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Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

~ Words For You, Just Ask

Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

Category Archives: Sex

The Crack

18 Saturday Aug 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Sex, Sexual, Sexy

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Sex, Sexy

The beginning is the end, the
behind in front until all we have
in our mind is a poke in the butt.

It doesn’t matter, the skin and
prose before God, life and heaven
knows the fantasy can be better

than the real thing, g-strings,
blocking out all but a perfectly
composed rear, we all pause to

take in the glory of that which
got us here.  We can rise above
the instinct to love, but would we

ever want to submerge in anything
not on the verge, the creative urge,
the song called death that life needs

to truly purge, the end the beginning
as covered, take it off, show me the
thing I know but forget, the thing that

ties me in knots, dictates movement
and makes you wet, slippery to get,
sunshine in the crack like a jungle

for cat on cat, wild that, this on
and off punch through the page victory
of clouds over rain, smiling again

like a batman punch, “Wow” and
“Zam” in quotes, seventies colors and
sixties ‘do’s, eighties synthesizers and

fu manchu’s, underage drinking
bar-b-ques, nothing new, drinking
a flammable liquid, calling it “what

others do?”  We come back, though,
we come back to the darkest place,
the beginning, the inspiration for songs,

dreams and late night phone calls,
as God the creator created, we come back
to that which keeps us creating, curling

and whirling in a never-ending story of
humans populating a moon of the sun
called earth, we come back to the crack.

I love it.

The Power of Lo—Sex

13 Wednesday Jun 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Earth, Higher Power, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Sex

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Earth, Egg, Galaxy, God, Life, Love, Planets, Poems, Poetry, Power, Relationships, Science, Sex, Sexuality, Space, Sperm, Swirl, Truth, Universe

Jesus.

That’s the word certain nerds
use to calm down, back up, and
think, they do it with tone, sometimes

represented in writing with italics.

Thank God for spit, it keeps coming,
the male sex instinct is X, the women’s
is Y, why we’re off sometimes because
X is cross and Y is open and vice versa,

then one day the bomb explodes!

You cannot control Sex.

I imagine the eunuch tries, but
sperms game to swim swim a wild
ride!

God, or Life, or Nature—or whatever
power you observe as King—made the
thing go and go and go without relenting!

Sex is like the universe itself, kind of
unknown, stark one moment, pounding
the next, black holes explored the
crevasse of stink, the stank thing you
thought by holding back, comes back like
an avalanche a day later, or in the

middle of the night, holding tight, you

cannot stop the flood, the bursting
of the dyke.

***

Few!  Few are those who can manage
the power, the pulse, the growth,
the manufacturing of eggs and life
forever spinning like the planets
around far off suns, mirroring ours
in a game of loss and won.

Truth is as truth does, and so at
break of day—play!

Then we head with conviction, we
hope to a setting arc, words and
images, sounds and sweat abound

until it stops.

If we were true to our five senses
we get a sixth, peace of mind
finding us at the end of long, well-
lived, singing rhyme.

Doesn’t mean we can make our
bodies stop, they keep going and
going, the energizer god of sex
not a bunny per se, but then again

they boink a lot, or so they always
say.

To Throw a Stone

31 Thursday May 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Gospel, Jesus, Jesus said, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Religion, Sex

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Tags

God, Gospel, Jesus, Joy, Love, Peace, Sex

It’s easy to judge.  It feels
good for a while, to size someone
up and find them wanting—
You see a flaw and flick it at them

To maximize damage, thereby
increasing the rush you feel, a cop
you steal, imbibing holier than
thou spirit, then…

You call a friend.  “Hey, look
at what so and so just did, said—
is or was!  Isn’t he or she a scandal,
where are the rocks?”

The what?

Let’s throw some rocks at him!!
Yeah!  Yeah!!

Throw rocks!

Wait, we don’t have any and I
can’t see you, this is a computer or
phone, everything’s online!!

