“Queen Makeda, you should consider working at the Kibbutz's. I know you have your son to consider, but it would only be for two months. They supply your needs. You belong there. ”

       I belong in Israel--to see where Mary, Mary, Tamar, Tamar--all bled over different men to find salvation.

       Solomon, you are wise, I belong there.

       I wonder if I have to be a “ real Jewish woman ” to qualify. I have proudly possessed the Jewish heritage since I first eyed the psuedo Solomon, arrayed as fine as any King soliciting a maid to share the Opera. His aura still surrounds me at times, though I have gone forward to love another man in another bed. Can't explain what transpired between the new Solomon, the new Makeda, and the very ancient rhyming chants that hummed along behind our mating.

GALVESTON RISING

       I bought an ankle bracelet with silver tinkling bells while I was in Galveston during the mid Summer full moon. I love when I step on John the Beloved's tile floors, I sound like a Jewish woman, tiptoe-tinkling about her lover's abode. The rust colored tile is cool against my bare feet. I like the way my painted toes look against the floor. I like the sound my swishing through the rooms make--only a woman's hips can swish just so, with a residue of woman whisper. I like the womb of his house.

       I whisper to John the Beloved, “ I feel like a Jewish woman. ”

       He is lying on his belly, I wave across his hulking shoulders and buttocks with my fingertips, everything naked is beautiful in the candle glow. I consider calling him “ LORD ABRAHAM. ”

        It is us, his bed, a single candle, and I am stroking his feet and calves with lotion. I am naked, I dip my hair into the curve in his lower back. I summit the rise of his buttocks, thinking moutainous thoughts of apexes scaled. Climbing.

       “What do you mean, you are a Jewish woman? ”

       My explanation would go farther than I should try to take John the Beloved at present so I reason this out loud,

       “ I have been writing ancient missives lately about ancient Jewish relationships and they are not fiction, they are reality. How can I explain to you that when I write about Tamar, I am Tamar and Er has f-cked me, and I keep glancing sideways at Judah, for he is my salvation, I know this. Ok John the Beloved, do you see how I am a Jewish woman? ”

       I touch all his big body, not caring if I get s-x, “ caring immensely if he feels like MY LORD. ”

       It is true, “great lovers make great lovers of their partners. ” Making love is reciprocal. The big John the Beloved presses me backward, sits like a giant bear and with his great bear paws, cradles my feet, and touches them--soothes them, creates tiny sensual extensions of me.

       “That is better than s-x! ” I purr, he growls in response.

       I put my arms around John the Beloved. We are eternal in this moment. I shift to his front side, a hard penis points slightly up, we finger and kiss. We are an eternal lotus. Our bodies forming two halves of one blossom. His stamen points to my cupping void. We are a scent.

       “It is true, we fit. ”

       Whatever was not s-x, now becomes full forward throttle. John the Beloved pulls me to sit above him, I angle forward like a 45 degree counter angle. I want to force him inside me.

       John the Beloved instructs me with perfect patience.

       “Slow, we are not in a hurry. ”

       It is the most perfect directions for living. In living, we are not in a hurry. It is the dying we wish to rush through. When life is a full penis, a opening vagina, and air syrupy with love, we are not in a hurry.

       John the Beloved and I become an act of grace.

FACE DOWN ON THE BOARDWALK

“Why don't you forget the stars for awhile? You might meet a man in the street, an utter stranger, who would be the means of opening these doors you regard as locked. There is such a thing as grace too.

It could happen, you know, if you were in the right mood,
if you were prepared to let something happen.
And if you forgot what was written in the sky. ”

H.MillR

       Sometimes you just know things. A road to take, a stranger to touch, an intuition that can't go wrong, sometimes you just know things.

       John the Beloved wrote me.

       “When I was staying in San Rafael, I was walking across a parking lot. I looked down and there was playing card lying face down. I walked past it, stopped, turned around, looked down on it and knew. I just knew. ”

       On the passenger side of his little Nissan, clothes pinned to the visor, a three of spades. I query him. “The KNOW? ”

       His broad face, round, smiles. I buy him a “Buddha trinket, ” John the Beloved hangs it with the card. Knowing that sometimes you just know things.

