A Talent For Milk and Honey

He lived always close to the possibility of women. In his heyday, they would beg him to f... money out of them. Facts are facts, and we cannot sugar coat what was, in his own naively miscreant way, sweet enough to have been his peculiar style of love poetry. Never, never, never would he have coerced financiers or sharks for the milk of his heart. Only the femina could fuel his desires, cash became an enshrined contract between the wine-drinker, the vine and the fruit. In his wayfaring ways he was a mystic sworn to worship the fount and its largess which, as he always claimed, was not the dollar amount, but the amount moved from account to account, a spiritual currency that kept them dancing over moonlit agreements cosigned by their eager bodies. Truth is (a truth beyond the ken of more reticent men), they prayed together, prayers that were asomatous transaction coequally entered into as a ‘give and take affair.’ Nothing lasts forever, beware of diminishing returns, the interruptus of even the loftiest of ideals. He was always the lover though, and they wrote to him, and he to them. Everlasting love letters dipped in the commercial ink of enterprises once taken.