“It doesn’t matter.  Tweet at him,
retweet ugly things, put downs and
all the ways you are better than him.”

#MeToo is truth and good, but
let’s stop short of throwing stones.

***

Sexual impropriety and crimes are
bad, but let’s stop short of throwing
stones!

Unless…

Unless ye, without sin, should you
want to step up, cast a big rock with
all the sin that you are not—

Go ahead.

Waiting…

***

No human without sin, it’s a long
wait, so let’s save it, breathe deep
and pray good thoughts for the sick
person who had a bad sex day.

Do unto others, as you would have
them do to you.

Do you want your mistakes shoved
in your face?

Or would you prefer everyone to
stay in their own lanes, try to
improve ourselves—

The judgement of others breaking
the eleventh commandment showing
no shame.

Man Hate

30 Wednesday May 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Blog, Blogs, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Relationships, Resentment, Sex, Sexism, Women

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Health, Joy, Love, Men, Men's Health, Online, Peace, Relationships, Sex, Women

I didn’t hurt you, it wasn’t me.

Somehow, it’s lost on the resentful
the current circumstance, all a dance
of holding on or letting go.

We cannot let go until we admit
the problem, accept it, and take
an appropriate action based on
whatever code of morality or
ethics that tickles you peaceful.

***

I did not hurt you, specifically, I tell
her online.

I hurt me and about 15 girls growing
up because I failed to tell them
I loved them.

Too scared.  Too proud, I hurt them
and me at the same time—

it was an alcoholic thing.

Freud said drunks can’t express love,
and, well—I’m a drunk.

But it wasn’t me, I wasn’t the one
who made you specifically mad,
and yet I feel like I did—my point of
view, my quoting the bible,
which you call misogynistic.

Yikes, I have a lot to learn, you
know there’s always another side
of something—

But it wasn’t me, I mean—even if
I used the offending bible phrase,
my intention was good, not bad.

My stuff hangs down, makes sperm,
it’s a wild show of swirl and girls
in the head, trying to manage sex
with mutilated genital parts from
an operation I did not consent to
called “circumcision.”

Abused at birth, then growing up
with no talks on love, but plenty
of alcohol drinking and sports.

But I do not blame you for this;
you are a woman online, we hardly
know each other, but I’m sure if
patient, we would find we were
both fallible human beings, trying
to get along on this side of the dirt
before the stars and God conspire
with age to take us away, bodies
useless as our spirit soars forever.

Messing with Mom

30 Wednesday May 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Blog, Blogs, God, Honor, Misogyny, Mom, Morality, Mother, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Sex, Sexism

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Tags

Immigration, Ivanka, Joy, Love, Mom, Morality, Mother, Mothers, Peace, Political, Race, Racism, Trump, Truth

Men with stiff upper lips gather
in dark rooms, light cigars, drink
Scotch whiskey and avoid their feelings.

White people.

White men, holding hard to their
dreams of control and privilege—

the false narrative that “America” is
white, European, and manifest in
supreme destiny to be clean of the
riff-raff of anything not them.

Native peoples here were one with the
land, slaves brought in to tend it,
too.

And the men gather, not white-skinned
always, more like pink, red, sometimes
tanned against the sun, necks burned
to coin a derogatory phrase—
and shouldn’t we with conscience choose
not to use those?

Heaven knows the white, dark, brown,
whatever colored person is as good or
bad as the next;

We’re all prone to mistake.  To moments
of joy, perfect and true.

The smile universal, the love Ivanka
knows about even if Dad spits “Fuck you.”

The truth of the dream more than the
border of “seems,” something there is
that doesn’t love a wall and wants it
down.

I thought at first sound of a wall to
the south, “Okay, interesting, we all have
an option to wall our homes off from
the world, why not a country?”

Then I figured out that the term “wall,”
and “Build the Wall” next to “Lock Her Up”
at campaign rallies was a clear dog
whistle to the racist fear-mongering
masses, a racist explosion of “keep
them out,” they’re “criminals!”

