Missed Opportunities

by jenkapotente

Sometimes I just want somebody to take a look at this mess I am and say, “I love you anyway”.

The Most Intimate Affair

by jenkapotente

I have imaginary affairs with authors. It only takes a paragraph, sometimes a strong sentence, for me to vow loyalty for a temporary union. It is a monogamous union, for whatever blip in time. I am usually faithful for several days, sometimes weeks, and if they are particularly good verbal lovers, they will hold my fancy for, what I imagine to be, my lifetime.

Though I call it monogamous, it isn’t really, as I did pluralize affair. I occasionally wander off into relationships with others. Sometimes I return, others I do not. I can’t fathom being any more faithful to monogamy in a three dimensional union as I can an intellectual one. I can’t fathom being loved any better than when words are woven so magically I am unconsciously persuaded to give my undivided attention to one mind projecting its thought. My libidinal physical urges seem a hindrance. They seem base, perfunctory, and their climax, a momentary jubilation that is only perceptibly invaluable upon incline, yet quite calculable in afterthought.

I find myself through my lovers. Or perhaps it is more apt to say I define myself through my lovers. They are better than I at this craft. I engage them in hope they will leave a bit of themselves with me, that I may become better through them. I worship them in a sense and in saying this I suppose I reveal myself as a Submissive. On a rare occasion I have enough false bravado to play the opposing role, but my general lack of self-esteem maintains me as the former. Our union leads me to believe I can love like they can merely through our engagement. The critical me knows this is a load of bollocks. But please, let me have my fantasies.

What is more intimate than being penetrated through minds? Turgid flesh inside flesh seems so superficial. As effective as a blade beneath epidermis. Sure, contact can be made and there is probing, but it is met with limitations, limitations of the corporeal form–how anticlimactic. I seek more. Language can sate me in ways I did not know possible, for there is potential for discovery in every sentence, sometimes single words. Knowing this makes every line a pathway toward adventure. And in words, all forms may become majestic. Uttered silently or with sound, infinity becomes the only limitation.

Pioneers

by jenkapotente

“My face beneath the street lamp. It reveals what it is lonely people seek”

He strummed his strings with such fury
I was rapt with awe
and wonder
locked between
the land of sleep
and waking dreams.

He was uncharted territory;
his face–unknown.
His eyes–dark pools of liquid gold.

My reflection was
but a silhouette
rippling atop his murky depths.

“Free me,” I whispered
with a kiss
upon his surface tension,
breaking it with delicate force.

But push became pull,
and I slipped through
losing my footing
to give way to complete
submersion.

Poem at 6 AM

by jenkapotente

-Morning-

Birds sing.
Their chirping does not rouse
Gently
But abrasively
Because I want to be deep in dreams.

Your warmth only reaches
So far;
I have to make contact
To sate this
urge.

When our skins
Interact
It’s as if I feel you from the
Root first
To the tip.

You are so cold
In parts,
But our friction is like
The lightning strike

And our scents–
Emergent ozone.

A letter to my father

by jenkapotente

My loving father,

There is a thought that crosses my mind on a rare occasion, and it is disconcerting:  I don’t know you very well, Father.

To me, you are like some great mythical figure.  You have lived a life of adventures I know very little of and would never relate to because they cannot be replicated.  Maybe you do not think back on your experiences as adventures.  Maybe you do not wish to think back on them at all.  I know you don’t take pride in any awards received from your time in Vietnam.  Most of what I know about you has been relayed through Mom.  She is like an intermediary in that…another way in which you are like a mythical figure.  There is an aspect of you that is untouchable, to me.

I want to know you, Father.  I want to know of your childhood.  Maybe you do not wish to recall it.  I do not desire to upset you.  But your story is a beautiful one, and I think it deserves to be told.

I know your life has not been easy.  But you have survived.  You are still here while so many others are not, Father.  How did you arrive where you are today?  What were your dreams in youth?  What did you think of your parents or the absence of them?  What did you long for, and what do you desire now?

You did not have a pristine childhood, this I know, yet you managed to mold yourself into a very respectable human being.  Your agency, your individual power and strength, amazes me and inspires me.  Without the example of an ideal father, you became one.  Perfection is a non-issue.  You have done everything required of you as a father and beyond.  You have provided for your wife and children.  You have supported us.  You have given us more than adequate housing and food.  You have given us even the trivial things we’ve desired.  You have worked so hard.  You have fed us, clothed us, and provided means of transportation.  In a materialistic world, you have given us all the basics and more, and yet, you came from very little.

I am so fortunate to have you, Father.  You have given to us, your children, all that you can.  And beyond that, you have sacrificed.  You ask for so little.  I am ashamed at times for how I displease you and how selfish I can be.

To me, you are an individual who was born into a third world environment, escaped it, and succeeded within a first world environment.

You are my hero.

My greatest shame would be to not accomplish half of what you have in life.  I am so sorry for ever disappointing you.  And I am sorry for not working harder.  My life is easy in many ways and hard in others.  I feel as though I have no right, though, to say my life is difficult and to use that as an excuse to not accomplish things.  You have sacrificed so much and worked incredibly hard to provide a simple path for your children in life.  You’ve endured much while I feel debilitated over the slightest thing.

