Ayahuasca in Ecuador

Coming soon...

South America redux

Bogota, Colombia
After a while you get used to the smell of the baño basura, its micro-folded units of used toilet paper protecting weak septic systems; you get used to the smell of raw gasoline and faulty exhaust; used to the smell of shit and trash in the streets. You get used to it because the nose is a real Zen character. The nose is where it is whenever it is. The nose knows it´s not going anywhere for a while, so it adapts quickly. It adapts and instead points out the timeless beauty here, the personality and the passion and the 600-year-old presence of the human spirit. There´s a strength here, a connection that goes back generations without interruption, without noticing the changing tides of technology and social interaction.

South of the city en route to Ipiales is a patchwork countryside, little squares of land stitched together by thin rows of spindly trees, and far below a white river splashes and churns, no part of it aware of the overall flow, knowing only to go down, down, down, under rolling foothills thick with vegetation and terraced by the hooves of pastured cows. Heavy clouds crawl over the mountains, dragging their swollen bellies over the sharp peaks and spilling out on the other side. Along the road, motley barbed-wire fences stretch tight between cut branches, festooned with vines and aloe-like plants. Banana trees stand pale green between ramshackle houses and skeletal shacks. A gnarled tree limb leans on a bamboo fencepost like an old man taking a breather. Here and there a cow munches ditch grass at the end of a short taut lead. Corrugated metal roofs glint in the sun as if showing off to their terracotta neighbors. An abandoned sign proclaims "Venta de quesos," and an old man swats at the grass with a machete in an elaborate leather scabbard. Purple mountains shrug in the distance while hens cluck and scratch under a clothesline. In a yard, an upturned section of tractor tire serves as a water trough for a pair of skinny horses. On the other side of a low bridge over a flat stretch of delta, a shoe hangs from the barbed wire like a Christmas ornament. The bus hurtles past leaving only a cough of exhaust and the occasional skid mark from changing gears uphill.

Later a soldier/police in US-marked utility duds stops the bus, sweating as he leans in to check the cargo compartments, holding his assault rifle back with a veiny hand. He waves a thumbs-up at two kids looking on over popsicles, and waves the bus on toward Quito.

LSD in the GC

My campsite is a five-minute walk from the Grand Canyon south rim. The first notes in my notebook: Always take a pre-trip poop/Drop a deuce before you drop acid. It gets weird from there.

On my way over I pass an incongruous yellow fire-hydrant with orange trim sitting in the stubby forest like a lamppost in Narnia. This is going to be a good night...

By the watchtower, a hummingbird drinks from pink thistle flowers that only a careful gourmet could enjoy. Like pufferfish. The hummingbird dances in the air, tail flicking up and down, as if suspended on a wire. A truly remarkable creature—and to him, he's just making a living.

This watchtower seems impossible. The echoes, the sound of children scampering. Strewn with pictographs & symbols, a mockery and an homage in one. Like many preservation projects. I feel I must keep jotting to exist, to maintain my grasp. But perhaps I should let go. Perhaps that's the point. When I look around, so much fodder, so many reasons why it's okay to sit and do one's own thing, deeply, unjudged. Did the architect do these cave paintings herself, by hand? Or did she have her friends? Throw a party? 1933. I picture too-loud laughter, hierarchies of guests formed ad hoc & ex officio. Cocktails & pearls. Overdressed patrons buzzed enough not to complain of the heat; not yet drunk enough to bicker. Echoes of time, of place. Foreign accents and giggles. It's hot in here. Sweat breaks on my forehead.

I realize I'm narrating a scene. Can I change it? Can I conjure a Lipan sorceress with clear cold water for my parched lips? What are all these scenes, these styles? They're telling me to move, to get up and see the rest before the building closes. I nod my head and tap my feet like I'm composing music. Editing myself for content, for character. By my own design I am creating myself. God-like.

Are these just the cocooned ramblings of a drug-addled freak? Or is there really something to the idea of life as a work of fiction?

Creation is a most awesome process. Constant flux and flow, artists & brushstrokes blending into a story. Words. The strongest medium, for their ability to craft psychology, to effect an effect. But will words one day cease to exist? When we direct-connect experiences & authorship no longer matters? Or will it still because we'll still craft our perspectives from all those around and all those around before?

What a flow. What a place. So much more than a pin on a map. A glimpse. A wink. This is where it is. This is where you'll find it. Whispering. I live my trip in words, exploding on the page. Careening through life, not sure whether I'm narrating or writing or both. Time to go.