They’re “animals!!!”

And Donald, sir:

So are you.  That you do not know
that is why you admire Andrew Jackson
and his Trail of Tears.

You have left the human race, you who
hold onto your racism and xenophobic
fear of others.

You are not animals at play in God’s
field with other animals—you who cast
out “different” as “worse.”

I love you.

We must love the oppressed and the
oppressor, for who at day’s end is more
close to death than life as the character
assassinator, the genocider, the angry,
stiff-lipped cigar sucker,

back rooms lit with the devil’s glare,
hoping against hope to turn your four-
year old heart into four years of
wrecking ball politics, hate, fear
and dismantling more than even CIA
managed in Cold War?

Carnage?

Oh, to be a fly on the wall when Daddy
brought that home.

Mine did every once in a while,
but I forgive him, love him, and
honor the God racist misogynist GOP
sellouts claim to worship by staying
small under Him or Her.

By listening.

By accepting that Mom brought us here
and deserves our respect!

Not a border full of Cops taking
their children away as a deterrent
to make up for your lack of gratifying
sex.

Go back to the wives of your youth,
Trump and criminal sympathizing supporters,
honor your father and mother, but first:

Repent.

Admit we stole this land.

Not for you, dummy, as I smile to tuck
in your shirt, little guy.

We admit truth to make the world
better

Men Abused from Birth; Any Surprise We Abuse Women?

16 Thursday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Blog, Circumcision, Health, Intactivism, Men's Health, Sex, Sexuality, Womanizing

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Tags

Abuse, Circumcision, Harassment, Health, Intact, Intactivism, Intactivist, Joy, Judge Moore, Love, Men, Men's Health, O'Reilly, Peace, Roy Moore, Sexual Abuse, Trump, Weinstein

Tools of Abuse -- Circumcision

-by Bill Watkins 11/16/2017

***

It’s tempting to throw stones at all the men being called out for inappropriate sexual behavior toward women, and even young girls.  I wanted to illuminate why that may not be a wise course of action; in fact, a blind judgment of male-perpetrated sexual harassment fails to look at and solve some of the root problems that lead to bad behavior by men.

1. Circumcision – Our First Abuse

We men are born with a cover on our penis.  God, if you use that concept, our “Creator” (evolution if you want) put a safety hood on our members to protect the most sensitive part of our body, the reproductive unit, the great human populator.  Certain religionists and other ancients thought it was a good idea to SNIP THIS COVER OFF OUR MALE INFANTS.

Shock1

2. Alcoholism and Lack of Talk – The Second Abuse

We are not honest.  We “protect” children from sex talk, avoid the topic—then expect them to get it from school or TV.  What boys often get from school and TV is porn and “sex as competition,” where groping and “scoring” with females is touted over such a wonderful biblical tradition as:

Rejoicing with the Wife of Our Youth.

Solomon through Proverbs 5:18 and Malachi 2:15 emphasize the glory of monogamy, loyalty and commitment to the first girl God gives a boy to love.  The first love is blessed and special.  And yet in our American society we scoff at first crushes, avoid talks with boys that “love is good,” and show them a poor example by divorcing and philandering around from flower to flower.

Little boys confirm the competition aspect of sex bragged about on the playground, think that scoring “chicks” is preferable to loving one woman forever.  Alcoholism plays into this, as it is a disease that plagues our abilities to be honest and communicate love.  (Freud)

3. So off you go, Little Man!!!

“Enjoy your unprotected, hood-stripped, extra-sensitive penis, go out without advice and with our example of divorce and womanizing, alcoholism—AND TREAT WOMEN RIGHT!!!”

***

Not happening.  And no wonder.

LET’S STOP ABUSING OUR BOYS, STRIPPING THEM OF PENIS PROTECTION, TALK TO THEM ABOUT SEX, BUT FIRST GO BACK TO GODLY, GOOD PRINCIPLES LIKE BEING LOYAL AND TRUE TO THE “WIFE OF OUR YOUTHS.”  The first step to end abuse is to do what we are doing:  out the truth, talk about the problem.