I want to be stronger for you, Father.

I have not made this known, but I am so grateful to have you.

There are times I contemplate you and mom aging.  It is a thought that has at times moved me to tears.  There is immense sadness that comes from the idea of you and her growing older.  This is a fact of life, though.  And it is my attachment and desire to keep you forever that leaves me dissatisfied because it will never come to be.

For a while I have thought of myself as a late bloomer.  I have felt slow and sluggish.  But in looking at this optimistically, I feel I have something wonderful to offer.  I am not the only one who shares this idea.  I want to make you happy, Dad.  I want you to be proud of me, your child, your daughter, and I want you to feel peace in knowing you no longer have to provide for me any material means.

I long for you to be at peace at this stage in your life knowing your children are fending for themselves.  That you only have to watch and participate in what brings joy because you have earned this.

I am lucky to have you, and mom, two parents who care so much about us, their children.  I only hope that I never forget this for too long, that it may be a regular visitor to the forefront of my mind.

It may take a while, but I will earn the effort you put into life and into the lives of us, your family.  And I hope that I, too, will be able to give to my own children someday.

I love you very much, Dad.  All my successes and all my triumphs are and will always be for you.

In love and grace,

Your daughter.

I thought about you

by jenkapotente

I thought about you
and the way
your fingers
grazed
my lips. Your
fingertips tasted
of saline
and the sway of
my hips
matched the slow rhythm
of Miles Davis’

I Thought About You,
and the way your
tongue accelerates
positively and
negatively
in my mouth.
Your strength berates
my inhibitions.
I’m in transition
for a new disposition,
and

I thought about you
with your “I’m so cool
without even trying” hair.

I’m lain bare.
In despair for
pressure.
More
pressure
please.

I can’t take the lightness
of touch.
It is not enough.
I’m not asking for it rough.
I
just need you
to break through.
I
knead
you
hard, not light,
despite
the love that is here.
Do not have fear
of Breaking me.
I won’t break.
I know what I can take
But,
I am ready to
test the threshold.

Dreamers of Dreams

by jenkapotente

“manipulation must stop
otherwise you suffer the malady of untruth
and distrust
people’s hearts aren’t just fantasies
they’re fantasies as realities
they’re these incredibly dreamy things
located right in real time”

I sink because of you, but also,
I float because of you.

Sometimes I think of academia as a sort of lofty entity unto itself.
Sui generis
(a term I am using for academia I learned only because of academia)
Well, you can receive an education anywhere, in various forms, but not in that special prepackaged academia way, rich in history and tradition (of the academic sort).

There was a reason I mentioned this.
Ahh, the importance of comparison.
Comparative studies aren’t always popular, but comparison is something we cannot avoid.
We do comparison, even without acknowledging it, all the time.
I bring this up because comparison allows us to become aware of norms (and it was brought up in class recently which gave me a sort of lightbulb moment).

Without being aware of the bad, we could never have the joy of knowing the good.
That comes at a cost. The cost is being conscious of those negatives–being tested by them when they’ve come to the forefront of your mind.

So, I sigh. I sigh for many reasons:
I sigh because verbalizing the mess in my head is often a burdensome task;
I sigh because it is a small release of tensions;
I sigh because I’m in love
and sometimes it hurts more than it elates
which is a notion I get only when hurting.

My new year has been leagues better than the end of my 2008, despite some rough patches.
I feel an incredible lightness in spirit tonight.
I feel love, and it’s all warm and fuzzy,
even bubbly.
Effervescent as it may be, carbonation doesn’t last forever.

reduce, reuse, recycle

Heh. I’m pretty idealistic. I have this belief that humans are pretty much capable of anything we dream up. I guess I am a proper product of socialization. I am a part of a collective consciousness that believes this as well. I am NOT UNIQUE.

So, we dreamers of dreams are faced with the task of making reality of our fantasies. Not so easy. But if we don’t, we have to accept our dreams are just that–Dreams.

I refuse.

I sink because of you, but also,
I float because of you.

Thank you

She drew him a bath

by jenkapotente

It was evident when he walked in the door that the taxing day he thought he’d left behind at work had left within him a residue of bewilderment he managed to carry with him all the way home.

She couldn’t help but notice he was ill-at-ease upon entering. She hadn’t learned what ideas or emotions should be associated with his facial expressions and gestures yet, since their union was still in bloom, but she was confident in her intuitive abilities. Though she was often presumptuous, she opted to provide the sort of interactive work that is instinctive to women in her culture. She first inquired as to how he was feeling and how his day had gone and as he spoke she looked him directly in the eyes, nodded occasionally and provided supportive “mhm’s” and “yeah’s”.

