sculpting bliss Imagining. Thoughts on. Creative ways. Consideration; coming like music. Arrival of wild. Spring. Flowers in May. Tasting. Awaited kiss. Licked lower lip. Shower scented tresses. Button down vest. Intent, shaded stare. Hands of an Artist. Designer frame. Embrace. Exposed. Skin. Pressed. Preferring his whisper’s demand… say yes… He exhales Chopin and I gasp for breath. Shaking legs quiver. Roots’ discovery. He occupies...
The best part about the last 289 posts I've smacked out is our surfacing soul tribe... Readers, Writers, Cult advocates, Zombies, various Artists, and international Pretties continuously come forward to say, 'Why hello Gretchen Cello... let's paint the world beautiful together...' Fellow Artist Ricardo Perez and I have been sharing creations for quite some time and recently spoke on the telephone for the first time - a conversation that...
mapping inexact propensity Not meant to Mention. What does not Matter. Such as assumption Of what you Or I Might… possibly… It takes time To construct An idea. A belief. An image of us Putting off. A collective Acceptation… Exception. How I stay quiet Within a state Of consideration. Is… becoming… Something I’m You’re We simply don’t seem Sure of. Identifying Safety in a number Beyond what I can capably Count. Track amounts...
“Don’t drink today,” says Charlie. His left hand connects with my ass in three ways. Slap. Grab. Shove. A gust of air-conditioning sails from the Lex and 43rd entrance to Grand Central Station. It cools my blush. Charlie and I exchange “God bless” knowing we’ll never see each other again. We met ten minutes ago on the corner of 54th and 5th. “Are you Jewish or Italian?” asked a 5’2” Puerto Rican stranger while I stood waiting...
He’s the sort of character that makes your pupils dilate. My black hole gaze is tracing the shift of his shoulders and sway of his hips as his expression of nearness rapidly unveils. Perched on my Bleeker Street stoop I’m pretending not to see him, even though I’ve been sitting here waiting for 37 minutes. That makes me 17 minutes early and him 20 minutes late. If I hadn’t patiently passed 29 years in quiet confidence that childhood...