How To Have Great Laughing Sex

Ok folks, this post is not for the kids. If you take yourself very seriously, if you do not have a very well developed sense of humor and find it difficult to laugh at yourself, this post is not for you. If you don’t think a good old fashioned penis joke is still funny, move along.

I hesitated to put this here on my blog, but then I decided that if you, my dear readers, have not figured out by now that I am going to throw you a wild curve ball every now and then, it is about time you went running with your glove. So…

I am currently reading Rob Brezsny’s “Pronoia is the antidote for paranoia” the revised and expanded edition, which makes me so happy every time I open the pages, and vindicated in my stubborn dedication to spiritual deviance.  I highly recommend this book to anyone, I don’t care who you are, just read one page. I dare you not to smile at least once.

One of the many things Rob endorses in the book is a humorous look at self reflection. By imagining our problems or demons as big, scary, serious things we feed them, and make it harder to address them. He offers a few exercises to lighten the mood and get you “warmed up” so to speak, preparing you for  the fast and loose state of mind required for reading further. One of these was called How To Have Great Laughing Sex, and just the title made me laugh. It goes like this: Make an essay on how to have great laughing sex that does not require physical intercourse. This should be a cleansing and fulfilling rewarding experience for both of you. Allow me to quote from the book for a little clarification:

“Optical intercourse, also known as “making eye babies,” occurs when two people gaze into eachother’s eyes long and deeply.”

So here is the essay that I wrote. It should make you laugh, maybe gasp, and leave you in a better mood when all is done- and please, don’t be so SERIOUS.



How To Have Great Laughing Sex

Grab a partner, any partner; it could be a friend, your lover, an enemy of yours or a complete stranger, but go find yourselves a secluded grassy field. This meadow must be reached down a muddy path that you both walk with bare feet, feeling a wet squish, and one of you should slip and fall comically on to their ass at least once. When you reach the sunny opening in the trees you should both remove your clothes and hang them on bushes like you are reverently dressing a Buddha statue. Then join hands in the center of the field and chant these words: “Hokus pokus hanky panky, sexy legs and fuzzy blanky, tickle you until you giggle, watch your booty shake and wiggle!” Then commence tickling eachother in un-conventional ways.

When you are ready to move on from this activity you should find all the parts of your body you are unhappy with and laugh at them as if you find them hysterical. If you have any flabby bits perhaps you can make them talk for your partner, perhaps telling them a joke you learned in fifth grade when you still thought the word peepee was relevant. Present to them your balding scalp for their loving admiration, let them stroke and kiss it for you like it was a booboo. Allow them to wonder at the highway of your stretch marks as they hitch-hike from your right thigh to the left.

If you have a penis perhaps you can weave a grass hat for it and give it a French accent, regaling your partner with the proper way to cook pasta “al dente”. Laugh at your terrible French accent. If you have a vagina perhaps you can stand on your head and say something like “look I’m a birdbath!” Then both of you think of the basest, raunchiest sexual terms that you find offensive and make them funny, make them yours, give them new meanings, maybe act them out through outrageous bodily poses. Example: Sausage pocket, meat truck, pearl diver, the Holy Crown, ect.

Now by this point you should be laughing so hysterically, so fully, that you can hardly breathe, caught up in the shear absurdity of the situation you find yourself in. At this stage the two of you should look, to any hapless outside observer, like a bunch of raving, naked, dirty lunatics. This is good, don’t panic, don’t back out now, just own it. Chuckle, snort, wiggle and giggle until you both lie sated and spent on the grass.



Much love N’ virtual back slapping to Rob Brezsny. You will find him flashing the cosmic wild card here:






Just A-Muse-Ing

You there, careless  child, tossing away wishes like pennies down a dark well. You, the woman/girl who sends sparks from her eyes in a wrath of poetry, who gathers storm clouds to her feet with a crook of her finger. The Paragon of caged songbirds, the wanton lover of red cedar trees, the Queen Pandion of Shakespearean sonnets, divine trickster, the jaded maiden, giver of hugs and wrathful truth.

