Hardly a day goes by now when I don’t feel a little ripple of unease about the state of our world. Was it ever thus? The thing is, I don’t want to think or write about it. Well, there goes the blog. So, this morning, in a conversation with myself, I said: “Self, you’ve done this before. Just rerun stuff from your blog archives.”
I suppose I could, but heck, I know I can do better than that. So it was off to my other archive to see if I could cobble together something that has a modicum of originality. I must say, what I found was entertaining (I wrote that!?). So here goes.
I’ll start by taking care of the world situation. Nothing has changed since I wrote this in 2006.
Tarting it up
The more life becomes farce,
the more we pretend normality.
In our world,
the rational is ludicrous.
Silliness is profundity.
Illogic is the norm.
Anyway you tart it up,
farce is still farce.
Pour honey on a turd,
it’s still a turd.
We are either lunatics
or fools.
God help us all.
To save your sanity, it’s better to focus on things you can control. You could start with personal hygiene (literally and metaphorically).
Always Wear Clean Underwear
There’s nothing worse than being caught
with your pants down
or your skirt up,
revealing – gasp! – dirty underwear.
You think if you’re always meticulously
groomed, stylish even, with an edgy flair,
no one would ever know that
underneath you wear
dirty underwear.
But mother knew best –
It’s not just what’s on show,
but what’s underneath that counts.
With your skirt up or your pants down,
make sure you’ve nothing dirty to hide.
Always wear clean underwear.
Self-image is always a good (make that “painful”) topic for a poem. I tried, in 2009.
Body Type
Oh my god, when
did my ass get so big?
Used to be I could sit
on a barstool without
oozing over the side like
unbaked dough.
Lord knows, I was never
a dainty girl. Told myself
I had big bones – my excuse
for having a generous
behind.
Besides, I was young,
and plumpness,
if not overdone,
could be kind of cute.
I learned how to dress
for my body type.
The fashion rags
never called me “fat.”
I was just a nicely
rounded pear.
Now this old pear
has passed her
“sell by” date,
squirming on
a barstool as
younger, fresher fruit
perch their firm
little bottoms
on ridiculously
tiny chairs.
Of course, being pleasingly plump just doesn’t happen all by itself. You know what I’m talking about. Want a hint?
A Love Affair with BLT
Bacon
The thick marbled edges
curl and snap
shooting hot needles
onto her hand.
She curses, dropping a lid
on the popping mass,
pulling back from plumes
of steam loaded with
saturated fat and
the odor of
frying meat.
Lettuce
Small showers wet her feet
from dew on weeds and
overgrown vines
in the backyard garden.
She pushes aside
leggy kale,
engorged zucchini,
and reaches for a fresh
bunch of frilly greens
preening in the morning sun.
Tomato
Still warm from the vine,
the smooth red globe
rests in her cupped hand.
She admires its perfection
as she washes it in
the stained porcelain sink.
Tenderly, she places it
on the butcher block
for its execution.
Bread
Running her finger lightly
across the crusty warmth,
she measures by touch.
Raising the knife,
she rests it on the
invisible line
and cuts,
watching as the slices
fall like dominos onto
the wooden board.
BLT
She lavishes mayonnaise
on facing slices of bread
and piles on rows of
crispy bacon.
Then, to stifle the warning
of clogged arteries and
fat-encrusted heart,
tops the heap with the
antioxidants
of lettuce and tomato.
After BLT
A quiet burp pops
past her lips,
still moist with the
taste of BLT.
She licks away
the last smear of guilt,
feeling her heart’s quiet
thump offering
reassurance.
Sometimes, when you overindulge your appetite (food- or opiate-wise), you can end up with weird dreams. I still don’t know where this one came from. And I swear I wasn’t smoking anything.
Dream World
I drift, riding moonlight waves
stretched across the speckled sky.
A wink from the sly young man
in the moon sends me soaring
into a backwash of stars.
I am showered with drops of diamonds
sprinkled by a swordfish leaping by,
a one-eyed owl perched serenely on its bill.
Comets dance a fierce flamenco,
flinging themselves about,
barely missing planets sailing by.
Below, the marbled earth dozes
in a bank of purple clouds, heedless of all
but its own fantastic dreams.
And there are those dreams that set off your internal plumbing. Don’t you just hate when that happens?
The Urge
She swims up out of
cool spring water parting
at the prow of her fingers,
tendrils of algal weeds
sliding past hands, arms,
fluttering legs.
She feels the pressure
of the water build into
an urge to pee.
She floats on the border
of sleep, a decision
nudging her
out of bed.
She feels her way in
the half light, eyes
lowered to hold
onto the dark.
Her ass finds the
cool oval, and she
tinkles trying to
stay within the edges
of sleep.
Crawling back
into the cooling
sheets, she curls onto
her side, pillow
between her knees,
and wonders
what time it is.
On that note, I think it’s time to call it a night. I’ll end with a haiku that has nothing to do with this piece.
Life is about change.
When they switch the rules on you
Try not to suffer.