But then:  Throw a stone?

No.  Let us recover together, go back, pick up the pieces, apologize to our wives, re-think drinking flammable liquids that divert us from God’s will—and teach our children, first by example—that love is precious and sacred, that sex is great with the right partner in the right way.  Then speak to them…

“Your mother and I love you, son, and show that first by loving each other.  Second, we want to be available to your every question or concern.  What?  You are in love with Anne in third grade?… Son, that is so wonderful.  Consider telling her in some way.  Write her a card.  Give her a flower.  We are so proud of you.  And thank God for our instincts to love!”

Sexual Mistakes

15 Wednesday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Recovery, Sex, Sexuality

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Alcoholics Anonymous, Joy, Love, Peace

Anna's art1

We are where we are, we cannot
be better than our best in the moment
we act.

Looking back, we wish we did better, have
power only to tell the truth about it
and Apologize.

Many people despise looking back, get
offended at my wanting to do it, but they
are not in A.A.

We have twelve steps, all written with
past tense verbs, showing the spiritual
program used

by the first members of the program.  They
went back and made amends for the past to
make a better

Future.

***

Before there was sex, there was sexual feeling
and attraction.  We stripped the Barbie Doll
down and got aroused.

I looked in a mirror, and marveled at parts
of my body that intrigued me; I thought I was
amazing!

My first favorite person was Dad.  Mom “divorced”
him, a long-term separation of bodies, but Jesus
spoke truth,

Said “Man cannot separate what God has bound
together.”  Divorced people fail lie detector tests
when they

say they are not married.

Marriage is for life.

Who’s the Wife of Your Youth?

I thought mine was my third grade crush,
Anne Devereux, but she has moved on so where
does that leave me?

Life is cool, Jesus changing water to wine, a
metaphor at least for moving mountains with
faith and hope—

a newborn baby making it all new again, anything
possible under the sun!  God bless the child, the daughter
and the son!

There she was in third grade.  So pretty.  So cute.
And I, I had no clue what to do, no one to help me;
I let a huge moment pass;

I died a bit, then kept dying until I sipped my
first wine, stole into parent liquor cabinets to
douse depression.

“Everybody does it!”  We’re so adult here, getting
drunk and escaping.  Now we’re really disobeying some
commandments and law—

God is watching.  Counts every hair on our heads.

You will wish you were dead.  Better to get up, follow
God instead of the devil no matter the short-term pain.

There is a rainbow after the rain!

No joy without the pain, this is life!!

***

I was going to talk about sexual mistakes; impossible
without sex.

I was a virgin until 33—seven years short of a
crazy movie comedy.

It really wasn’t funny to me.

A lot of my mistakes, looking back, come from
fear and pride—fear of rejection, and being
too proud to gush for another person, a wife.

So you run and run, oh and then you masturbate—
because no one with authority told you “no.”

No one talked to you at all about deep, intimate or
sexual stuff—adults, like children, lost and not
knowing what to do!

****

I declare, and in the new light of new revelations
of sexual abuse in America—that Masturbation
could very well be a very bad thing—as the Puritans
would say… Maybe they were right!

Give your will and life to God.

Then honor a Sabbath and your parents.  Kill not,
ah! Then:

Marry, honor and rejoice with the Wife of your
Youth!!  Do not stray or treat her treacherously!!

Consult Solomon and Malachi and see!

***

Well, where did my fear, pride and masturbation go?

It went where it could, was thirsty without a well,
a desire creeping up, temptation un-resisted—it went
online, it found lonely women who liked it too.

Once, I got an eighteen-year old to engage with
me on Facebook, used a friendship to corner her
into a sex act.

Not illegal, not the worst thing ever, but if I could
go back, I’d rather have kept the friendship, let
something bloom, keep in touch with a beautiful
young woman who had dreams and ambitions like me—
was an artist and a writer like me.