I don't know where to go, where to choose to enjoy this the most. And yet, I do—every place is perfect. Every angle is there. As long as I'm HERE.

Here I am in the pages again, an attempt to capture the heavy clouds dragging rainy bellies along this rugged land, shy like a painting of purples & fire & rays of light. Storm fronts gather—am I actually going to see a thunderstorm out here? Am I going to die transfixed by lightning from within and without? The perfection of this moment is

HARD TO FATHOM

as the universe—or at least this speck of it—seems to gather itself before me, a dusty display of hereafter.

I wish I could paint those hazy valleys and ridges laid bare by the sun's slant. I have no grasp on how close that cloud is overhead. Seems like it could just reach out and scoop me up, carry me along some dusty mile and drop me off wherever it pleased.

These clouds

So perfect

I wish I had the words.

The wind kicks up dust devils. This is a side of her I've not seen yet. Flexing a little. Ready for the show. (ongoing)

I'm so torn in this place—to stare and contemplate, or delve & explore. That's the glory of it. Those doubts are strictly for befores & afters. In the THICK of it it takes over completely, and all you can do is follow or be left behind (which you can't be). If I get up and walk over to that tree on the promontory, will the people behind me behind the rail think I'm walking strangely (picture Johnny Depp) and do I really care?  Can this Grand Canyon attitude be brought back to real life? Is it really just a tourist trap? or do people remember its touch? Do they, behind me, comprehend the beauty? Do I need to move forward to escape their touch? What will this all look like in the light of the morning? Isn't that the endless ??

This moment won't last (it's infinite) so enjoy the mess out of it.

The sun is master of this place (or so he likes to believe)

God alone knows if these words make any sense 

(which is to say)

I alone know if the words make sense

(and they do)

So cheeky.

Who am I talking to in this tome? Me? My progeny? Anyone?

I think I'm crying. Or is it really just the dust?

I think I'm shaking. Or is it really just the cold?

Sunset under the clouds, and it seems like it will clear in time for the stars. That kind of a night.

Cameras. Always trying to capture, spending the whole experience trying to capture the experience.

Is the tree blocking my view, or part of it?

What about these words?

Drops of rain. What a thing in a place like this. I feel like I could spend a lot of time here, leaving behind the trappings of society. As I watch myself write this, eyes telling me look up!

LOOK UP!

How often do I obey? Smell the sagebrush? Sip the fountain?

How often do I cry?

How much of the noticemanship do I bring back each time? Like I'm weaving (or knitting?)

I could never bring this experience to someone who hasn't been. All I could ever do is find a few tidbits and bring them back. All that exists are remnants.

(like the space between these lines)

Fossils of moments past.

No, not like that, that's not how I want to say it. Just gibberish & ranty episodic memories. Just pieces. Who can puzzle them together? Why can't I have someone record these thoughts while I experience? Then there wouldn't be this hopeless scrabble to get it all down.

I've totally left behind the mortal realm. The psychedelic state is one of mankind's greatest gifts to itself.

(if only they all knew)

There's a verve, a sense of childish wonder at the amazing spectacle of life (all around!). The sheer terror & delight. I don't even know where to begin (continue?) (leave off?)

It's truly remarkable how much the human brain (mind?) can fit into such a brief window of time (as we understand it). I've only been out here a brief while, and already eons of thought have passed. The roar of the mind is a sight/sound to behold. All these minds, these energies and experiences all bubbling together in this unfathomable spot of land.

Staggering.

It's always just out of reach. Like looking at the Seven Sisters out of the corner of your eye instead of directly on. It disappears if you look too closely. 

This utterly belies marketability. This perfection all coming together turns that whole scheme laughable, exhausting in its narrowness of scope. And yet it's our only unified channel. The Get-Things-Done-ness is what this whole thing spins on, from before the words ever meant anything.

I feel simultaneously immutable and transient. The psychedelic state is such a oneness and no-ness it seems silly to describe. Every time I try to jot it down, I just miss it, like a shooting star. It's good to be brought back into the wonder, to awaken—as it were—through this absurd dream state. Tears roll down my cheeks, and the only thing that looks small is the Big Dipper, impossibly far and enormously large (as well as tattooed in centimeters on my arm)

I might be inside a dust storm right now. There's really no way to tell, but it seems so. I'm pretty sure this is a dust storm. Or at least a dusty storm. Evidenced by my gummy chapped lips, my crusty tearstreaked cheeks, the thin film of grit on my teeth...

