How to Love a Porn Star

How to Love a Porn Star

First.
Foremost:
Understand 

she can never be yours.

Even though she owns

your heart,

undoubtedly & irrevocably,

she will always belong

to everyone else,

to her co-stars,

to her audience,

to her fans.

You are none

of these things;

you can never be.

When I meet her, I have no idea

who she is; just the gorgeous

crimson-curled girl

washing her clothes

at the lavanderia,

attentively watching

Spanish language telenovelas,

brow furrowed

as she tries making sense

of the endless melodrama.

I had never heard

of Dallas Wagstaff.

Second.

Never ask for sex.

It's her job, & no one  enjoys

bringing their work home.

Instead, be patient;

she will come to you

upon her own whims,

full of desire & lust & magick,

& she will mount you

like a wide-winged dragon,

& soon enough

you will find

yourselves intertwined

& writhing like a gordian

ouroboros.

She seems surprised

when I approach her,

or annoyed, thinking

I was little more

than another

overzealous fan

presuming

she was forever

on the prowl

for new lovers,

her brow

only digging deeper.

"You seem a bit confused,"

I chide her, "I'd be happy

to translate, happy to open

the world to you. My mother

always said two tongues

are better than one."

Third.

Abolish jealousy.

It serves no good

to anyone's heart,

as thoughts of late

nights & long

weekends away,

as neverending visions

of countless men & women

having their way

will only eat at you,

a restless, rabid raccoon

perpetually gnawing

at your guts

& regurgitating

indigestible bile.

"Te extraño," I say

as I transcribe the words

onto her bare back

with a sumi brush

dipped in jagua henna.

"Te extraño," she repeats,

"What does that mean?"

"It means I miss you,"

I reply as I cap the "n"

with a tilde.

I pull back

to get a better look

at my handiwork,

her vocabularium.

These words will fade,

but she will always see

their shadows.

She turns her head

to catch me

from  the corner of her left eye.

"¿Me extraña," she asks, coyly,

"aveces?"

"Me extrañas," I correct,"Bueno,

siempre y nunca, amor."

Finally.

Accept that you will lose

her. Nothing lasts,

nothing is permanent,

every story ends.

One day, Dallas will get home

from Houston after a weeklong

series of shoots with nary a call,

nary a text, & all

this incommunicado

will drive you mad,

& you will attack

in a jealous rage.

You will insist

she be only yours.

You will demand

she fuck you,

immediately, to prove her love.

& she will realize

that you, too,

are incapable

of loving her

the way she needs

to be loved.

She won't even unpack

her bags, she will call

a friend to get her & she will leave

you with apologies pouring forth

from your lips

like oxidized wine, nothing

but vinegar in her ears;

the damage already done.

I never

did get to know Dallas,

only ever the girl

she hid beneath. "Why

do you like painting

on my body like this?"

asks the next one

I cannot love.

She thinks

it odd,

peculiar,

kinky.

"I love words," I lie,

"the way they feel

when they are drawn out,

when I can witness

their permanency & impermanence

at once."

"Are we permanent?" She asks,

wriggling under the tickle of the sumi brush.

"Of course," I say, smiling

at her extended eye.

I finish the thought in my mind:

as permanent as these words

inscribed on the wrong skin

in jagua henna.

Your Eternal Dance

Your Eternal Dance

Some say you should be my queen,
but I am more Fool than king.

A Fool will not rule
or be ruled,
but is always open
to worship,
drawn to it,
like the flame
to the moth
fluttering
close enough
to be illuminated,
to have its magic
made clear.

I will not crown you
my Queen;
instead I will adore you,
pray under your divine light,
whisper your name
to the sky
to invoke you,
venerate you for the goddess
I know you to be.

Some say you should be my queen,
but regents are too prone
to tyranny, to staking claims,
to bending nature
to their own whims;
these things are beneath you.
Your proclivities lie
in creation, inhaling
death to exhale stars,
consuming stars
to excrete Life.

