ass face

I don't like getting that angry. I pretend that I do in the re-telling, but it's so stressful, makes things so meaningless, lessens my ability to communicate effectively. Why did I have to yell to make myself heard? Grounding out the words through clenched teeth, tethering the curses that naturally sprang to mind...but you, you monosyllabic cretins...did any of you say, "What do you need?" No. You each acted as though you were doing me a favor. I pay through the pores for your services, and you are doing me a favor. So, after 45 minutes of ridiculousness I got loud. Did you hear me? Probably not. Did you get me what I wanted? Yes, you did.

Impotent rage. So unfashionable, so unacceptable, and yet, how can the modern being (and HMO patient) endure without feeling it? How can one ride public transportation, watch dozens of people picking their noses and not offering their seats to the elderly, or hear local teenagers abusing each other and anyone who is different outside the CVS not feel the rise of a palpable ire? How can we hear that one C. Thomas, the original "long John Dong," has written a tome full of allegations of his own victimization and not experience that rush of adrenaline that precedes a spot of bitterness and bile? How can we hear about Buddhist monks being beaten and imprisoned and not raise a fist at the sky and do some primal screaming?

circles and circles and circles and circles and circles...

look down a long table
seated around it are the beings that make your life
the first mouth that kissed you
your father, the rare hugger, stiff proud provider of shoes
and love (disguised as criticism)
your brother/sister who kicked your ass so much that the callus remains that makes you tough and strong and teflon
the family acquaintance that went too far
the family acquaintance that once told you you'd never be a writer (he's there in the worse seat, the one right by the kitchen, being made to read this blog 15 times before he gets served any dinner)
Your wise, loving auntie with the "bosom of comfort", who's refrain is "C'mere, baby."
Your friends, the fabric of your present

rat's behind

warning, Momm! Foul language!

There are some days, shimmering heat days, sleepy, headachy, pain-filled days, when I leave the house without the proper foundation garments. I usually wear a thicker t-shirt or a dress of such fabric as to not expose my drooping tee-tahs to the world. Some of my acquaintance have deemed my roundness unattractive, even downright ugly, but on such days I give thanks for the kind of body that allows me to hide my nipples under my meaty upper arms, so I will not appear slatternly to all and sundry of the neighborhood.

Don't give a fuck, in other words.

And so today I sallied forth to make such purchases as were required to enjoy some time away from the bathroom and to meet a dear friend in an air-conditioned venue for a healthy repast. After we ate and witticised, I stopped by my favorite neighborhood giftie store to soak up the creative, wacky energy of the proprietress, a delightful, soulful woman with a love of toys, gew gaws, and those awful quilted floral bags everyone seems to like. We chattered in air conditioned comfort as I gadded about sampling her wares until I came upon a jasmine hand cream sample called "Oolong." Such were my transports of ecstasy that my hostess came to my side to show me other ungents and potions with this delightful scent. I am, even now, pressing my nostrils to the frangrant flesh of my forearm to enjoy the freshly exotic scent.

As she bent to the drawer beneath the display to check on stock, I noticed that she shared with me the same sort of "dishabille", in that she was wearing a white dress that, in a certain light, was quite sheer, and so, I was presented with quite a show when she stood up. Let's just say that meaty forearms were no where in appearance, and that I did struggle not to stare.

Guess she didn't give a fuck today, either.

Her gifts, I must say, far surpassed mine, in firmness and aspect.

My Oolong hand creme is on back-order, as is a new push up brassiere.

And we, the women of the world, owe ourselves at least one trip per lifetime, a Hajj, as it were, to some warm and vibrant place near the bluest ocean, preferably a tropical clime, where we can dispense with foundation garments--indeed with any garments at all--and revel in the beauty and perfection with which we were created in infinite variety, and in infinite grace.

adventures in ci home edition

conversation between me and my stomach this afternoon.

s: i hate you.
j: but why?
s: it's nothing personal, I just do.
j: (nauseous moan)...but I've been doing the BRAT diet -(banana, rice, applesauce, toast...)
s: BRAT DIET my asss(cids). No one should eat as much ice cream as you have.
j: But that was years ago...
s: (Greasy fried) chicken's coming home to roost.
j: Uhnnnnn.
s: Trying to suck me in...don't think that Tums will help you now, beotch.
j: Blah.
s: Was it the asperatime of this afternoon's Coke Zero? Or the recent incursion into
yogurt? did you think I wouldn't notice? When I said "no diary" I meant 'NO DAIRY."
J: UGGGGHHHH.
s: Or it could just be out of whack immune system K cells having a little disco time down
here. You'll never know.
j: I will Sierra Mist you. Don't think I won't.
s: And don't think I won't send that shit back to where it came from! And did you really
think you'd get away with those organic cherry tomatoes??
j: But there were so fresh and so cute. And it was the farmer's market.
s: "organic's" just another word for "nothing left to lose" ...or "questionably fertilized."
j: You are so unforgiving lately. Like the last 5 years.
s: Not my fault you ate enough Whoppers to support an entire Burger King franchise.
j: But that was 10 years ago!
s: I remember EVERYTHING.

fin

Home boy

I watched my favorite comforter go round and round, a fuchsia highway. The laundromat was all heat and humidity being stirred lazily by ceiling fans. This particular unmanned establishment fascinated me--no one ever came to service the place when I was there and the machines--laundry, change, vending--always seemed to work. Who would I go to if the change machine ate my $5 bill? Such things plague tiny minds.

