����������� "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 annoited, 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.
����������� Blessed be YHWH.
© 2001 anah childes
Annah childes in essence:
The stately Mexican man, beautiful, pulled Anah closer
as they flitted across the dance floor--matched and magnificent.
"What do you do?" A timeless second dance
question whispered close when the chemistry is combustible.
Anah paused and concentrated on the hip sway and rock
back with her right foot. "I am a free spirit.
Anah punched back, "So you are an airplane
mechanic?�� Do you fly?"
"No, Do you?" the Mexican man, beautiful
pressed back.
"Sometimes."� Anah responded as she floated back and twirled on the dance floor and then flew back to the masculine source of
muse.
"Sometimes, yes, I fly.
"I bet you do, I bet you do." and the
conversation ended with a pas de deux.