Course, now that I've thrown that label on it, it clears up (in a manner of speaking) and I'm once again entirely unsure of the dimension of this landscape.

Shit, that's not what I was trying to get across.

Language can't possibly keep up with thought. So what's next? Where's our next experience-trading jump? All these ladders of communication; DNA, data, archaeological evidence...

What are we trying to share? Why is communication?

Every word I write seems silly and inefficient, incapable of communicating the thought behind. As pretty & poetic as it is, language is a cudgel when it comes to communicating this (and every) experience.

Try not to pinnacalize. Take that away.

I'll never be here again. In this holy moment. In this slice of lifetime.

Trippin' on the edge of the Grand Canyon. Definitely one of those things you're not supposed to do. Good thing I'm sure-footed (I think) (therefore I am)

Curious how gross and animalistic it feels when I briefly awaken, look around, snort, clear my throat, gnaw the grime from my lips, spit dust and cough. Funny how we embody all that grossness while also thinking these thoughts of gods & heavens.

We created the gods.

Why?

Because we had to.

Or

Because how else could you explain all this?

Perfection creates itself because it cannot envision life on this planet without perfection.

Damn, once again

almost had it.

Life is verb. Enlightenment is verb. Me falling and writing, even as I fall, hoping to capture

to capture

to capture

As it once again slips away furtively into its own mystery. 

Have I been present & aware?

Am I present & aware?

Is that possible, when we're trying to simultaneously narrate and live our own stories?

What becomes of these amalgamated experiences when I'm dead? 

I am just an idea

my own

my loved ones'

my unborn progeny's

Who will tell of me after I'm gone?

Does it even make sense to ask such a question in this calamitous tech age? So caught up in our trivialities, we forget how trivial we are (as individuals)

Or maybe we're constantly battling that diminishing idea, so we surround ourselves in cocoons, forgetting (or not really knowing) that we're about to be born as butterflies. And maybe as future butterflies we have to lose ourselves in our chrysalises, we have to forget (or not know). Certainly feels like it. For whatever that's worth.

The psychedelic state is there to say WAKE UP to your present moment while in this deepest of dreamscapes. Paradox. It says take heed of every little thing and its place, because tomorrow the sands of time will have swept up all traces of the party.

Don't forget your favors.

From any unfortunate outsider's perspective, I am clearly a crazy person, sitting out here on a ridge under the moon surrounded by crickets and dusty cyclones, alternately beside myself with laughter and jotting fiendish notes as if someone's out there reading. (and they will) But clearly crazy. Those eyes. Streaming with tears. Those hands. Furiously scribbling at nothing, chasing dreams here and there across the page across the canyon across the galaxies. 

Plainly nutty. Out of his mind (which usually means all the way in it)

It's so confusing, being a writer. A constant turmoil, an internal battleground of ego vs humility.

A writer. Like, who the fuck am I? Where'd I dig up the audacity to think my words and experiences are important enough to share—even trade for? I alternately crow and cower in the face of it.

Acknowledge me acknowledging the world. (pretty please)

I can't tell what's a shooting star and what's just conjured by the power of that thought. Perfection is all about perception. You load your own gun, as it were. Just like how I know this road trip is all perfect. Like: it would make perfect sense if my car flat died in Iowa. (Am I even going through Iowa?) (Is Iowa even a real state, or just a sort of bumfuck catchall?) (Would they be offended?)

We have to arrange the stars into pictures and patterns and maps because the depth is otherwise just too much. Too much to wrap this tiny bit of matter & mind around. Patterns exist because we find them. What an extraordinary privilege to Be Here Now. 

Perception: you're not talking to the plant. You're looking at the plant and talking to yourself and the universe. Which is (considered) worse? 

What if we replace "God" with "Universe"? Does that work for everybody?

What's the next doomsday date after Dec 21, 2012 whirs on past? Who will tell us?

The genius of Judeo-Christian is its vague dates, as the Mayans get ready to drift away, so much more dust in the hourglass. (but maybe not...) It's just exciting to think about. As always.

Compare the psychedelic state to the moment a chick wakes up and realizes 

IT'S IN AN EGG! 

(Get out. Now.)

See the world. This has been a truly blessed, blessed night.

