| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** Bradley Mason Hamlin was born and raised in Los Angeles, educated at the University of California at Davis, and currently lives in Sacramento with his beautiful wife and crazy children. His short stories, articles, and poems have appeared in several small press books, magazines, and literary journals in print and on line. Hamlin created Mystery Island Publications and writes the Secret Society series: Intoxicated Detective. For more information about Hamlin and other wild things-visit: www.mysteryisland.net |
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| © 2009 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| THE WOMAN WITH THE RED WINE |
| Well, we’ve explored the themes of: poetry, religion, alcohol, the Navy, secret societies, and conspiracies … what’s left?
Oh yeah, the fucking. Let’s face it, fucking does make the world go ‘round. And the word fuck never goes out of style. We pad our language with every possible variation on the theme, from swear word to exultation of wonder… “Fuck…” It’s just one great word. Anyway, it’s also improper to speak of, “inappropriate,” crude, et cetera. However, is there really any subject that is off limits when human beings are trying to relate to each other through the telepathy of writing? Maybe. Maybe not. But short of knowing whether or not God really exists, I reckon fucking is just about the most important thing we have, and even better, so much better when you find somebody that you can sexually evolve with—creating those crazy high points of lovemaking that you thought only existed in some foreign book you were never supposed to read. One night stands are bullshit. Ugly ships passing in the night blowing foghorns at each other. Lonely nightmares. The absence of dreams. And I won’t even dignify casual sex with the word fucking. Good fucking comes from whatever that thing is people call a soul. I didn’t find “true love” until I was 31. I had met her actually when I was 29, actually think I fell in love with her then, but making love for the first time, inside her for the first time and so very very happy, and privileged to be invited into her personal temple and Rachmaninov on the stereo, her eyes the color of hot coffee in the morning, 3 a.m. “The Bells” echoing throughout the house, wondering how those brown eyes would look when she’s feelin blue, and drinking her red wine and healing my ulcer, could feel her working on it, right then and now, healing somehow all old drunken winters within me, blowing away like soft snow as the piano keys rolled, roll, rolling forward and back again, forward and kissing her warm mouth and falling, over the edge, deeper within this sacred space—that has made room for me … and I let go … falling falling falling. with mucho amor, Alcoholman |
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| by Bradley Mason Hamlin |
| (for LUCY HELL) |