A THANK-YOU NOTE TO MEN

To you, whom it may concern,


To my Adam, who chose to be stupid and submissive in the name of love (not knowledge), for the apple that got stuck in your throat, maybe that's why you don't speak so well but feel so much that it hurts sometimes; you who gave me a duplicate to your heart, your car, and your home; for letting me use your razor, your t-shirt, your coat, and your shoulder to cry, sleep, and lean on when I was drunk with laughter and alcohol; you who made me scream with sheer delight and utter exasperation; for not understanding a word of english for the sake of argument but who understands a look perfectly well; a sophisticated neanderthal who will never get it, though you try, you really do; you who laughed at me for putting on makeup, you liked my oily face and disheveled hair just fine; thank you for the flowers and for screwing in the light bulbs and me when I needed it, and for all the things I couldn't reach; you helped me up, carried me on your back, to the car, to the toilet, to the garbage can, to the bed, and kissed me, who has lost all bearing and composure, goodnight anyway; for forgetting, always forgetting something, making me remember, keeping me on my feet; you stood beside me, behind me, in the front to shield me, honor me, protect and defy me; thank you for keeping me grounded and soaring, for taking my breath away and making me swallow that bitter pill of assuming of knowing everything because I seriously thought I did, once, then you came and fucked everything up; for opening me to your truth; you who swept me off my feet and left me on the floor to pick up the pieces of the mess you made; who knelt in front of me pleading like a homeless puppy for getting my knees dirty and licking my wounds with your tongue-lashing; you whispered in my ear as I slept and I swore they haunted my dreams like the ghost of past loves out to get me, but I laid still and you held me there, without pride, prejudice, or inhibition even as your arm lost all blood and feeling; a man, naked, singular, missing a rib. How do I love thee? You set my soul on fire. And I light up the world as you stand there in the shadows, licking that self-serving smile that found its way to your lips and mine; for giving me my sin again. You gave me that; you who kept me always in your heart, sometimes in your thoughts, but never in your debt. I am eternally grateful.

---Michelle Callanta


***Inspired by Mary-Louise Parker's A Thank You Note to Men

I LIKE KISSING MORE THAN F*CKING.

Yes. Seriously.

I'd rather have a great kiss than great sex. And that ain't even lip-service. *winks*

(Usually, the kiss is better than the sex anyway.)

*can I get an amen, y'all?*

...

So now I'm collecting kisses. I shall put them in a jar and keep em in my refrigerator and save em for those God-awful days when I need to feel for just a moment that I am on the verge of something WONDERFUL and MAGICAL.

*sigh*

I don't think people take kissing seriously anymore. =(




On that note...


the archipelago of kisses

We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don't
grow on trees, like in the old days. So where
does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy,
like being unleashed with a credit card
in a department store of kisses. There's the first kiss.
The sloppy kiss. The peck.
The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we
shouldn't be doing this kiss. The but your lips
taste so good kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss.
The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss.
The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad
sometimes kiss. The I know
your tongue like the back of my hand kiss. As you get
older, kisses become scarce. You'll be driving
home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road,
with its purple thumb out. If you
were younger, you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's
red door just to see how it fits. Oh where
does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile.
Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.
Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss.
Now what? Don't invite the kiss over
and answer the door in your underwear. It'll get suspicious
and stare at your toes. Don't water the kiss with whiskey.
It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters,
but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of
your body without saying good-bye,
and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left
on the inside of your mouth. You must
nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it
illuminates the room. Hold it to your chest
and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a
special beach. Place it on the tongue's pillow,
then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath
a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.
But one kiss levitates above all the others. The
intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss.
The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss.
Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth,
like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.

--Jeffrey McDaniel