Grand Canyon

Here in the Grand Canyon, you can't help but glimpse the incomprehensible, witness the beauty, fathom the power. We are the gods. That's why they're always made in our likeness. We are the creators. We are writing our story and the whole world's along with it. We're the ones we're always waiting for. Vaulting ourselves toward the heavens to imitate ourselves, our forebears. We've created an evolution, birthed the spirit of technology, and soon the offspring will overtake the parent. We are the god creators. The creators of god. When we realize that, we glimpse enlightenment. We know it exists. It's been created.

The next step is to master the process, to train and strengthen, to engage the muse. When that happens, we are enlightened. Are. Active. Not a noun, not a goal, not a level-up. An activity. A state of being. We enlighten; ourselves, our progeny, each other. That's the hope. That's the big idea. It's ongoing—but we just want to BE there already. And that impatience is the perpetual-motion machine that had already existed for eons before we ever put a name to it. Or maybe that's just what we tell ourselves.

The Hopi Old Oraibi ruins have been here since 1050AD, figured out by comparing lumber age-rings from the ruins with known regional tree-growth data. So much knowledge and lore has been lost in our commodification of everything. Are we on the right track? Does inevitable mean right? Are we losing touch with nature in psychological preparation for upload to the cloud?

I sit and contemplate depths unfathomable, thinking of pueblos observing each other from afar, some on the rim and some by the river down below. All transient and aware of it. Erosion. Scarred troughs of rubble, knife-edge ridges and steep shoulders where land slid, hard core skeletons of hills like neck bones awaiting replacement heads.

Thin zigzags of footpaths, a day's journey between, with water in gourds and bladders, and salted meat against the takings of the sun. On a slab beside the path a raven lopes jauntily away, his good eye cocked toward the travelers, flat of his beak displayed in profile like a cutlass. One elbows the other and points with his chin. The other nods and takes a sip from his gourd.

The moon waits patiently while the sun goes down in a blaze of glory. Hills impossibly far away appear in the sun's last rays, shades of purple stretching west into daylight. Sheer immensity gives way to alien terrain, and observers rub their arms, comfort and reassurance that we're still at home. That our small world contains THIS as well, a nearly untapped wealth of insight into this Grand Story.

Layers of warm pastel colors appear after the sun clears the edge, orange and pink and rose toward peach and ember, behind shreds of cloud ignited to gold. Green spreads to indigo around the bowl of the world, and all around, creatures sing their thanks. Crickets chirp, bats flit about with barely audible clicks. It's time to prowl, to forage. The all-holy shadow now encompasses everything. Until the moon finds her place and bathes the nightly battleground in poetic patterns of pale light.

Venus appears amid the sun's last glow, the first to appear, psyching herself for the upcoming transit between Earth and Sun. Make a wish.

I hear lovers' murmurs in the wind, and can't tell what's real and what's Venus' song. Vanished already, flaring briefly and hotly, and following the Sun to bed. She may or may not be a cock-tease—depends who you ask. At her suggestion I wander down beyond where anyone can see me, in search of shelter from the brisk and panoramic breeze. The moon's light washes out the stars. Leaning against a still-warm rock, waiting in vain for the Milky Way, I milk my own whey into the Canyon. Goodnight Venus.

This is all so cosmically unlikely. How did we get here? What is awareness? What is soul? re we just amalgamated sensory information and perceived memories? Or is there something more to it? Where does this Drive come from? Is it simply inherent survivor's attitude? Or are we meant to be hurtling toward whatever's looming, like a butterfly to a second chrysalis?

Nigh the deadline

Morning of the city-wide strike, the poet’s rosy fingers of dawn nowhere in sight, pale horizon instead a running-light sparkle of news helicopters and freighters at anchor off the port in uneasy suspension for the first time since the turn of the century.

Droves of citizens, dock workers, truck drivers, engineers, students, unemployed, reporters, physicians, small-business owners—a living blockade against massive and unchecked corporate greed. Imports at bay, swirly gurgle of money down the drain almost audible with each fleeting minute. Purchase of global awareness, in a way, given enough negative numbers on a ledger.

Civilian response to the netherworld flow of money and resources, the subaudible pulse of this impossible infinite-growth paradigm. Finally active, finally ready for something else: a new way forward. With worldwide access to information—outside of the silly but vociferous media channels of corporate spokespersonhood—the long-overdue realization of consumerism’s auto-asphyxiation fantasy.