At times her gaze drifted to his moving lips, to his jaw (jaws were always her weakness) and outlined the periphery of his face. She knew it well already, but even though she believed she could map it with her eyes closed, her desire to visually explore it never waned. She caught herself lost in the concavities and convexities of his face and was able to realign herself with the dialogue just in time to hear his voice trail off. Her relief that he’d not seen her doting quickly turned to frustration when she realized his countenance showed he was elsewhere, and she wasn’t there with him. And even worse, she didn’t feel invited. There was something different within him that day but she didn’t want to deduce anything irrationally.

He was distant and although her ego immediately made her think it had something to do with her–with something she was or wasn’t doing, had or hadn’t done–she decided to stop being so self-absorbed and focus on him. He hadn’t been going into terrible depth, merely regurgitating the days tasks, but she didn’t want to prod him further, not knowing how willing he would be to elaborate and not sure of her place in knowing more.

It didn’t take her long to understand he wasn’t going to be receptive to verbal communication at the time. They found each other staring at empty spaces on walls–one lost in thought, the other in search of substance, both desiring to appease one another, but failing.

The sound of disconnect had never been louder between them. She heard it like a loud gong within the recesses of her skull, the quaking emanating from the epicenter of her mind. She couldn’t bear it any longer, so she got up from the couch they’d both been sitting on and walked toward their bathroom door. She turned back to face him and asked, “Would you like me to draw you a bath?”

“Yes,” was his calm yet curt reply.

Filling their bathtub with aromatic salts and warm water, she dimmed the recessed lights to a comforting level, so as not to create any more tension for his vision. As she was slipping out of her clothes and into her robe, he remained sat on the couch thinking of how he should be focusing on how fortunate he is and letting go of what ails him. His trance was interrupted by the sight of her form revealed from the darkness of their bedroom and the reflection of light from the common area glimmering on her crimson satin robe. He watched her put her hair up with a sort of controlled sloppiness that he imagined no one else could achieve. His eyes followed the line of her forearm and elbow to where her arm met the robe’s sleeve, her eyes serenely closed all the while. For a moment, he became lost in the realization that the color red makes her skin tone look exceptionally radiant but his line of thought was derailed when he found her staring back at him, waiting for him to make a move

“Are you done gawking? It’s not staying warm forever.”

She made her way to the bathroom again and turned back, expecting to see him lagging–hopefully not too far behind–but he was staring again, still on the couch. She walked over, grabbed his hands, and led him to the tub. It seemed painful for him to look her in the eyes, but she maintained her silence.

She stood him in the center of the room and lifted his left palm to her mouth with her right hand. Kissing it gently, she watched his eyes close as she puckered her lips against his tepid palm.

She knelt before him and removed his shoes. She looked incredibly small from such distance. He wondered how many times she’d done this before.

While slowly unlacing them, she was reminded of when she’d last done this before. The nostalgia of taking off her father’s shoes in her youth made her feel small again. She felt a rippling warmth emanating from her core while she set his shoes aside. Slowly sliding her hand up his calf and down, she removed one sock, then the other. She stood up and unbuttoned his shirt. He slid it off and she folded it then placed it on the counter. His trousers and underwear were last to go, which she removed with patience. They were folded and placed next to his shirt.

He glanced at the water, frozen in place.

She reached in to check its temperature and ran the hot water again.

“You can get in now,” she said gently.

He stepped in slowly and sat down. She rested herself on the back of the tub and reached for a sponge, soaked it and began to rub it against his shoulders, arms, and back. She brought it back to his shoulders and neck, then down his chest. He caught her softly by the wrist, “When are you joining me?”

She smiled and removed her robe, slowly sliding in behind him. She extended her legs over his and embraced his back, resting her hands on his chest and kissing his neck. She closed her eyes and held him for a while. She broke her silence by asking, “How are you feeling?”

He inhaled so deeply, she was surprised for a moment at how much his ribcage expanded within her embrace.

She’d lost him again. To the wall—to that other place he’d been all evening long.

She squeezed him and finally mustered the courage to make a request, “Please, tell me.”

“I…can’t…”

“Let me help you”

“It’s…too difficult”

“What can I do?”

“Just keep doing this”

So she did. She did just that. But after a few minutes of silence, she felt his breathing grow more intense. His eyes were closed and he drew his body inward, slowly freeing himself from her legs. She kept her arms around his waist and pressed the trunk of her body completely against his back and cradled him. He shuddered in her grasp, then began to sob. His trembling shook her, but she didn’t let go.

The sound and sight of a strong man weeping is unforgettable.

It pained her to see him like this, but she wanted him to know she was willing to experience this with him. She rested her head on his back and was overwhelmed by tears of her own. She ached to remove this hurt from within him, but how could she if he refused to answer her questions?

Shortly after the tears subsided she dried him and put him in bed.

“Don’t leave me,” he said in a hushed whisper.

That night he slept peacefully on her bosom, but she couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes. In the darkness, her sight was fixed on where the walls would be, given some light.

[Okay, I just spewed that in about 2 hours. I’d appreciate any constructive criticism. I envision it like a film sequence. The writing style seems a bit awkward because of it, I think. Is this WORTH PURSUING?]