Come Hither

Everyone wants information and there ain't none of that here.

I've got opaque, totally personal poems on offer that probably make no sense or lend any pleasure or interest to the reader. For me, that's what makes them useful, if not great- it's like a diary written in code (oops, now I've given away my secret). I go and look at other people's blogs all the time. And there are so many good ones, but mine just isn't one of those. I accept that, like I accepted being called dictionary when I was in middle school.

My friends don't check this blog (with one exception I had the honor of one friend with a lovely mind read my blog) to assess the temperature of my existential ranting or get my recipe for a blackberry mojitos (which are good, btw). In fact, one friend of mine was purportedly going to contribute to this blog, but she backed out, probably too embarrassed by the mission statement and her high school ties to me (notice that bimbos is plural- I should probably change that) and too turned off by the utter obscurity of it. It's like asking someone to hang their paintings in your own little private, dark cave that no one ever enters because they don't know it exists and even if they did they probably wouldn't go in anyway.

I like to think of this collection of aimless ramblings like a sinewy leg sheathed in a fishnet stocking beckoning from beyond the edge of a door opened onto an alleyway filled with moon light. You may or may not be tempted to see what the leg is attached to, and it may be that it's attached to nothing. It could be a sexy leg ruse, with a mechanical lever that a creepy old man manipulates behind said door. Or it could Marlena Dietrich's leg or that of a man with beautifully effeminate gams. The possibilities are rich. Why not check it out?

Ride a Red Pony

Like one living form growing into another,
I try in vain to goad an upwelling
from the red river
that runs from the center of the earth
to the soft underbelly of life,
a strange twisting fruit
that evokes pain
and gives birth.

Drinking Coffee with Aristotle

Back to black coffee.
My cream days are over,
the rough sugar tarting up my mouth,
the cream a pleasure slick
on my tongue.

No more filled out angles.
No more belly full slumber
but a groaning, gnawing
that asks at least for water,
or a lump of fiber,
a natural drop of juice,
a breath of fresh air.

Aristotle could stand on his feet
with a thought, one thought or a chain,
until sunrise,
only standing, and thinking,
but today he would be under
a numbed drug haze, in a lazy boy,
empty beer cans clinking softly
next to him.

Who doesn't want an ethereal mind
and a hunger that can evanesce?

Dear Snack Drawer . . .

Dear Office Snack Drawer:

I would like to introduce a new member to your team. Please welcome Flask o' Whiskey. Ms. Flask comes to us with impressive credentials. She has had the opportunity to work with many powerful and interesting people, including various Presidents of the United States, specifically, the ones that know how to read. She has also had the pleasure of working along side well-known snack drawer star players Line o' Coke and Big Fat Jay. Together these three have provided a necessary "party" element to the otherwise boring snack drawer landscape composed of Stale Peanuts, Half-Eaten Bag o' Chips and Candy Nobody Wants.

Let's give a Hip-Hip-HOORAY for Flask o' WhiskAY

Why are we in a music video?

Everywhere I go, except the one place I could really use it (work), I am in a music video. The music is so loud that I can lip synch along, the tunes are so top 40 that it makes perfect sense that promotion would include an actual music video.

Cut to me, sitting with books in front of me at a local coffee shop. Alanis Morisette is crooning about a jagged little pill, that drugged out yoga freak with the hippy hair. I stand, singing along, not because I want to, but because the music is loud and I certainly can't think about, or concentrate on anything else, so I decide to make the most out of it, and play along with the music video game.

Cut to me eating a Panini, crouched in the corner like a wounded animal, looking resentfully at the large speaker over my head. Suddenly I stand, imagining myself on stage doing choreographed dance moves with Justin Timberlake.

Cut to me gazing at a top three times too small for me in a clothing store. Suddenly, I pull my hair brush outta my purse as a handy stand-in microphone and I start cat walking in circles around the clothing wracks belting passionately "you don't know my name . . . baby, baby, BAAAABBBYYY"

Why does god want me to be in a music video all the time? (Btw, God, this is a direct question. I'm not just cc'ing you on this). I'm just trying to be a freaking normal person while eating and studying and reading and brooding over my inconsequential and privileged problems- like, why can't I go home right NOW, and download the new Kaskade from itunes? Instead I'm hear in pukey workville with files coming outta my ass. Whah. And my coffee's cold. And here at work, I could really use that music video.

EVERYBODY'S WORKIN FOR THE WEEKEND.

Lap Dance for Lunch

I could have a lap dance for lunch, I thought, as I headed out for a sandwich. The Gold Club is right there. There's a mountain of a white dude standing out front. I could even go a few doors down to the XYZ and have a drink first, but then I would have to downshift.