       Summer solstice is one moon arears. John the Beloved and I walk the Galveston boardwalk. John the Beloved is drunk on a pitcher of beer. I am two margaritas, one love potion, and one pina colada happy. We weave a bit, I twirl a bit, allowing my short mini dress to expose my thonged buttocks. Finally we settle into a march of lovers, I have my arm wrapped in his--like we are walking down an aisle toward the front of the sanctuary, fulfillment married.

       “Look John! ” I pull away, John the Beloved moves, steps forwards. He stops and stares at me.

       “Look John!” The drunk focuses on the me. I point down. Reactions are delayed.

       A face down card lies on the sidewalk. A face down card lies on the sidewalk.

       I squat and pass my hand across the face down card. I try to feel its aura. John knows.

       “It is a jack. I don't know what suit.”

       John the Beloved steps one, two solid steps toward the face down card. His huge paws limp by his side. He is a huge, hulking animus bear relying in intuition magic.

       “It is a Jack, I don't know what suit. ”

       I turn the face down card.

       Flip, Flip

       “Jack of Hearts ” I squeal.

       “Jack of Hearts ” I squeal.

       John the Beloved is Buddha. Somethings you just know.

EGGS BORROWED

       John the Beloved rummages in his kitchen. I find a “ Trawler ” magazine to peruse.

       “Do you need my help?” I know it is a pointless question. John the Beloved will make the egg omelettes sans my help. He is an artist.

       He has discovered only three eggs. He cuts half a carton of twelve and sends me to his mother's house, past the cattle guard, to borrow eggs.

       John the Beloved's mother likes me. She knows I see John. I know John sees. There are odd kinds of knowings.

       We step inside her country home, erasing the eight PM eighty plus July heat. She wants her hug I had neglected giving her earlier. Then we mobilize toward her kitchen and she gathers six eggs, placing them in my “homemade half dozen carton. ”

       I confess to her the “face down card story”. Telling the two in tandem--causes chills.

       “What are the odds of knowing twice in one lifetime the face of two cards, face down, opposite polarity--three of spades and jack of hearts? ”

       John the Beloved's mom quivers and rubs her arms as if suddenly arctic chilled. Does she know her son is Buddha? I want to share that secret too.

       “John the Beloved, John your son, John my lover is Buddha. Stranger still he knows it. ”

       I keep quiet about the Buddha knowing and just ripple on her, “John has great intuition. ”

       John's mother perhaps is Elizabeth, the mother of John the Baptist. We all know something special is involved.

       As I pedal off with eggs secure, John's mother says, “ That is the kind of tale, fables come forth from. ”

       She is a sorceress. I am sure.

       I jokingly tell John the Beloved, “You have to be anointed, you f-ck me. One of us is G-d. ”

       Closer to the truth, we both are divine and our union is the f-ck of the great g-ds in a turbulent, unbelieving world. Did Jesus f-ck Mary Magdalena, did Buddha enliven some disciple with the flick of his penis, lotus position, face-full, non-rocking, based all on union?

       “I was asleep, dreaming blue dreams in the egg of the world, ” while I was borrowing eggs on the dirt roads of somewhere past nowhere. I found the lair of G-d quite by accident.

       I laugh at Zeus, at Inanna, at vernacular of Greek, Sumerian, Roman, Christian, Jewish G-ds. There are no such things, just we, just we, traipsing around in Deity disquises.

       So I don't have any sympathy for those that don't see it.

        “G-d in us. ”

       How many times must a bloody Christ limp across the fading glow of Jewish sky yelling , “You can't watch the kingdom of G-d appear--it ain't on the outer horizon! You can't pffff, ptttttt-place it here, monolithic there---shhh, shhh sweet child of G-d in search of satiation. The throne of G-d is within you.”

       John the Beloved, flips me over, flips me over and with thrust after thrust blasts me with an ancient ownership. When the tempest has swelled, the tides have rolled, I feel my spirit risk its spark to gather about it the covenant juice.

       G-ds are without, g-ds conquer, g-ds give birth, g-ds wait for fructification, g-ds demand repentance, g-ds sing, g-ds deliver judgement, g-ds fail.

       In some sweet roll over in some fairy tale land past nowhere, I am taken by a g-d of love, sacrificed on a g-d of self, and if freedom from tale can occur, a fable of g-ds united is born.