You, who carries a burning torch of flaming pages, who remained un-burnt by the fires of desire that consumed those who basked in the heat. You who taught pain to tender hearts and licked the wounds inflicted. Who offered yourself like a sheep to the knife of prose, sacrificed your past on the altar of midnight. You who wields a pen like a sword, like a chalice, like a lover’s caress in the aching ears of those who listen with their soul.

Both the Lady and the Tiger. The wind that whispers and the stone that squats like Buddha. You are the decay of an old pine tree, becoming a Mother of the forest, nurturing saplings and beetles with the death of your ideals. Yesterday has expired, feeding the soil of tomorrow, and you are the nitrogen that hungry life devours.

You are a metaphor. A paradox. The impossible made flesh,  with a contradiction in every breath you take.

I am your conscience, this little blinking vertical line, your new master. I will pull you from the confining womb of notebook lines and structured pages, birth you with a flash of light into the satellite airways. You will burst like a dying star into the darkness of space, seeding other galaxies with your glistening dust, becoming one with all that is, and all that will ever be.

I know you, Lady of Fire, in all the names you have hung upon yourself and the bodies you have worn. I have been here, waiting…

Evil Is Boring

Yes, evil is boring. It’s easy for me to write of all the ugliness I have suffered, the human race does love to wallow, and I’m sure your eyes would devour it hungrily. Those self-hating memoirs of middle aged novelists are prolific, and the fact that books like “Running With Scissors” are topping the charts shows how much we all love to watch someone’s train wreck. Yes, I read the book. Not very well written, but the content was sure interesting. It made me wonder…

I could say a few things about being raised in a house where pans and buckets caught the leaks and drip, dripped in the midnight silence, as frost ringed my pile of wool blankets. I could talk about covering myself with leaves to stay warm at 2 o’clock in the morning while I huddled on the side of the road straining my eyes for the glow of headlights that would be my mother coming to pick me up. I could tell you about the length of 2×4 my father called the Paddle and how we all walked in fear of it. How we would huddle under our blankets at night, on the mattresses lined up on the floor, hearing the front door slam with dread. I could tell you what happens to a pretty little girl when nobody is around to protect them from men who are much bigger and stronger. I could descend for several hundred pages into a pit of dark self-pity and you would be pulled right along with me, biting your nails and gasping with shock.

But, ya know, evil is boring. I’m not gonna feed the hate machine, I’m not going to spend one more moment or one more page, dredging up rotten memories that will only stink up the place. I would rather share with you the things I have learned from my experiences, which are numerous. I would rather tell you about the first time I saw an eagle fly through morning mist, or when I discovered the fractal wonder in the pattern of a waterfall. It may not sell a million books but at least I can say I am not pandering.

sure, I could wow you with the nasty side of life and how well-acquainted I am with it, but darkness is not what I have to offer. I am so much more than pain and regret. I am a poet of the moonlight, wafting scents of sage and jasmine with my glistening ink. My metaphor bends with fluid grace, like a river, so come wet your toes in the current.



*This little speech was inspired by Rob Brezsny, I have supplied a link to the page I was reading. Thanx Rob 🙂


Welcome Home


Here I am, the obliging poet, pouring words like honey all over your pages. Come now, you with the hungry hot iris, and taste that sweet nectar on your lips. Let these words melt all over themselves on your tongue with an orgy of adjective, limber verbiage, and unrestrained, wildly writhing imagination.

I do not offer you quaint rhymes and weightless platitudes of prose. No adroitly spoken lies couched in prettily spoken invitations. I do not pander with my pen to the desires of shallow swimmers who wish to splash in the waves on the edges of that vast ocean of knowledge. I invite you to jump, to plunge, to drown in depths so black the daylight has become a memory and the weight of all your knowing is still accumulating above you, even as you sink further.