In a moment, I reduced her to a sexual object, and
no longer are we in touch…

***

I quit “sex” two and half months ago, but mostly
that meant I quit abusing myself to get a sexual high
every or every other day.

No more jacking off.

And now I have female friends.  More contacts and
options.  Intimacy without vulgarity.

I still want sex.  Dream of it!!  Need it!!

But it is under the thumb of my prayers and
higher desire to please God and the Wife of my
Youth.

Anne?

I am available to her, unless God gives me some other
convertible water—something to change to non-
alcoholic wine,

A woman to honor, a love to shine.

Love in a Greyhound Bus

06 Monday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Erotic, Explicit, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sex, Sexual, Sexuality

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

God, Love, Sex, Truth

I was not looking for love;

She sat down, an older lady by far,
maybe Persian, which would fit,
because the only Farsi words I know
mean “I love you.”

I probably told her this.  She giggled.
Traveling alone from Orange County
to meet family in Las Vegas.

I was heading back to a lonely motel
room, after a Los Angeles date fell through.

We spoke to each other a little, me never
thinking anything big would happen.

I had near hits on the bus; a young blonde
woman telling me some words seemed
silly to her, like “direction,” an obvious
play on male arousal.

That lady just bundled up, and we giggled
at each other across the aisle.

But the Farsi lady was next to me on
the window seat.  Both of us unattached,
but if you went by age, you would think
“Oh, she’s too old to think like that…”

But there we were talking, halfway into
the five-hour trip.  It was dark, only car
lights and shadows whizzing by in the loneliness
of our lives.

Travel-high, we shared stories, and talked
and talked.  She had a nice smile, dark hair—
short, a free lady from a part of the world
women struggled to express.

She said I was “nice.”  This with a big smile,
and frankly said it in a way that said
“I really like you…”

Eyebrows might rise, as a tingle forms in
pants at connecting hearts, a mind together
forming for an interlude of gentle unknowns
and touch—

I said, “If you call me nice again, I might have
to kiss you.”

And she said, “I wouldn’t mind that.”

She smiled, and I leaned in to kiss her.

A first kiss, yielding to open-mouthed second,
for a second both of us one in focus
on the wonders of sex.  The precursor to
creative romps electric, tongue on tongue,
sticky and clinging, messy—it’s not a skill,
it’s surrender to life and love that matters!

Hands grabbed at breasts, all was available,
the key in the door.

I asked her some questions, hoping she
thought what I thought, and the rub and
kiss continued to open a new place for her.

We seemed at a breaking point, me aware of
a slightly disabled teenage girl across the aisle to my right,
this exotic older lover, with some scruples
but not many.

She wanted me, so placed a sweater over
her crotch, unzipped her jeans.

God bless her for it, I was fine to help,
so entered her area with my right hand,
smoothing over her curling black hair, finding
a wet reception in the hot pleasure zone
of fire—life inside, I gave it to her, with

a finger used at times to tell a stranger
to get back in his lane on the freeway.

Our mouths and tongues locked as I
pumped her pleasure crevasse.  God I love
a good bus ride!!

She grunted light sounds into my lungs,
as I tired.  She came and zipped up slowly.

She promised she’d call me, as she rode off
into the night later with family members.

I waved at her good bye, and she pretended
I was no big deal.

She never called, but sometimes I hear her
gasping in my dreams, the pleasure
that makes a painful night interesting,
the memory its own cavern of wonder,
more and more important a place with
every day lived toward greying hair, old
age and stunted libidos.

Whew!

Never judge a book by its cover, go with
the flow, and find a friendly memory as a
companion for life—the next best thing
to a physical place to rest your heart by
the fire at night.

Love in a Greyhound bus.  You never know
where it’s going to go right!

Becoming Sexual

13 Wednesday Sep 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sex, Sexual, Sexuality

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace, Sex

To know who you are takes years,
layers of who you are not shed like
clothes to get to truth’s bottom,

Even the socks come off—we start
with the physical, then the emotional,
then some get to the Spiritual, olé!