Huge turnout, long before business hours, clusters of strangers with thermoses of coffee and hot chocolate, with loud signs and songs, with ready cameras and demands. Nonviolent bellicosity under the air of a community picnic, glad for the sun’s rise and tolerant even of the media buzzards overhead. The more the merrier.

With every hour, more and more citizens, from all walks of life, tens of thousands out in defiant demonstration of their existence as more than just demographic items, as more than mere consumer statistics; as sovereign units of something grander than profit margins or acquisitions or stock indices.

The novel idea of human consciousness not as aloof, not as heavy-handed dominators, not as a stand-alone be-all and end-all of creation; but rather just another part of the whole, just one form of awareness, just a cell within the organ of the world within the body of the universe.

Flow of people through sidewalks like the movement of blood in veins, surges with each subway time slot. Retirees, schoolkids, young professionals, artists; a constant outpour of puzzle pieces in an increasingly solid picture of humanity.

A sex scene with no verbs

Under a bruise-purple sky, dawn’s pale green light in optimistic approach despite stars’ exodus in droves, despite disharmony down below, despite the clear echo of the night’s drama. Streets all empty now, except for the usual living fixtures with their omnivident but silent place in the scheme of things. Damned souls in hell’s waiting room, indefinitely on hold because of coverage denial.

To a cosmic investigator, with access to deeper vision, clear traces of the struggle. Footprints of the clash almost still visible in grimy streets, like battlefield ghosts, burn marks in memory of the ground itself. Zero-mortality massacre; psychological slaughter both of boundaries and faith in the state the police the government the system. And utter destruction of status-quo optimism in people’s hearts.

And yet, also throbs of beauty, of community between strangers. Like the sharing of gasmasks and goggles, distribution of bandanas and vinegar-soaked t-shirts. Glimpses of a better way, a different attitude. Like two small women with arms around a blind and bloody fat man, assistance in spite of inevitable arrest. Or the college dropout with his gallon-jug of milk as pepper-spray salve, de facto guardian of a homeless woman’s toddler after her strident arrest.

A new paradigm; all in it together, partnership for betterment of the whole. Like the human chain and the milk-splashers behind them, a throng of spoiled first-worlders resolute and strong, awake and in arms after decades of dormancy. Slough of the spoon-fed, tag-team resistance to ruthless enforcement of a rotten structure. Vague dreams of a new Eden, a global community of mutual assistance instead of dogmatic purity in survival-of-the-fittest attitudes. For all its logic, Darwin’s system just a philosophy cum religion. Not absolute truth. Re-emergence of a global organism, a Gaian outlook.

In the scant warmth of a student-slum apartment, three friends silent in collapse, in contemplation, in grim recollection of the very real smell of their idealistic game.

Numb with experience of state-sponsored Protection and Service, in the adrenal aftermath of a unilateral scuffle, awash in connection to each other, to everyone behind internet streams and video uploads, widespread solidarity and a feeling of rightness, despite the shroud of pure terror and disgust and outrage.

Drips of blood on the student’s shirt, dry and brown. Back against the cupboards on the kitchen floor under the lawyer’s supportive arm, feet against the fridge.

Etch of incredulity and hurt on the student’s forehead, angry tears hot on stubbly cheeks. “Unbelievable. What kind of world…? Unbelievable,” repetition like a mantra, “unbelievable.”

“Here, ice,” cubes in a plastic bag, our hero’s stricken face.

“Unbelievable. Hey, no one dead, right?”

“No.” No one dead. But plenty in the hospital with capsaicin tears; mucus membranes on fire, respiration laborious and painful. Bruises, headaches, broken fingers and wrists. But no fatalities.

“The golden-ticket injury, man. An honorable demonstration of devotion.”

“Not your fucking martyr,” the student’s sudden snarl under the ice.

“Whoa, easy. What up, man?”

“Just…” Anger, accusation, doubt in his eyes. Then softer, “Yeah. Right. Sorry, just traumatic stuff back there—our own appointed guardians. Hey, no one dead though, right?”

“Uh...right,” our hero’s puzzled look at the lawyer.

“Good. What a vicious cycle of history, man. Inevitable and indefinite dark ages after the Fall. Always the same. For me, just one look at a better world, with fairness. Connection to the overall.”

“Heh, one look probably your only entitlement, with your head’s easy intimacy with every nightstick in its path.”

“My poor dome! A date-rape victim on the first night out.”

