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Thursday, December 20, 2007

My Methodist Grandmother Said

My Methodist
grandmother said
dancing
was adultery
set to music

how right she was

in that sweet sway
breast to breast and
leg to leg
sin comes into its own

if you have never
waltzed
you cannot imagine
the sheer voluptuousness
of it
the light touch
palm to palm
wool and silk
mixed below the waist
your partner's warm breath
on your neck
coming quicker
and quicker
the strength of the man
the yielding of the woman
so incorrect
so atavistic
so unspeakably sweet
he moves toward you
you back away
he pursues you
and with the faintest
pressure
you encourage him
and watch the blood
rush to his face

not a word is spoken
no one sees this
although it's done in public
in full sight of everyone

you touch
and retreat
meet
and touch again
in time to the music
saying yes
no yes
no yes
no
yes

you dance
without thinking of your body
in that gentle
rhythmic
careless
almost copulation
one two three
one
two three

the longest
foreplay
in the western
world

--- heard on Writers Almanac

Sunday, December 9, 2007

Ludic Rondo in Reply

what Orlando Messmer said

Your own feet dance this movement to the real.
As I track back in steel stiletto heels,
We mind the gap between vintage ballroom music
And the quiet gaze that drives your ludic
Gait. Someday I'll tell you how live play feels.

But I can't chat, not here: my lips are sealed
Since you can't dance and talk, our state reveals
The abandoned body, how in its silent antic
Your own feet dance this movement to the real.

How much the pixeled avatar conceals!
All lives require flesh. Playsure does appeal
Yet tango still demands a mutual panic
Of trust by touch. Not to be pedantic,
But think: our unmediated vals anneals
Your own feet to dance this movement to the real.

— femfatalatron, nyc

Friday, December 7, 2007

"just tango" from Travis in Buffalo, NY

just tango



Her body moves like silk over me,

around and through me.

There is quiet conversation between

us no one will ever hear, the
sweetest words the world will ever know.


Forbidden lyrics of our lives.



Words of longing, desperation, of lust and love, of
hate and desire...the words burning like
candles into our fingertips, into our shadows,
into our sweat, into our longing.

Our bodies melting into each other...

And we embrace.


She dances as if to live,
and I dance to keep her alive.

Her leg slides naked to the air,

and then rests, waiting.

...and here I hold her, as if
floating, tenderly, closely, precisely careless.


Our embrace. Our dance.
Our moment. Our urgent romance.

Speaking silently in closeness, our embrace of passion, 
of desire, our gaze, our conversation.


No words...


just tango.





Travis Michael Widrick

Charlie Tango Whiskey Zulu

Charlie Tango Whiskey Zulu

 

When the radio operators wanted to be very clear

just what letter they were describing,

They would say Charlie for "C"

Tango for "T"

Each letter had its own code,

its own demonstration of fullness

Clarity, conciseness, diction unfailing

In time of war,

the radio operator had to untrick the ear,

unstumble it from the thicket of sounds

easily confused on the vibrating drum of ears,

as likely to misunderstand as comprehend.

Because many things in this listening world

are ripe for misunderstanding.

Is that not a beautiful expression on the tongue?

 

Thinking of my tango dancing girl in the land of Argentina

December 7, 2007

 

Diane

Thursday, December 6, 2007

DREAM TANGO in PORTLAND

Hooded in moist steel skies,

Flickers of sunlight, flashes of awe,

Red strands amidst moss green,

Water, fall, foliage,

Where the Columbia confidently

Embraces the Willamette.

 

-Boyle