Some say you should be a queen,
but you rise
above titles,
beyond law,
past present or future.
I bow before you,
not out of obeisance,
but in reverence, hoping
that, given your place
in the pantheon of my heart,
you will allow me
to partake in your eternal
dance.

Firefly

firefly

My Muse
is a firefly
& temptation tells me:
trap her,
capture her
in a jar, screw
on a lid pricked
with just enough
holes to let
her breathe—
trap her so that I can imagine
she fires for me.

But she doesn't.

Fireflies fire
from their desire,
to flee, to breed,
to be! 

So I keep 
my firefly free
of jars or nets
or any constraints,
& she flutters & floats
& flitters about
& she burns,
she burns so bright
she ignites the sky,
& sometimes I catch
her just within sight,
on my right,
& confuse her
for a meteorite—
shooting stardust:
memories
of a Universe
more ancient than gods.

My muse is
a firefly, free
to fire anywhere,
& my blessing is
that she chooses
to burn brightest
near me.

Night Falls

Night falls
& I rise
to meet her,
bury my mountains
deep, so deep
her stars burn me,
turn me, I churn
& erupt
in torrid ash clouds
& magnificent magma.

My Night erupts
simultaneously, 
pouring
forth liquid life,
cooling my fervent fire,
whetting my thirst
in rivers that flow
to form oceans
where only desert—
empty wasteland—
once stood. I would 
be nothing
without Her,
my Night
bearing the water
of Life
to this once
barren Earth—
her air fueling
my fire inducing
her water infusing
my soil seeding
her air until
Creation
has been acheived—
& I am relieved,
knowing She leaves
Me with the arrival
of the Sun,
leaves me
with reminders
of our love,
crawling, swimming,
running, flying—
filling me
until my Night
falls again,
& I rise.

Purgatory

Purgatory

I put You through Hell,
so I suppose I deserve
no less than purgatory.
 
I must climb
that mountain alone,
without You. 
There is no other path
to redemption,
to forgiveness,
no other way
to wash
these wounds.

So I will begin
by scaling Pride,
bearing the stone
of my own creation
upon my bare back.
I will stare down
on my way up,
learning to see
everything beneath me
with more clarity.

Envy seems easy,
as I have a generous spirit;
but here too,
there is work to do,
to roam with my eyes
sewn shut
until I learn to listen
to my heart,
to stop hating
those ready to take
what I’ve lost.
Ownership is
only arbitrary.

I will rise
above Wrath,
allow my meek 
nature to shine
through, not let
myself be blinded,
choked,
by wrath’s acrid 
smoke & seek
harm for those
who’ve caused
me pain.

I shall not be beaten
by Sloth, by my desire
to fold,
to hide,
to die
in the face
of each failure, 
to get lost
in perpetual mourning.
Rather, I must work,
keep busy,
keep moving,
keep living,
for death before dying
is a Hell in Life,  
a perilous prison
in whose residence
my soul would only rot.

I will glide
through Greed,
as my desire
for things, for riches,
for great gain,
has never been
debilitating.
My desires have always
lain elsewhere.

Nor am I saddled
with Gluttony,
being One of
moderation,
for the most part.
That is not to say
that there are not times
when temperance
is needed,
when I allow
myself to get lost
in the smoke
forgetting how Holy
the fumes are. 

Lust.
Ah, Lust!
How to even begin
battling those flames,
fighting the fire
that consumes me
for You? Here,
like Dante, I
will lie in wait,
afraid to face
my flaws.
Here, You must be
my Virgil, reminding
me that only in
risking getting burned
can I ever hope
to reunite
with my own,
beloved Beatrice.

& here I will summit,
each sin purged,
brushed away
by the wings
of angels.
I will summit,
reach Paradise,
find my innocence, 
redemption,
forgiveness. 

Yet I am full
of fear,
fear that for all
my climbing,
for all my penance, 
I will learn much,
but earn nothing:
No Beatrice to guide
me through Heaven,
No Love to fly me
over the hard,
cold rock I have
traveled. But I cannot 
allow fear to stop me. 