First there were those naked Barbie
dolls for me, even Ken got shagged,
what a thrill or rush in the shorts,

We had to hide their naked bodies
under the dining room table between
meals when no one looked.

The minute we were found out, a
sibling and I, we were reprimanded
for being human and never told

what the hell was going on with our
body, and our curiosities!  I used to
put sugar on my Frosted Flakes and

Fruit Loops, but that’s not important
right now, the next sexual escapade was
me checking myself out in the mirror,

wearing only underwear, I wasn’t fully
aware of erection, just a growing sense
of “what an awesome sensation,” so

I recall scheduling these mirror dates
every so often.  Jump to years later, after
chasing X-rated flicks on ON-TV with

friends or alone, uncomfortable boners
without remedy… it finally came.  “What
the heck was that,” I asked myself,

totally alone in these new experiments,
thinking for a moment that I may have
been the first person ever to, yes,

Break my penis.  Puberty for me was delayed
way past normal dates, I was old according
to most calendars to not know stuff,

experience stuff, but there I was having
heard about “wet dreams” and semen in
school, but who thought all that would

actually happen to me!  Especially, without
warning or my body or dad or someone
telling me!!  A strange sensation that first

time in bed, I thought I might burn off
my johnson, wind up dead—was I trying
to make fire from wood?  Basically… yes,

in a way, heat created liquid, and all did
their job, now looking back—but at the
time I thought I had a sprain, so went back

to it a few days later, let it out, then added
this event in some way to my schedule for
thirty years until recently, when I gave up

sex completely, so that I could be a responsible
human being, in control and able to
commit to one person for life, the dreams

and thoughts of love still arise, the body
still wants and craves, I just pray it out
and walk away, make a bunch of poems,

try to sell a screenplay.  There was a weird
time in my life going to 12-step meetings,
sexuality on a hold—I was a failure at sex and

intimacy with girls, a virgin until thirty-three.
It was cool and difficult when the valves
broke open, as humanity felt good, but

those meetings became a way to go for
chicks, I had lost an ability for platonic
female friendship!  Cool and uncomfortable

all at once, I learned the language of love
and got a few gals to bed, but as I said, I
am withdrawing my career so I can commit

to one, be responsible and not be that middle-
aged dude breaking up families and creeping
around, making folks say, “How sad, that guy

is a desperado, doesn’t he know he’s too
old for that kind of thing?”  And I say, “Ah,
man, are you saying I should totally put my

naked Barbie doll away?  Just kidding,” and there
you go, an amazing thing is sex and its drive,
I wonder how it affected and came to you,

for me it was a wild ride.  I do wish I had
had a conversation with a loved one, that
sex and love be celebrated not under the gun.

When I smiled at Anne, and she smiled back
I had family members at home laughing in
front of and behind my back—and that, people,

is the very serious note of this joke: Never
get in the way of someone’s love, be they eight,
four, fourteen or forty-seven years old, read

the bible—Proverbs and Malachi touting
the Wives of our Youth, that line could have
been for you.  We grow up often in ignorance,

going from flower to flower, forgetting to be
a follower of the Tao or God or tradition.  Some
have that, and are lucky for it, some must fly

around, figure it out for themselves, do
experiments like I did, survive.  There’s a better
way, I say even while grateful I didn’t die,

Have today, my favorite one, on the way
to peace of mind—putting a Power greater
than myself in charge of Sex!

Yes, it’s powerful, and fun and cool,
sometimes uncomfortable.  Make a prayer
and decide with God what you want with it

before it eats you alive like drugs and
alcohol, the diet of every vice, addiction
edging spirit out, selfishness killing our

children trying to explain to them not
love and sex.  But how your mom and I
transgressed God and vows, split up,

called it a divorce against reason.  Man
can’t separate what the LORD has bound,
so grab your private parts, pray, let go

forever and give them to Truth!!