Be enlightened, be consumed, be overwhelmed by the sheer size and scope of all those things you do not know and cannot understand. Glorify in your exquisite ignorance, your infantile wonder, at the magnitude of this great big universe and how small you are inside of it. Marvel at the knowledge that although the brief wisp of your life is but a speck upon a microscopic atom in the whole of existence, this life is precious, holy, and unique. Your soul is the tenuous, delicate quivering of a butterfly, in all it’s magnificent beauty, and a mere flutter of your wing could create a hurricane on the shores of another’s heart.

Paragon Of Insanity

For Daniel, and all the other crazies out there

The Memory Of Trees

  Yes, as a matter of fact, I am insane. Does that surprise you? They say that crazy people don’t really believe themselves imbalanced, but that is just my way of throwing you off the scent. I gave up on normality years ago, I couldn’t even tell you what it looks like anymore.

  If you were by chance looking for some interesting conversation and a little jaunt into the realm of strange, you have come to the right place. I can bend my head like a pretzel into all sorts of abnormal positions, and I would be more than happy to share my technique. However if you were after a pretty girl, easily swayed by endearing words and expensive jewelery, you are definitely barking up the wrong tree. 

  It’s okay really, it happens all the time, this misinterpretation of  who I am… I blame it on Wall Mart and Yaz commercials. Cookie-cutter…

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I think lately about those moments in life, the heavy ones that seem to sink into our depths and make ripples in the soul. I think of large tectonic plates that seem, in their massive and solemn way, to be inert beneath the earth, while they slowly shift and slide. I think about them floating there on the liquid mantel of magma, heaving ever so slightly, and every now and then, they come together in a passionate kiss. I imagine the shaking of the earth in response to this union, the shuddering mountains, the heaving of oceans, the wild erratic dance of an evergreen forest, and there those great forces make themselves known, the ones you believed tranquil beneath your feet now throwing you ass over tea kettle into the pavement.

Yes, there are many moments such as these scattered throughout a lifetime, the “what ifs” the chance meeting, perhaps a “no” when there may have been a “yes”, and all the sudden your world is trembling. Brought to your knees by an accumulation of happenstance and being in just the right place at precisely the wrong time.

All that time believing in the solid footing on the ground beneath you, having built a firm foundation on assumptions of safety, having completely forgotten about those churning, unfathomable forces beneath you which we tritely call Fate.

One after the other days fall, like autumn leaves, and you never notice the color has gone from the world until all around you is withered and brown. Yet spring will come in the same stealthy and unexpected fashion, and one day you awake to find the world is singing with life, and it calls to the death inside you.

Sometimes memories like echoes come to me, of roads I did not tread, of things I had not the courage to write, of words spoken on the winds of change. Some of these memories sneak onto my pages despite my careful prose, like a small child seeking comfort in the warm bed of Mother. Yes, lying there on the white sheets, coveting blue lines, scribbling themselves in the margins of my heart, those ghosts of the poetry that never was, for some things have a voice only in the silence.

Writing Exercise

In honor of FWF this week, I have re-posted my favorite entry for Kellie Elmore. This one captured perfectly thought process when I sit down to write. Thanx Kellie, you’re awesome.

The Memory Of Trees

“Writing Raw” she calls it. Throwing the uncooked meat of my thought on to the pire of her pages. Unfettered and unedited, the profuse loquaciousness of my perfidious pen.

Do not second guess, no spell checker or re-read to smooth the sharp edges of my wit…. What to say? Such harsh realities are bound to cut the tender flesh of a beautiful mind, like gripping a rose in an uncalloused palm. The thorns of my metaphor will push past the tender walls of flesh to find the inner pathways of blood and nerve endings.

Let the mind wander.

Gathering freckles of stardust in the cosmic sun rays, getting a thoughtful tan.

A forest of notebooks growing around me, their scarlet words like leaves drifting down to whisper at my feet when I walk. Memories brief and euphoric, like a hummingbird flitting through the boughs, elusive and achingly beautiful.


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