January 2001 / Volume Two / Issue One
KC Ruttan
       Jung said that we move in a natural gradient toward wholeness.
          that it's inevitable. I believe that. I believe this. That when one
          door closes, another one will always open... and it is always a
          movement from this to something better, no matter how
          unfathomable it may seem at the time. As they say... keep the
          faith baby.

                                     K.B.


1.

There is a limit,
to the number of consecutive nights
you can spend,
sitting, on the damp
pubic hair encrusted coldness
of the bathroom floor,
masturbating, with
the Lubriderm sensitive skin
moisturizer that you bought for
that flaking problem you get
this time of year,
to that picture of the
three Asian girls
fingering each other
in one of your roommates
magazines
in the cabinet
under the sink.
While still maintaining the belief that,
quote "I'm Okay."

2.

Sometimes,
it is important to shower
at night,
with the lights off,
alone.

When I do it
I turn the water hotter
than I could maybe stand otherwise.

I peel my clothing
from my body.
A child stripping
the petals
from a rosebud in springtime.
Releasing them,
one by one into the wind.
Tiny red sails.
Blood flecks against
the green and blue.
And there it is
fragile,
white and unprotected.
It is the truth,
the plants nature,
its sex,
its weakness.
Then I step in
left foot first.
Face the uncertainty,
of the invisible hot blackness
Head angled upward.
Eyes open.
The blood,
surfacing to the topmost layers.
Diluted
by steam,
pulled sweat.
Water flooding
under my tongue
waterfall flowing
from my lip:
the chin
the neck
the fingertips
the chest
the belly button
the cock
the balls
the ass
the thighs
the knees
the calves.

It is an envelopment when I do it
I allow it to happen.
For it to choke my ears
to deafness.
Fill my eyes
with its cleansing sear.
I open my urethra
and allow the water to flow in.
I cup my hand over my ass
the water rolls
to drift across.

And I drink it too.

3.

Let me ask you.
Have you ever come
to a place on the road
where you expected to find
the sun a little brighter?

the foliage a little more lush?
the fog to have lifted just so much?
You just keep walking
and walking,
expecting that with each step
it will happen.
But it never does.
Have you ever been forced
to ask yourself,
"just where is it that
moment of epiphany
that I feel so ready for?"