Tag Archive: raynbowphoenix

Sometimes You Just Have To Channel The Fire


Sometimes you just have to channel the fire
Of dreams you have dreamt; of all you desire
Into the heart of a phoenix whose song you hear true
And let hope spring eternal, like the flame within you


Little Miss Raynbow: A Nursery Rhyme

Little Miss Raynbow, waiting for a man
Little Miss Raynbow, without a solid plan
Open your windows, spread your wings
Fill up your pathetic life with other festive things

Little Miss Raynbow, cocks are now her toys
Little Miss Raynbow, wanting men and getting boys
Hold close your cards, don’t shed your skirt
Unless you just want to continue getting hurt

Little Miss Raynbow, wanting to be seen
Little Miss Raynbow, yearning to be Queen
Garters worn as weapons, spicy words as fuel
Soon is the day Lady Raynbow Phoenix cums to rule.

Future Ink, I Think


Lest I forget who I wish to keep becoming.

I am now emotionally detached.

I realized this tonight as I watched him bring out a tulip of a home-rolled cigarette and I, hoping with all the Benefit of the Doubt I could ever muster, said, “Ooh that’s a big commitment.” [subtext: “that must be filled with a lot of weed.”] And he sheepishly looked back and said, “Nah. Different sort.” [subtext: “Yeah, this is that gross, dried out, 6+ mo. old tobacco my drug-dealing sidekick you don’t like very much because he occasionally ends up passed out in my bed at 3 in the afternoon while I’m holding up shop — he’d take the futon, but I’m already taking up the living room. He’s my buddy, what, so I’m not going to offer him my bed? I’m not going to accept his grody ass tobacco?”]

The fact is, though, that because you don’t eat properly and you smoke too many cigarettes, darling, you are a skeleton of what you once were. I have always known that I am attracted to beefy men. My father used to seem a lot bigger, even in his slimmer years, because I was (believe it or not, given my size now) somewhat smaller. My father has put on weight in his middle years, but he has incorporated it gracefully as a tall man and so simply has a more solid presence in the room … contrary, say, to his former days as a 1970s short-shorted high school varsity basketball player. His downtown corporate office city suits from our suburban American family days filled him out, and my own smaller stature. Also, my admiration for his achievements. My longing for his approval. My eagerness to somehow learn how to truly communicate with my father.

This sure sounds Freudian, but I definitely believe you remind me of my father. You too are from a small town, although you do not come with nearly as much affluence. This means, I think, that you do not believe in yourself (as in, yourself as a success who will continue to succeed). This does not mean that you don’t talk a big talk, but why do you think I try to shoot you down so much? I want you to see yourself as actually describing the reality of the situation, rather than the inflated hyperbole that you mumble on about.

You also both have dreams. I am not disputing that. My father has come a long way from the rural and remote of where my high achieving grandfather placed him to fly from to settle his roots elsewhere. My father has settled his roots down in a place that I’d like to think I helped lead him back to. The place where he married my mother. The place where his mother received her high school degree. I have rooted my parents there, no matter how many other pilgrimages they pursue. My mother, also, has traveled far, and stood strong as a grecian goddess of a pillar in my life.

The real difference, though, between you and my father, darling, is that while my father’s dreams incorporate only those less fortunate, those more needy, those more taxed, yours only include the betterment of yourself. My father is driven by a Divine Leading that I do not fully understand, but I believe is the same spark in me from which the music of my soul flows. My parents have taught me to seek to better those around me, because it is my duty, and also my Divine pleasure, to help. So I have tried to help you.

And now I see you wasting away. And smoking away. And drinking away.

I have become emotionally detached because I need to love myself first. I used to love you, love the idea of saving you and, most of all, used to love the idea of being with you once you were saved. I’ve often been accused of Falling In Love With Potential … Well there I did it again. And now I cannot watch any more. I am stepping above. I am stepping beyond.

