A little prose poetry for the summer solstice. Dance your pagan butt off.

On The Son

He’s the muscled one, fecund and indomitable. Kept his promise to take dominion. We adore him without adoration, this one who’s brought back the parts of us that cower. Turned our spirits, our work into gifts. He hauls us out in the mornings, we lay splayed under his body in the afternoons, we run wild with his shadow on full moon nights.

We whisper to be polite. For his own good. Yes, our man has grown! Such pride and aplomb! But always, the worm. We’ve noticed for a while how his growth has slowed. The hulk, hulking, but no longer expanding. And today is the day – this mid-June day of all days, so soon, just as his reign is ascending. It’s the begin of his ending.

He doesn’t have a clue. In his mind he’s still waxing. After all, he is who-is. Raised on the glory of his boundless increase. Why should he have even an inkling of some old rule lingering just outside his light?

It’s begun. The wane. He won’t notice it, let alone acknowledge it, for a while now. His cock & surety will carry the coming days. He has no mirror, he has no model, She’s told him no stories to warn him of cracks or wrinkles or cold September winds.

Above all, what he doesn’t know – that we and especially She have seen this show before. It’s her burden – To give birth to these sons, to nurse and nurture them, to notice on a May day how she’s now the shorter one, to beam up at their June dominions, to catch them caught off guard by late August, to see them fade horrifically in October, to bury them in the finality of November.

How many iterations? And our Lady’s still game. Her pregnancies keep coming. It’s the repetition, this illiterate patience of the Goddess. An old stubbornness. A cycle that makes a man shake his head and wonder why she doesn’t just give up. A man would’ve lasted three, maybe four go-rounds, shrugged his shoulders, cracked a beer and tossed the whole shebang into the sea.

And maybe that’s why we prescribed this metaphor. As a method of making love to the perseverance of our women.

Why did we make words to make myths?

Maybe because caresses alone felt insufficient, in light of what we learned from these sons’ inevitable wanes.

Progress Report

What’s going on…
  • I’ve given up trying to blog A Story About San Diego and have put up a static info page. I’ll still be talking about it here, of course, but maintaining two blogs proved untenable. A Story About San Diego, available October 2008.
  • Our first Creative Cusp workshop is in less than two weeks! There’s still space left, if you’re a San Diego writer I want to see you there.
  • Attended SDTweetup last night, lots of neat people, reminded me that I need to be more active in the geek community. Kinda lost my passion for it in the last few years – for the networking, not the geekery of course.


Nice thing about flying Virgin from Seattle to San Diego is, you get to stop in San Francisco. Yeah, it adds about two hours to the flight. But unlike Southwest, you get to get off the plane and stretch your legs. There’s usually just enough time to take a shit and drink a beer. In fact, that’s what I’m coming to know SFO as – the place where I get off the plane, take a shit and drink a beer. And Virgin’s in the International terminal, so it’s nice – bright, spacious, and there’s several good bars that serve decent snacks, and if it’s night there’s lots of asian cuties boarding flights for Shanghai and Bangkok and Manilla. Get off the plane, walk a little, do some squats for the calves and quads, use the boy’s room, munch a greek salad, guzzle an Anchor Steam, tap a few words, get back on the plane and less than two hours later I’m in SD. Sometimes it’s the same plane. Sometimes it’s even the same seat. It’s like rail travel in the old days, a hint of civilization for the jet age.