Kyle Foley
letter from a man to a woman trying to persuade her to come into his bed you have often asked, sweet lina, why kiss, why dive together into the senses' ocean of thunder, why embrace amid a sunset of merlot, why suck each other's tongues attempting gold-juice to sup? after all, one day i will leave, one day i will slip forever into an ethereal non-entry land, my body a moon-phantom of its former self. only because, sweet lina, we humans are like dogs begging at the table of the gods. we know that above there is a paradise of food, above delicious meats fill the stomach, above the gods consume wine, strawberries, filet mignon, grapes, nectar and steak, whereas we humans below only are privileged a few scraps, nothing more than some meager left-overs to surge our cheer, and shock us into a rainbow of delight. the three times we will eventually spend in my bed, sweet lina, only kissing, only embracing ourselves in a flourish of wind and tumult, are like those cheap scraps from the table of the gods. we must cherish those leftovers for they will be the only spice-junk we will earn for a very long time, they will be our only source of mind-splurge, soul-tumult and lightning between two tundras of horror. we humans are beggars, lina of the rose, we hunger for a tahaitia of kiss, we long for a hawaiium of embrace, we desire versaille's endless palace of love, affection, companionship and compassion, but instead we are only handed a few kisses, only some short caress of the cheeks, a mere penny in comparison to a hoard of treasure. in this life, lina splendoglorious, we continually meet frustration, our wishes forever are blunted, our dreams are routinely shredded in the meat-grinder of reality. we pine newton's laws to discover, einstein's theories to understand, and beethoven's music to recreate, but instead a poverty of thought overwhelms us, no flash of inspiration beguiles us, and the harmonious song only rarely glostonishes us with a brillianto-deluxo boom of sound. let us then enjoy what we can, lina soaring of gold, let us resign ourselves to this bitter fate, let us grudgingly accept this harsh reality and derive from the time given to us as much flash of sun as possible, and as many fire-diamonds, flame-silver, and shine-jewelry as we can. let us see ourselves as two travelers wandering through the alaskan wasteland, hungry, frozen and destitute, and our love is the warm cabin that will house us for a time before we are exiled again in the freeze-ice, there lonely, there barren, there attacked by swine. let us see our ourselves as two travelers through inter-stellar space, each day nothing seeing, each day a dark ocean of blackness, and our love as that planet that will harbor us for a time, give us joy, talk, companionship, entertainment, thunder of joy, and lightning of surprise before we return to space's knife-void, and its tyranny of boredom. so come, sweet lina, put aside this anger at life's poverty, ignore life's ocean of defeat, cease its antartica of spirit to despise and let us instead enjoy this touch of the body, however short, let us profit on these lips of wine, these eyes of niagara and these cheeks of whiskey. you will be the swan, the sparrow, the rose, the necklace and the kitten, i will be the bull, the wolf, the cougar, the panther and the deer, his antlers a kingdom of beauty. Kyle Foley is an author for whom bronze-flow is the perennial pursuit, the gaping chasm where warlocks abound that which he always seeks to avoid. he is 28 years old, hungry, flaxen, wrestling with nightmarish hydras, driven by wrath and mold, has published two books, Lorelei Pursued and Wrestles with God, consistently summoning ideas from the void and splashing them upon paper since January 2002 and sporadically harboring ambitions of literary cloud-glory since April 1993. |