Inside The Gazebo

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Location: Central Michigan, United States

Spent a long career making lots of money for other people. Now it's my turn. _____________________________ Email:

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Night Walk

Last night my wife and I went for a long walk. It was very dark, and it was cold. The pleasant company of my wife kept me warm.

Friday, October 26, 2007


The winds are from the North now, crisp and almost cold.
Green canopies of the soft leaves of a summer have long ago turned to red and gold.
They lay on the ground to become next year's shreds of compost.

The mornings come frosty and dark.
Evenings are dark and lonely.
Only the leaves of the Oak resist the temptation to succumb.

The coyotes howl, and the lawyers expand their own fame.
Time shrinks while duress eats more to roll in the pleasures of becoming fat.
The sap of the Maple flows back to the roots.

Hard gray limbs stand naked to wait and bear the onset of ice and snow.
Squirrels gather the few remaining acorns to store a little more wealth for the winter.
The old Tamarack dies from blight.

The winds are cold now; they come down from the North.
The mornings begin with clenched flesh and the evenings end with salty tears.
The flow of life’s blood slows in the man.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Another Day

On another day I would feel the warmth from your lovely thighs upon my cheeks. I would taste you.

On another day I would swim in the rapture of your inner muscles clenching around me. I would tremble from the pulses in my need to fill you.

When finished we would kiss, and we would touch. On another day.

Wednesday, July 04, 2007


It will seem we have suspended time, though a fraction of eternity will have passed on by.

Apprehension retreats; perfect bliss fills its place.

Soft moans of anticipation may escape our lips; quickened heartbeats will pulse in our ears.

Tiny trembles of rapture will travel your skin as my fingers search and explore your femininity. Your frantic focus may be the capture of my sensual flesh.

We’ll plummet into a free-fall away from conscious thought. Our senses will lock as one; breath will pant across our playing tongues.

Enchantment and desire will rapidly scale the walls of need; we’ll hurl each other toward the top.

We’ll melt in our coupling, one absorbed by the other. When you sheath me; we’ll thrill to the glove of wet heat that surrounds our connection.

Furious thrusts will carry us on upward; we’ll soon conquer the summit and cling to its ledge. We’ll breach the barrier to float and drift across the long plateau of ecstasy.

Muscles taut and strained we’ll linger and delay the dreaded descent. But when we must descend, magic pulses will roll our climax slowly and quietly away.

You might quiver with final pleasures during the gentle softening of the afterglow.

Sunday, June 10, 2007


They gang-raped and made her pregnant at the just blossoming age of fifteen. There were four of them. The first one took her virginity, one of them fertilized her. And she has never known their names.

But that was sixteen years; a husband still; and three more children ago.

She brush-paints “16” in large pink numbers on both sides, the trunk, the roof and the hood of her “fire-car”---the junk car she drives each year in the demolition derby at the county fair. Sixteen was the tender year of her age when her first child suckled at her breasts.

Last year she finished third in the main event of the Derby. The year before, she crashed early. This year she intends to win.

When the demolition derby and summer have come and gone, when it becomes fall and the hunting season, you will find her out of bed well before dawn and sitting high in a tree watching intently for the perfect bow and arrow shot at the elusive white-tailed deer. During gun season, which comes later, and often with brutal cold, you will find her burrowed into the ground-blind she constructed from dead tree limbs, rotted stumps, wilted ferns and bows of pine. She will be in the woods with her gun, while her husband will be at home with the remote control and waiting for his “game” on TV. “Fuck that!” she says.

But on this morning, cascades of raven black flow over her shoulders and fall gently toward her narrow waist. Her hair, soft as silk, reflects a tint of blue in the summer sun.

Earth’s darkest browns color her eyes. A sprinkle of gold and a fleck of green add to their sparkle. Like burning coals of subtle passion, they sear their brand on unaware hearts.

Lips painted with nature’s own gloss form the warm seductive smiles that will spawn tonight’s dreams of many a man’s restless sleep. Her radiant beauty and confident manner will hurl their imaginations to lusty places.

The twin globes of her firm breasts ride high and proud below her slender neck. Sheltered by the mere fabric of her blouse, her nipples beckon---like cherries wild and red---and so many men long for a taste.

Round taut buttocks beg for a good man’s best attentions. Her sculptured legs might hold him there between them, a willing captive forever.

But she takes no such prisoners.

The men who eat at the small diner call her Candy. We call her Candy, because she is sweet to our hearts.

Sunday, May 13, 2007

The End

I have written the above two words in a manuscript.

I have titled the story: Build Me a Gazebo.

The story includes a bit of suspense; a collection of romantic interludes; an imagination’s fill of erotica and a twist by Satan.

“They” do not live happily ever after.

Now, to rewrite it...this time writing it well.


Sunday, May 06, 2007

Bug Tails - "Squeak"


What?...2:19 A.M...not the alarm yet....

Mmmmm...bed feels good...comfortable...

Should pee...wait awhile...


So tired...sleep...


Fucking neighbor...first time here since Fall...


Fixing something...well-house maybe...pump froze maybe...

Shit...better pee...2:43...too early...