“Tst, gross, you two”

Ice on his head, the student’s groan of pain and exhaustion, head back, eyes shut. Motrin from the lawyer’s bag, waterglass almost steady. Labored gulp. Shudder. Then, eyes open, apprehensively, “But no fatalities, right?”

Ice in the air, in veins.

Our hero and the lawyer, eyes wide.

“Hey man, hey. You okay?” a frightened croak.

Outside in the street, city-bus rumble, routine wake-up bellyache of a drowsy cityscape.

“Yeah...why?”

Just one look at mismatched pupils.

Concussion.

“Okay, hospital time.”

“No no, all good. Just tired.”

“Yeah, not for a concussion,” the lawyer’s assurance. “Just rest and observation. According to my mom, anyway.” Her mom the ER nurse.

“Fine then, bedtime. No class for you tomorrow. Er...today.”



Morning sun a bright sliver on the couch, the lawyer on her side under a thin afghan, back to the glare. Our hero on a chair, bleary eyes on news feeds and discussion forums, yawny ache between jaw and ears.

“Hey, sleepy time for you too, mister hero,” the lawyer’s sleepy murmur. “Room for two on here.” Nominal scooch as a gesture.

Fingers frozen above the keyboard, chills down spine in a pool of electric tingles in his seat. Nonchalant swallow. “Okay. Thanks.” Distraction from online drivel, all so unbearably interesting, so additive, so galvanizing. Incessant emails and personal messages and forwards—digital organization of life patterns. But nothing compared to this. This offer from his buddy’s old fling, this ravishing and captivating woman, forearm over eyes, splayed hair a fan on the cushion, weak sunlight and dawn shadows on dream-sheen stretch-pants.

Heartbeat in his ears, our hero on the couch slowly, gently. Curious absence of conscience, in spite of the obvious. The lawyer’s jerk awake, fearful flash in her eyes. Anguish in our hero’s heart—obviously too good for truth, her offer one of politeness, or an accident of sleepiness.

But then: “Oh; you.” Her sigh of relief, easy lapse back into sleep. Long debates in our hero’s head, tense and withdrawn, eyes on the spotty ceiling. Until finally his decision. A roll over, arm around her waist, relaxation into the space between them. And delight in her arching response, arms in a hug around his arm. Face in her hair, fantasies wild, a rush of blood to his nether head. Her languid press back against it, somnolent but rhythmic. His hand on her thigh, warm through the fabric and responsive to his touch. In his arms, her twist, one leg over his hip. Handful of hair in his grasp, head back, neck taut. A second’s pause before a kiss full on her mouth, soft and sweet like a ripe mango, jolts of excitement at the thought of her tongue-ring, with its months of sexy torment, glimmery allure a recent affectation in defiance of her former corporate path.

Valiant efforts at soundlessness, with the bedroom adjacent, rustly movement against each other; heavy breath and muffled sighs in necks and ears.

Fingertips on panty line, noses in their traditional awkward dance. The lawyer’s palm on his cheek, light kisses and assent to his move on top, between raised knees, on her back now in a tangle of knit blanket, all soft sighs from collarbone kisses, tanktop straps down her shoulders, small brown nipples hard in the air, shirt around her waist, trails of kisses and nibbles from chin to belly, both atremble from months of tensions, sexual and otherwise.

His fingers along her waistband, teasingly slow. Hips up, pants down, skin hot, gentle slide of a finger into her.

Palms on his ears, firm push toward her lap, a desire for envelopment, for togetherness. With a downward focus. He, hungrily, lips in silent slurpy songs of adoration; she, rhythmically, primally, hips in short gyrations, fingers in his hair. Then hands down his torso, an irresistible draw upward, kisses on his sticky mouth, shirt off, fly and button free, small hand in a cup around his tented underwear.

Ungainly battle with stubborn pants, to the tune of palm-stifled laughter. Finally out, chest to chest, naked on their friend’s couch. And then a yearning trembly arch into her, hot and close and enveloping, a soft high cry behind lip-caught teeth, faint moans through noses, both momentarily motionless, extension of the holy moment, dual revelry in the illicit thrill...and then a rhythm, a giving-in to each other, away from the apartment away from the world away from the revolution from time from any concern other than the rustle of long-awaited passion, the creak of the cheap couch, the too-soon build of an explosion, pinpoints of light in a gathering focus toward their shared center, the slishy, slippery, slick, salty pace; escalation, incapable of delay, gasps and grunts and whimpers and squeaks, mouths together—a pause, tense, suspension, sighs.

And then sleep.