I am also tiptoeing around the aura of another former Lovespark in Whom I Imbued Too Much Potential for the Period. But, after stepping away and letting go of the absurd human I wouldn’t watch him become, he stepped out and continues to surprise me with smiles every time I talk to him. Which I find wanting to be more and more frequent. Isn’t it funny, I’ve been in love with this young man since we were 13. Almost a decade. And I’ve never kissed him? Delusional, I know. But I’ve also been the closest to him without going further with the most electric magnetic pressure I’ve ever experienced. I’ve known him at highs and lows and loved watching where he discovers next.

The first play I ever wrote, I wrote about this young man with whom I hope to stay along my voyage away from this compound and towards my family vacation which I get to go on because I wasn’t, in fact, hired at the August internship I’d hoped for. As my mother would say, “Rats.”

I am on the verge of another change. I mentioned at Al-Anon the other day (I’ve started going; I think I will be ready for the real change when I can get away from him) that I was ready to have Freedom from this man. This tortured young man who has too much kerosene and spark and not enough slow burn. The Almost-Second Lover I took was far more gentle, far more loving in his embrace; I questioned it was merely a matter of softer fingertips in the most delicate, and sensitive, of places. I realized, even in my hazy state, that the answer was probably not; the answer was probably more linked to an awareness of the woman and her pleasure. Pursuing mine, because by being as pleasured as possible, he could tell, this temporary target of mine, that I would pleasure him back. Or did he? He just seemed intent on my pleasure. And I intent on his. Had the alcohol not derailed the physiology of our plans … well, we’ll never know, will we.

I am ready to feel a new lover’s touch. I am ready to find touch, if he is ready to give it and I am ready to receive it, the touch from this old Lovespark. As he is also a dear friend, I hope to one day explain our relationship using a term of my mother’s which is bound to surprise her: that he and I are “devoted to each other.”

I have this idea for a play in which a young open hetero couple gets accidentally pregnant and decide to raise the child… a few years later the woman has unprotected sex with another man and gets pregnant with his child. The two fathers decide to both be in her life as love interests, but they have to figure out how to explain it to her family, who is completely traditional. That is not to say conservative, but the idea of having multiple sexual partners, much less child rearing partners … It is not a matter of gender as it is a matter of number. 

But I digress.

I am seeking for a way to pleasure myself, because I deserve to be pleasured. Here I am stuck in a soon to be escaped delusion of being with someone I am ready to transcend. I am ready to grow and he is not. And I will be wounded still when I leave, perhaps more so when I am in nomad mode for a while. But exciting things are on the horizon, if I am just patient enough to get myself there in good enough shape to plant in soil anew and soak in the nutrients of a new, inviting, and exciting environment.

My future lies ahead and, believe me, good things lie in it.

Leviathan of Dying Love, Hark!

Why should I be jealous if his company

Is spent with someone who’s not me

If I have slowly come to see

With him I’m not whom I want to be

I shall write thee a requiem

Of our love that once was

Of passion despite those that chose to condemn

In it you will hear how I’ve suffered for you

I know that you never asked for me to

The tides have now turned

And my river’s now soiled

And I’m spinning with whatever’s the message I’ve learned

How do you know if the river is deep

Before you have run and taken your leap

My river for you runs far deeper in me

Than I ever allowed you to see

Except in the tears that I let overflow

I wonder if you ever will really know …

I hope that when I look back on all this
in ten, fifteen, and plenty
I will be able to say that
[ blank ]
saved my life.

I hope that
I will not say
[ blank ] 
ruined my life.

that doesn’t mean
of course
that there weren’t shitty times
because sometimes it’s all just too much
you know?

of course you know.
I’d be delusional
if I thought I was the first –

for what?
for anything that would apply when one is so entwined in
[ blank ]

while I don’t know
if I’ll actually have a say
in whether it happens

I can hope all I want
that I’ll be the last
or the only one who matters anyway

[ blank ]
though you may not last forever
forever you will have lastingly
changed me