Old Libby snoring...too long a walk today maybe...

Where’s Bug?

Really had to go...good piss always feels good...don’t wash hands...will wake up

Tired...need more sleep...

Libby... dead to the world...doesn’t know I’m up...

Where’s Bug?...leave him outside?...No, in my face about midnight.

Mmm...quiet now...neighbor finished...

Jesus...bed feels good.


WHAM!! SQUEAK!! Plop-plop

What the fuck! What just bounced off the closet door?!

“Bug! You little asshole! Now leave that fucking thing on the floor!!”

Ah, there’s Bug! Over on Barbara’s side of the bed. Sounded like she just killed his toy raccoon!
Wasn’t the neighbor...Bug.

Saturday, April 21, 2007

Human Gutters

Middle-aged and well traveled in the trenches of human gutters; he wept through his story of hopelessness and despair. He cried over the loss of his soul.

He asked if it would ever get better. He asked if he would ever know peace within himself. He asked if he would ever again find dignity. He asked if he could ever again know love.

That night, he would destroy the most precious of gifts. He would pinch out the flame on the candle of his life.

I’ll always wonder what more....

Saturday, April 07, 2007


Be it good, or be it bad, I write from my heart. My muse dwells there.

My brain thinks, my heart feels. Topics come from my brain; the words come from my heart.

For the past many weeks my brain has said, “Pull words from your heart and put them on your blog”.

For the past many weeks I have opened my heart in search of those words. Most often, I’ve reached in and found only crumbs.

Be it good, or be it bad, I write from my heart. My muse dwells there.

My heart is empty now; no words to blog are there.

Saturday, March 31, 2007

Center of Night

I awoke during the center of last night.
I had been dreaming of you.
I was erect from the glory of your nakedness in my dream.

I recalled your enchanting image and I seared it across my mind.
I gripped the throbbing flesh of me firmly in my hand.
I stroked slowly, at first, pretending entrance into the heat of your flowing core.

Imagining your breath and movements thickened and stretched me.
I reached the pinnacle of sensation and my seed spewed from the top.
Washed and sated, I returned to a deep and dreamless sleep.

This morning, I smiled from lingering thoughts of you.
Throughout today I visualized you, and imagined your touch.
I am in my bed, waiting to see you presently in my dreams.

Will you come to me in the center of tonight, and be again my succubus?

Saturday, March 24, 2007

Reflections of a Man

I liked a woman once.
No, I’ve loved a few.
“It used to bother me,” I’d say, “that she has a beautiful husband.”
They needed me and I wanted them to.

But what the hell, they were lovely, they were young.
I was lovely, I was young.
I wanted them, I dreamed of them.
I needed them and they wanted me to.

In the warmth of the day they loved their beautiful husband; his money and his friends.
In the cool of the evening, when he was high and blown away; they loved me, the horse of me.
Only half drunk was I, and I’d bathed.
I was dangerous and they sought a thrill.

They knew me, they understood their ache.
They wanted me, they dreamed of me.
I knew them, I understood their need; and I unlocked my door.
They were sad and neglected; I’d give them their thrill.

“Let us have our fantasy,” they’d say, and it felt good to me.
They’d sneak away to be with me.
They smoked their pot, I drank my scotch.
We’d laugh, we’d talk, and we’d pet each other.

They were free for the moment and horny.
I was lonely forever and horny.
They’d undo their buttons, I’d undo my belt.
They’d wonder if they should, I’d convince them they could.

We fucked, I fell in love.
They cried from their guilt.
I wouldn’t ask about their tears, I knew the answer that would come.
I was patient, and I watched the ceiling.

In the warmth of a new day they loved their beautiful husband; his money and his friends.
In the cool of a new evening, when he was high and blown away; they stayed to smoke and sniff with him.
They’d had their thrill; they’d had their want of me.
I wept, I drank my scotch; and I left my door ajar.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Bug Tails - "'fraidy-cat"

Last evening we enjoyed our first thunderstorms of the season. A series of them rolled through during the night. Bug spent the entire night plastered against me, trembling. (If you don’t know about Bug, he came to us as a stray a little over a year ago. We believe he had been through a lot). Old Libby just snored, on the floor, belly-up.

This morning, when I crawled out of bed, Bug stayed attached to me. When I sat at the table to suck down my first cup of coffee, he lay across my feet---not by them, on them. Same thing when I sat on the toilet. Have you ever tried to wipe with a dog across your feet?

He wanted to get in the shower with me too. I should have let him. He stinks after a long winter without a bath.

Monday, March 19, 2007


He heard the door close softly behind her. He burrowed deeper under the covers. Lonely silence rang in his ears.

Saturday, March 10, 2007

On the john.

A little humor for the writers who visit here. Stolen from Reader’s Digest, March 2007.


“Once upon a time, a beautiful young antelope was going to the party of the year. Excited, she put on a new outfit, makeup, great shoes, the whole nine yards. Suddenly, she was stampeded by a herd of buffalo, making her the first self-dressed stamped antelope.”


“A recent survey reported that 27% of Americans take their cell phones to the bathroom, an indication that reading is definitely becoming a lost art.”