. Do let me know if you have any specifications for that.
I’ll be back in touch by the weekend with some logistical things.
and now a few photos of this “good hair stuff”; I must thank my parents for my haiving the hair I have, especially my moher’s own shame of her short, kinky nappy hair:
Mama here with the hair she hates:
She always wears a wig now, will not be seen without one, and not necessarily the 100% human hair wigs, but in hers as seen below, the fibers are plastic, but they do cover her shame, the curse of having Afro-textured hair.
And then there are those who insist that my hair could not possibly be natural, although it is.
Others have problems wth my hair, not me.
I was born this way; I do nothing to cause my hair to grow. NOTHING. AT ALL.
You want this hair, you can purchase it. There are all kinds of products that I do not use, well, watch the Chris Rock movie if this is something you do not know for yourself.
Do I look better because of my hair? Some men think so, and isn’t that what this is really about? The sex appeal of hair?
I cannot say for sure; I only speculate, but in my mother’s case , she hates her hair, and made sure I wouldn’t be born it, but xI an also say that I am glad not to be bald, and if I am relaxed, that is just my demeanor. I have the hair I haeve because of heritage, that’s all.
My parents, the reason for the hair she always wanted and didn’t have. Specifically my paternal lineage. I am not in control of my birth; just glad that I was born, and also glad, very glad to have hair, good or not. Even my hairdresser has commented on my hair, because there is no weave, no hair pieces, no extensions, and I have never had a relaxer, and will be 63 years old in a week. The only change I make is some occasional hair color. My hair dresser can attest to that –not that I require any proof. If you want to think that I have good hair, then think it. I’ve been told often anought that I have it.
Please, I am glad to have it,but no need to make a big deal about it.
And I would not trade my hair for another form. Yes, indeed, men tend to like my hair, for a variety of reasons, but one thing I can say is that my hair does not come off, unless it is cut off. The way it looks is the same way I wakeup wih it. I do no have to have “weave sex” as in the movie “Good Hair” by Chris Rock.
I just want to repeat that I have no relaxer. I do not need it. Sorry. I am a black woman, but that is not all. I am a multiracial woman, if that is needed to explan this natural growth of my hair. My hair grows the way you see it in these photos.
If it looks relaxed, that is only because that is the way my hair grows.
And this clip from the Chris Rock movie also:
I am also naturally small, 98 pounds, and I have never dieted. No, my life isn’t perfect, but I am thankful for whatever I’ve got, and I do not apologize for it.
If it took races mixing to give me this look, then let them mix, for I could not exist any other way. I a naturally thin like my father. And his father seen below. Races should mix anyway; such devisions help no one, but my mother was completle bypassed by black movemens she never said it loud that she was “black and proud” because she isn’t.
And at age 87, and about to die, she is not going to change. I will be sure that she has on a wig for her funeral. I will be sure that she looks what she considers “best”
I would also like to point out today just how lucky I am to be alive; I do not discuss my MS that much, because honestly I have no attacks of MS and haven’t had one since 2013.
From diagnosis in 1996 – 2013, I used needles, injectable treatments..
Travel was greatly compromised because of difficulty in boarding a plane with needles. And those were injectable drugs, Avonex, the first, intramuscular, huge needles no matter your size, same for me at 96 pounds and for someone 200 pounds. A side-effect was flu-like symptoms, and that is what I had flu, redness, and scarring, and injection scars on my thighs…. 1996-1998, then Rebif, a three times a week, subcutaneous injection, now flu three times a week, redness and scars, I still have scar tissue, lumps under my skin on my thighs. I lost an inch of hip on each side, by the way.
Then in 2013, a capsule twice a day every day, no holiday exclusion. But let me tell you what a difference the capsule Tecfidera has made. My neurologist Dr. Tiffany Braley, has even remarked that my level of function is as if I do not have MS.
I walk quite a bit, five miles last Friday. Please understand how remarkable that is. Not only that I can walk, but at age 62, I can do this and even went skipping down the hospital corridor when I last saw Dr. Braley. My friend started calling me “Skipper”. Little things like that made me glow inside.
The last thing I will point out is my nearly impossible survival of an aneurysm rupture. I want into the hospital in July 2011, same night Amy Winehouse died, and did not not come home until 9 October 2011. The actual rupture occurred when I was in the ER; had I not been there, I surely would be dead. I had to learn how to walk again, how to talk again –it was assumed and predicted that these were things I’d never do again, but the emergency brain surgery was performed by Dr. Neeraj Chaudary who says another MRI for the aneurysm is not necessary until 2019. He too is amazed…. I have not had a single headache; of course, my head was shaved for the cranial surgery.
After that, a great love of my life, but surely not the last, just hope I don’t miss it, refuse to sleep through my life, and I have written a couple of books, no one thought I could do that, a man who dared to call me pretty, beautiful, and gorgeous
–please understand that no other man had ever called me that, just unsolicited catcalls when I walked by…. I was married for 40 years to a man who never called me that, not even at the wedding. And not even for my senior prom from high school, because he took me to that also, but did not dance with me. He told me that he could not dance, and that my head would swell if he acknowledged my appearance positively.
Prom Thylias, age 17
Bride Thylias 1973
Thomas Robert Higginson did not care what size my head was. I will always love him just for that, but there are so many more reasons.