I walk this path to heal,
not to be rewarded. 
Your Love is a gift
which I must be prepared
to never receive, again.
But I tell you,
My Love,
MY LOVE, 
It is what drives me.

If You do ever offer
Your blessing again,
to feel Heaven again,
I swear to keep it
Holy, for Heaven 
is no place 
for the lowly.

I Do Not Need & The Fall

I Do Not Need 

I do not need to kiss you,
hold you, fuck you.
I don't even need to touch you.
I only need you close
enough to smell that sweet
scent that reignites
the fire that has consumed
me during your absence.

The Fall

I am a leaf—goldredbrown
Drifting down,
Fluttering around
Until I hit
The ground
where I will lie
Until I dessicate,
Whither & dry.

I will become hard,
Brittle, resisting the Earth
That is calling me
Until the sky cries,
Her grace crowning me
King, & I swell
Full of just enough
Life to accept
My fate.

REALLY Old Poetry

The following poems are two of my oldest, written when I was in my very early 20s, before I took my first college level writing course. Laugh at me if you want, but be kind. Besides, vampires are still vogue, right?

Eternal

I'd love to be a vampire
& entice you with my grace,
seduce you with my bedroom eyes,
take you in my dark embrace,

Then we could both be vampires
& watch eternities unfold,
witness history come & go,
never growing old.

We'd be creatures of the dark,
free of mortal complications,
free to love a million years,
melting in with each new generation.

The seven wonders of the world
would exist solely for us to admire;
we'd watch them crumble to the earth;
we'd create new wonders to our desire.

I'd show you the land;
you'd show me the sea,
yet our greatest pleasure
would lie 'tween each others knees.

We would live together,
                  run together,
                  love together,
                  hunt together.

Until at a time of our choosing,
once we knew we could no longer be,
You & I would walk hand in hand into the fire,
to join the ashes of eternity.

Under the Whatever Tree

¿Strolling? Yeah, strolling:
Strolling, with an adolescent giddiness
I haven't felt since my days of scholarly pursuit,
(Yeah, right! More like my pursuit of a good time.)
strolling, with her strolling next to me,
& I'm a clumsy little schoolboy again
wanting, trying to hold her hand;
but I don't, not sure if I should,
not sure she wants me to,
not sure she wants me.

So I settle for sly touches
disguised as clumsy little bumps,
& we stroll & bump & sip cheap tequila
trying not to make funny faces,
(¡God that shit tastes terrible!)
until we feel all good & tingly,
& we stroll under a sycamore
(or whatever, I don't know trees)
to relax on a bed of grass & headlines.

Frolic? ¡Yeah, Frolic!
We frolicked just a little bit,
under the Whatever Tree,
pinching, prying, tickle-poking,
a bit of laughter, a bit of joking,
having fun enjoying the bit of numbness
between our ears.
We got each other sticky sweet,
(Or she got me, I can't speak for her)
Until our eyes catch,
(kinda like what always happens in soaps & chick flicks, you know?),
& of course, we kissed,
we kissed,
& we kissed
under the Whatever Tree;
& of course I wanted more,
but it wasn't my place to ask,
& I didn't.

I just start strolling, again
all the way to the subway;
she watches me leave,
leaves me wanting more.

Jasmine

The one poem of mine that I've memorized, always ready to recite on queue. Written circa 1992.

Jasmine

I put my fingers to my nose
& smell the sweet scent of jasmine.
It seems amazing that once I touched her
the scent never went away.

I close my eyes, fists pressed tight
against them, & through the stars
I see her face.
It seems amazing that once I touched her
the scent never went away.

I lick at my tears as they roll
down my face, & through the salt
I taste the essence of our sin.
It seems amazing that once I touched her
the scent never went away.

& through the static of my speakers
I can hear her sweet,
sweet jasmine voice, speaking
to my soul, singing,
"I love you."
Is it so amazing that I needed only touch
her once, & now I know
the scent will never go away.