"So what is it you want to do?"
Everyonceinawhile, my psychoanalyst asked me that question; I must have spent huge chunks of our 50-minute hours whining.
I had no answer. Then one afternoon I knew. "I want to write."
Not the writing I'd been doing since I came to New York City, working as a reporter for trade magazines.
REAL writing: poetry and short stories and novels.
Soon words erupted, often creating poetry tinged with sex, for I was tasting the sweet freedom of the Sixties in New York.
when you strummed me
like a bass viol
in the bath tub?
It's hard to believe how reckless I was, making love to any Tom, Jane or Harry. The feminist movement swept me up. Why shouldn't I have as many one-night stands as a guy? As I saw it, impulsive lovemaking was ammunition detonated in the fight to Be Equal.
AIDS? Never heard of it and wouldn't for another decade. Then that wily virus killed my beloved bi-sexual husband of fifteen years, Jon. We had an open marriage. His libertine love of random intercourse was as strong as my delight in it, but I proved luckier.
Would I make love like that again? Never. Am I sorry I did? No way.
For one thing, I've collected some of my steamy poems into a 68-page chapbook, PRICKSONGS: TART POEMS FROM THE SIXTIES. A book like this is not for everyone. It requires a sense of humor and the ability to marvel at the wonderment that is sex.
How well we duplicate!
Standing nose to nose,
knees touching knees
feet touching feet
and what does not match
my stiff nipples
pluck your chest fuzz
as your dewbeater
thumpels my bird's nest
But if you want to purchase PRICKSONGS try
The Bookworm in Omaha email@example.com
or Concierge Marketing's Lisa Pelto firstname.lastname@example.org