My Sex Sponsor

07 Thursday Sep 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sex

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace

Something there is that doesn’t
like porn, that believes in intimacy,
morality, monogamy and right.

She stands for God and God’s will,
threw out much of herself years ago
in preparation for marriage and family.

She loves truth, going straight for it,
never beating around the bush, a bird
in the hand worth more than two there.

There are no perfect people, just perfect
strivers, Maria Shriver so tall in her cause,
myself trying to forgive those who hurt

her family time and again for being religious
and peace-loving.  I am no fool, nor as naive
as some who believe they can change the sun.

Greed thrives in war, the spoils shining like
lust, pornography seeming a solution for
loneliness, for not having, we seek a

just reward for just being… And no one stands
up and tells you any different.  Then she comes,
the honest one in the night, an angel out

of dark, too truthful not to fight the pain beneath
the thrills of promiscuity.  My sex sponsor,
as I call her now, rising up against idle evil,

she shines a light, aware she is not good, for
only God can be, that other teachings from the
Son inspire that we “be perfect,” so we go for it;

Life best when we try, try, try to do the right,
right, right thing against the tide of wrong in
the ship God has given us, the only space

wanderer we’ll ever need, the Earth the best
vessel I’ve ever seen, there’s never a need to
really leave it, sorry NASA, we’re spinning right

now at super high speeds—depending on where
you are standing.  Could be that beyond the rocks
is a good roll, a way out of pain, but it’s just

as likely to come to you on the hill, still, after
mountains of meditation about the fox, the
hare and the Bill who invented with Bob a way

to stop drinking alcohol.  Some need twelve steps,
some stop in church or on the bible, but some
stop something bad, make booty calls,

justify other bad behavior “because I gave up
so much years ago! Can’t a guy have any fun!?”
Define fun, we must, Yoda might say that the

path to heaven is thorny but rewarding, be not
horny, or gorgy when you eat ice creamy, put
a Higher Power first, have some balance,

“If heaven you seek, hell you must know and
conquer first, my son” was never really said
‘til now, but look at Steve Miller songs!

I don’t condone pot, admit life is too tough
to write into a poem, but if you are unsure,
and are a man—about how to approach a

Woman…  Ask God, Higher Power, the nature
that in you perhaps years ago placed feelings
for a member of the female race, and I doubt

the feelings were for Sex right away, it was
pure and for love.  You wanted to be with her,
to go on a date, to spend time, then maybe to hug,

kiss, and when the parts showed up, okay
sex becomes natural, the whole thing predicated
on an honesty gene I did not have—or actually

that alcohol and home confusion urinated on
to discolor hearts, mine by eight years old
yellow with fear…

Break out and kiss your memory, read a passage
from an old book you believe in, or might
be willing to to break a rut.

Confusion clutters, muddles and scars over time,
to break its tissue cling to wisdom: Solomon
thought it wise to recall the Wife of Your Youth,

as did a later prophet, Malachi. After Mom and
Dad, choose One Woman to cleave to, enjoy
and spend time with—God bless you in your

choice.  Porn and fornication has no room for
a voice, if committed to the one in our heart
from the start, the wife of our youth who was

pure once, pure always in this long journey
back to childhood called Life.  I love the LORD,
all capitalized to represent the Jewish YHWH.

Don’t say it in vain, beware of the sex game, and
I wish upon the reader the luck to score an angel
like I did a couple weeks ago.  A sex angel, my sex

sponsor, pointing to God and chastising the limp
morality leading to constant gaming and rampant
sexuality.  Choose one partner under God,

and avoid the confusion, the diabolical duality,
the constant motion of self-pleasing that ends
in home-wrecking and closed doors to heaven.

Say “no” a few times a day, build good habits,
live for something bigger than yourself, some
call it Nirvana!

I call it peace of mind, thank my sponsor and God
for the bible and other wisdom, the narrow
thorny non-horny road we walk, never drive…

to Heaven!!!

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