I was staring at this particular dryer load because I'd noticed something in the second or third revolution--there was something small and brown in the drum, something small, plump and brown...with a tail. "Oh christ on a crackpipe," I thought, imagining my cat, Poopy, wallowing around in the laundry basket. "She's left me a present."

Geeeeeroooooossss! I squeaked, involuntarily. Suddenly, the other occupant of the laundromat, a slightly greasy man with gray hair, leather vest, and bright white shirt and squeakers was at my side.

"Smatter?"

His breath was ripe and I squinted and blinked.

'Um...it looks like there's a mouse in there." I poked at the thick plastic of the dryer door.

He peered through his bottle bottom glasses. "Yeah?" He sounded excited.

It hit me all at once. It was one of Poopy's play mice. If it'd been real, she would have left it in a place of prominence for me to step on or trip over.

"Heh..heheheh...it's a fake mouse," I said, using the excuse to move away from his slight odor de must.

"Oh...heheheh. Uhm huh." He then peered at me, puzzled. Or at least I think he was puzzled because his florid forehead sprouted several wrinkles.

"I have a cat, see."

"Oh...OHHHHHH. Oh. hehehheh."

Then he said, "I'm Jarhead." At this point you probably want to tell me my business---you probably want to tell me I misheard him--he said "Gerard" or had a French accent or something. The man said "I'm Jarhead.'

I was tempted to say "I'm Pot au Feu," but the situation was bizarre enough already.

"Well, ok." Eloquent to the last, I opened the dryer door and he stepped back. I reached in to pull out the fake mouse who, in the melee, lost his tail. His fur was fluffy and light and his little pink felt ears were shiny. He reeked of Bounce and dryer burn. I slipped him in my pocket.

"Uhhhh." said my companion, and walked over to the washing machine that was shaking itself silly, slamming against the wall in an effort to get his clothing clean.

How to reply? I pulled the comforter out of the dryer, stuffed it in a trash bag, and left the place with a very false sounding "have a nice day!"

Poopy, when presented with her now tail-less but exquisitely clean mouse, trapped it under her paw, smelled it, and promptly dropped it in her food dish.

There are the scary and the musty and slightly puzzled in the world and there is at least one "Jarhead." Though I don't particularly want to encounter him again, I appreciate his consideration.

inches

She wonders why friends don't have time anymore. She's asked them,
but there weren't any real answers. Just a gradual tapering off of time spent together.

She knows she tends to feel abandoned so she mitigates their silence by trying to suck up the hurt into a gift wrapped package with a big read denial bow. Denial bows are always red, you know.

But truth is just too fragrant a scent, a spice, a honeysuckle dream, to resist for long, and mendacity is too putrid to her now, a decayed, malicious thing, a darkness detrimental to life.

So she tries to understand their fear. It's fear, fear of pain, fear of anger, fear of truth that make people turn away from each other. It's terror in the face of the unknown.

She sees it's too plain for most, but not poetic enough to describe the deep, abiding darkness of not knowing. She lives in that ebony unfolding, that constant pain, that forced smile, that sense of always falling.

Some can't face the pain in her face, the edge in her voice, the stumble in her step, the scalp showing through the falling fur, the body bursting with it's own malice, dis ease. The now constant throb behind the eyes. It's hard for them to watch her have to reach deeper into a darkened trough to find the sprigs of delight that make life worth continuing to live.

So they turn away--a gradual lessening. The everyday shrinks to now and again and then to not at all.

She has her bouts of doubts--is it too much to ask, is it too much to bear, is it too much to face, is is too much to not know--but, really, she doesn't have a choice and envies them theirs.

WHEN

you don't think about it much
when you're sitting by the pond
watching a filthy white mutt
joyously swim, chasing ducks

it doesn't cross your mind
but once a day
as you putter away at your desk
in your cube
in the office
at the hall

you don't contemplate it thoroughly
on the human-filled bus
or at the beach
walking in circles over the breakers
or bending to watch a clam burrow in the sand

it doesn't hit you when you're shopping for oregano
or lipstick or queen size panty hose
or shoes that fit
pushing you body up and through material made half a world away

it comes sneakily through the night
like the whisper of a sea mist
like the dew you don't see falling
like the African dusk

lonely
you are alone
you are empty
as though what you are is scooped out
with a melon baller
there's no sound where your heart should be
there's no share
and no give

there is no answering breath
across the bedroom
and no
common bond
across the miles

there is nothing
only nothing
no thing
not