This is a

checklist

reminder

and a

vow

a string of words

to put in perspective

what “the one”

(in my head) is like

not to reduce, whoever they may be,

to lists and boxes

but

a reminder

not every one who looks at you

like you’re the one

is the one

not every one who presses their lips

against yours

is the one

the one

doesn’t have to have painting-like blue eyes

or an accent

the one

doesn’t have to have a raspy voice

and an oh-so-perfect jaw line

the one

has fire in his eyes

and when your eyes lock

it’s celebratory fireworks

and your lips

when they lock

the one

tastes like cherry mulled wine on your lips

warms you and

makes you

tipsy

it makes you

raw

honest

and

it unleashes the you-set you there is

the one

is not restrictive

is loving

but not cheesy

just sweet enough

and the one

is the smart that

helps you both grow together

the one

makes your usually numb body

feel

the one

understands when you say

you feel purple

or when you reference that one episode

of that show you binge watched 3 years ago

when you say

“this smell reminds me of a memory I can’t recall,

but i feel it”

or when you squeal because of a good lyric

or physically cannot contain your happiness

when your favourite rapper comes up in a conversation

the one

understands

your scattered thoughts

and has his own

the one

understands your flaws

and has his own

the one

understands your fear of commitment

and sadly probably has his own

but you’ll be able to figure it out

because

the one understands

your spiralling mind

and overwhelming emotions

and complicated body

the one

is not and should not

be perfect

but this

is the checklist

the reminder

and a vow

to avoid

collateral damage

        Horny Santa was feeling very unsatisfied. 

        He frustratingly stuffed his mouth with cookies while grimacing down at eleven elven assembly lines, swigging a green goblet of extra-spiked eggnog. Production today is down three and a half percent. My plan was to end the day on a high note. Fuck this shit. Horny Santa always loved being ahead of production schedule and always loathed being behind it. Whatever. He finished his remaining cookie and eggnog. Day's over.

        Horny Santa returned to his bed chamber to find an escort, one Mistress Claus, lying on her chest, wearing nothing but a sparkly, red-and-green g-string. She turned the other way around and smiled devilishly. "Why hello there, daddy."

        "HO-HO!" daddy exclaimed. "Even though you've been such a naughty little girl, I literally decided, fuck it, and got you an early Christmas present."

        "Daddy! You shouldn't have!"

        "Oh, but I did. And you know I'm the boss." Horny Santa proceeded to pull an eight-inch nutcracker out of his pocket.

        "Oh my goodness!" cried Mistress Claus. "It's so beautiful."

        Horny Santa smiled smugly, eagerly, lustfully. "That it is. More importantly, it's useful!" He pressed his finger upon the nutcracker's chest, and its head started vibrating vehemently. Horny Santa walked slowly toward the bed on which Mistress Claus laid, and before she could remove her remaining garment, the jolly man was gently pressing his early Christmas gift against her moistening crotch.

        It wasn't long before Mistress Claus instinctively reached for Horny Santa's own crotch. As usual, that region became rock-hard in less than ten seconds. He swiftly replaced the nutcracker with his nutsaber and suddenly, time and space for him and her became inundated by erotic pleasure and sexual unity. 

*        *        *

        After giving the gift of a fourth orgasm, Horny Santa jubilantly withdrew his pleasure-weapon and let Mistress Claus nutcrack him all over her chest. 

        Horny Santa now felt very satisfied, and passed the fuck out.

THE END

One,

through

trees,

for

fire

seeks,

saying

"Wait!"

None

/Ten.

Many nights I would gaze

Upwards to the heavens

Tears pooling on

My window sill

Asking what galactic

Brightness is she

Will I find my love

In my inner depths

The soul was confident

I would find you

But past scars

Cast it's doubt

Then one starry

March a burst

of light appeared

Radiating into my heart

It asked what

Can this be ?

My soul whispered

That is she

Full of light

So warm and deep

And two souls

That are meant to be

See these two stars

Are now one

They will never

Be dark

For its real love

Every ounce of my body resists

Agonizingly

I try:

Form the two words

With aching lips

"I'm sorry"

But they stay inside

Bottled and sealed

So that even if I might die

I can't bring them out

I am not a manly Wyoming man.

Not to say that I am effeminate,

But in these parts round here;

If you can't pull the diesel engine out of your rig

You may as well be in the kitchen washing dishes,

And watching soap operas.

But every once in a while, I get to feel like that

Spitting and cussing standing in the cold

Socket wrenches in hand, bent like a geriatric

Underneath the hood of my car.

Foul language flows forth like a river of nausea

As I turn bolt and crush knuckles

Prying the chemical heart and electric soul

From its icy throne.

"Fuckin' battery, why does it have to weigh 30 goddamn pounds?"

I curse unthinkingly

My mind engages, I am not typically one to dabble in cursing

Is it the car and the grease, and the very soul of the beast

That insists that I announce with foul mouthed ardor my play-by-play

As I operate with hammer and wrench?

Grease caked hands finally scrape the battery to its release.

And even just sitting, patiently waiting for my ride to get my new one

I feel a few inches taller, a tad more powerful

And hope the true Wyoming men, of grit and few words,

Homes caked in grease, and smelling of welding flux and plumbers glue.

May see me as their own.