Had the rupture of the aneurysm not happened, I never would have seen him, because when I did not die, I realized it was my last chance to try to have MY life, so a divorce happened for a marriage that should not have happened; I was a teenager, and entered marriage blindly.
post emergency surgery photos of Thylias Moss, following repair of a ruptured cranial aneurysm
July 2011, University of Michigan Hospital
(Chicago taxi photo from: https://goo.gl/images/dztwNq)
This wonderful man had been waiting for me all this time. And he really talked to me, and I really talked to him, it was so easy to trust him and tell him everything, the TRUTH! –that’s all I told him: the truth. He listened to me and he loved my poetry. It wasn’t about him then, but so much of it is now. I hope he’s not embarrassed by the praise, but when someone has done as much for you as he’s done, it is right to acknowledge that and express gratitude. Even when he stops doing it. What he did remains true even if he never does it again in that season of doing impossible things, and that may be the problem, the things he did were impossible in a world that depended on “possible” spines to hold the fragile together, that Vashti Astapad Warren and Thomas Robert Higginson bubble wavering in Chicago light and stretching thinner and thinner until it has to break for nothing that thin gets to last, it promises to last then has to confront its own, his own weak humanity moseys out in spectacular crash and burn, the world has never seen such fireworks as those spines themselves spit and sputter in otherwise impossible heat of blazing love that will have to burn out for what can sustain anything like that? Even Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego would have trouble despite their experience with a fiery furnace which is just what the Chicago taxi became: a blazing yellow spine navigating Chicago streets, seen best from an aerial view to better determine the exceptional impossibility that anything like that, such love in ordinary Chicago, the spininess of the yellow spine of dream best seen from above with the rest of heaven: it really was like that.
Vashti Astapad Warren and Thomas Robet Higginson in Chicago
And then, then, wow! He kissed me in Chicago! And from that moment, my life has not been the same. I owe him my glimpse of a beautiful world; I could always see it in my mind, but now I know it’s real, and that world is much better with him beside me. Even if he lands elsewhere changing his mind and his heart which he gave to me for just a little while, life goes on doesn’t it?
I like how he looked in that Chicago fire, my red lips, Kiss burned into them; I do not believe that any man could look better, even if he does not believe that, but I assure you that it’s true.
When Thomas and I first seriously connected , I had pink hair. This was when Facebook allowed me to be called “Forker Gryle” and Thomas always spelled “Gryle” “Gyrl”
But then the rules changed, the Facebook world was fragile also. Such delicate dancing around and tiptoeing also so as not to disrupt anything trying to reach a stage of doneness to be able to fight its way into the most unlikely birth, somehow succeeding for a time, best time, to be honest, as I must, of my life (I won’t be 63 until 27 February, 2017, and no, I do not expect to hear from Thomas anymore. That would require a miracle best associated with that severed spine of dream, those bones stitching themselves back together as they refuse to die, strength of their belief in their own existence and the Love that Vashti Astapad Warren and Thomas Robert Higginson, shared and will forever share. (Bases for the characters in the novel)
No, he’s not perfect as conventional knowledge defines “perfect”, but Thomas Robert Higginson is perfect for Vashti just as Vashti Astapad Warren is perfect for him.
Thank you for everything, Thomas Robert Higginson that you did in the Higginson season, when Hurricane Vash (a prose poam coming soon to Outlook Springs) also sometimes emerged with her fragile kiss of spine of dream. Some cookies crumble even inside a Dream Baby Tienda, and do not require those inevitable power failures in order to crumble and rock the flimsy house that somhow manage to stand until the wrecking ball of urban renewal that changes the neighborhood into something for the most part unrecognizable even to the man in the mirror.
I hope that you read this, but it’s true even if you never see it. Truth has a way of lasting when nothing else prevails. In the end it will be truth that is the last thing standing: a true pillar of truth will be there. And only a lucky and honest few will be able to see it, that Entrance to the “Dream Baby Tienda” (major part of New Kiss Horizon, Thomas Robert Higinson’s own supermercado)
Only for you, Thomas Robert Higginson have I been, will I be “Dream Baby” my name taken from the poem you wrote to me, as was your name “Higginson” for the Higgs boson, also in your poem, my poem, our poem:
A Trip to the Tienda
by Thomas Higginson
— for Vashti
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
You are firecracker, salt, oil, vinegar
Things not supposed to mix
You are jellyfish tentacles elongating my back,
dreaming of medusans all of which become you,
Also submarine. Surreality check.
You you…! You YOU you!
That’s who. The Temple of Shenanigans,
AKA Shenanigan Temple.
The complete works. The leftovers.
Strangler fig, tiny seeds starting out on branches,
tines, grow to surround, encase the host,
leaving only figs
to take over
You surround me just that way, take over,
connect with me, to me: your host
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 boson, 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.
(from New Kiss Horizon:
copyright © 2016 by Thylias Moss. Published by arrangement with the author. All rights reserved.)
Read all about them in my romance novel: “New Kiss Horizon” The book can last forever even if the romance in real life doesn’t, for that couple is in a world that seldom exists in reality, but I made such a world for them: in Chicago: “Let there be love” I told the pen and there was love in real life too for as long as it could last. I really am a better person for learning how to give love, how to receive love, and how to kiss in a taxi, #howtokiss #thomasroberthigginsonisthebestcarnalteacher
and now to commemortes the warmth and heat of those forever precious days: “Warm Water ” by Banks: