Quaff

My mouth is poised on the edge. The rim is a cool presence of promise. I breathe in deeply, preparing for what it is to come. This is amuse-bouche supreme, wonderful inkling of the feast, in slow, seductive, time lapse approach. Liquid bouquet.

In this eternally now suspension, like T. S. Eliot's hollow between desire and spasm, in the shallows of my rapidly receding capacity for naming, it is like this. The castle gate of my teeth is so open that lips and tongue evanesce, not caring for themselves, but only for the empty space they worship. This mouth as space is only in relation to the nectar that gives it meaning, that promises to fill and to fill exquisitely. This nectar promises to fill abundantly, like kaleidoscopic visions that are lovelier with each disappearing.

The first touch first bemuses. Sight is set on site of edge, self defined by this pirate as ship's keel, principle structural member running lengthwise long and longing along the center from bow to stern. An imperative voice, "Keel over," comes from within, a first recognition of the need to know more by knowing less. For this off keel is now more breast bone of flying bird and pairs of united petals. The shape that had many names is merest mist and smoke.

For there are no eyes here in the shadows. Or mouth parts, no lips or teeth or tongue. No ears, no nose, no edgy skin.

No identity of gender or race or nation.

No occupation or pre-occupation or history or whatever information you might pursue. No crashing drum, no clanging symbols.

Let's get impersonal, transpersonal. Let's put ourselves in position to yearn beyond satiation.

Piracy is mere suggestion, merest outline of possible, an offering to the realization that any saying of me or thee is less than this sacrifice of praise. This sacrifice is freely offered, no strings attached. It is love.

In the see of love there is fluid mix, one body so confused with another that nobody remains.

The yearning of the pirate is for that,

not only in the brief orgastic moment, but in the asymptotic approach of annihilation birthed in each moment of its own petite mort.

Invisibility is a sign of the yearning for new seeing and new saying and new mind.

This pirate remains invisible, but connected. The connection is the vision of what emerges between, the stuff of nectar. Nectar is taste beyond telling, sight for the blind, music of the spheres, musing of the pirate.

I do not want to give less. I do not want to give the eternal recurrence of Nietzsche's

despair, or the death instinct of Freudian transference, or the crystallized categorization that says this is mine and where are you?

Lay hands on me to anoint my nefarious, omnifarious love. Rejoice that I give more than any what or who.

In this play we become this together. We come together. We come to gather all the parts, written and unwritten, bidden and unbidden.

Pirates together, we are in the embrace of the see, water mixing with water, bubbles rising out of the mix and popping before visibility ossifies.

— Rx is the FloridaW eekly muse who hopes t o inspire profound mutiny in all those w ho care to read. Our Rx may be wearing a pirate cloak of in visibility, bu t emanating fr om within this shadow is hope that r eaders will f eel free to respond. Who kno ws: You may even inspire the muse. Mak e contact if you dare.