Truth time: I've never had a lap dance. I could say I've maybe kind of given one before, but I didn't get any money for it, so I guess that doesn't really count. I've noticed that LDs are kind of a right of passage for the modern woman. It's an interesting social phenomenon because it's kind of part of that whole genre of feminist thinking that says, "Men do this. I can do it too, even though I don't really want to . . . but it does make me feel kind of macho and I like that."

Ah, but what a wonderful thing it is to be a woman and to be able to conceal arousal in public. There are no unruly erections to deal with, and women are better at avoiding something men seem programmed for: the obvious stare.

So I'm wondering now how long the lap dance lasts, how to tip, etc. I know about the no touching rule. Would the big white dude throw me out if I pointed out to my dancer that her spaghetti strap is twisted, or if I tuck in a tag for her? I guess, for now, I won't try that.

Note to self: I'm gonna dress like a man for Halloween. A hump-backed man (because I know how to do this people) and I'll go get an LD and maybe instead of throwing me out, the security guys will take pity on me, and then we'll have beers, and before you know it I've got some new poker buddies. And then they find out I'm a woman masquerading as a humpbacked man and they'll feel let down, but oh well, it'll be fun until that happens.

Palomino

Cremello hair cascades in front of the eyes,
she eases,
but does not tease
with each marked step
a rhythmic hallway cadence.

It is not golden skin, but a veneer,
like rays of sun vanishing on the horizon,
one turn and each sparkle
evaporates
and then an appearance,
like a symbol projected against dark street,
eyes that are both
dark
and light.

Humble Pie

It's more than a dish,
it's an experience.

Why a snear McNear?
You stand, stalk closely.
You wait for the moment of
the point and turn.

You torture on whim
and punish out of loneliness.

Why the lone dune of your reverie
must come to encompass me-
I don't know.

I could give you eyes larger
than huckleberries,
a smile like the sweet yawn of morning.
But.
You'd turn it down on a day like today.
You'd turn me away,
as you have done.

I take lessons
and write them down:
the topagraphy of a snear
I can sketch, and for it,
I will recollect.

Let us say goodbye.
I want to say goodbye.

Blindside

Liquids distill mornings
and love refines intentions.

A few words here or there,
thrown carelessly over a shoulder,
errant grains of thought,
can nestle in the earth to produce leaves.

We are our generalizations, our condemnations:
the forgotten call, the unspoken state
sometimes retaliate.

And if I could tell you
what it really is,
the chance is you’d reject that truth,
an offering left for scattering
on a door step,
a bottle drifting to sea.

For Free

This connection has worn like the gold color
on a battered locket.

Stochastic encounters do not a welded bond make-
if striking out on the slick slopes of this armored pyramid,
I slip to the hot sands below
you will reign above.

But the sun is a balm,
and the sea is free, with waves that don't take to belonging,
or balances;
it takes instead, with a ruthless hand
and crushes the bricks of civilization.

Speedos, Ambidexterity, Rankism (SARs- It's a disease)

SPEEDOS, or BRIEF-STYLE SWIMSUIT (BSS)

Why I like to use the brand name rather than BSS: because it rhymes with cheeto, and cheetos are cheesy, like speedos.

So what's the deal with speedos? They're just plain wrong.

Are you an Olympic athlete? I didn't think so, Mr. I'm-too-sexy-for-my-shorts. It's just too high-def. It's not about me. It's about you and the unflattering way you choose to present yourself, really, like on a platter garnished with *berries* (never mind if that's your intention and it's not in public . . . )

What is it about speedos that reveal more than actual nudity? Nudity = natural. Speedos = abomination. It's because for many men, speedos press and create bulge, and not the good kind. It's like, "Oh look, here's what my butt looks like in a spandex vice! Isn't that nice?" It's also a pubic hair peak-a-boo show with hair sprouting uncomfortably from the groin, like weeds creeping through the cracks of a driveway.

Speedos should be used for utility, i.e. to make one more aerodynamic. There are exceptions here, but they generally don't apply. That being said, one should abstain, abstain, abstain.

AMBIDEXTERITY

What is it with the freaky people (person) writing with both hands at meetings?!? I noticed. Or maybe I'm going crazy, but it's pretty, well, unusual. I thought I was special, and then there's people who can sit on either side of the table facing forward and scribble comfortably on a note pad. How convenient that must be.

RANKISM

That's right. It's what you think it is, and it's dumb. Hierarchy is good for accomplishing tasks. But not acknowledging another human being because you think they're below you in the global/social pecking order is not. It's limited. It's a limited way of life for limited people with limited views. It is the spawn of insecurity and inflated egos, common bedfellows (one of my favorite words, I'm making a note right now to use it as often as I can). Of course I complain because I am daily on the lower end of this arrangement. And I love how people who I do good work for are too good to say hello to me in the elevator. Really, is it that difficult? I actually enjoy saying hello to such people because it makes them uncomfortable to acknowledge me as a human being; it knocks they're cool, little important world out of orbit for just a moment, and one must take pleasure where one can . . .