Wonder Woman Underwear So, all week long, I feel feisty or horny, or depressed. I’m a tired huntress, or an indignant virgin, or a resentful mother. In my snappy underwear, my huntress is alert, the virgin fights for her causes, and the mother is kind and nurturing. But I cant even find the cape for my panties today.
So, yeah. I have moods. I’m moody. Bruisy purple-green moods and electric, scarlet moods. The clock ticks. The pen skips. The cockroach that plays BIG piano in my oven control panel bipps. It’s not that I can’t string words together. It’s that I have nothing to say. I’m mute. Empty. Having something to say doesn’t depend on words. I could say it with colors, or my body. Or pickles on foam core board. The muse has left me, for another woman. Left me high and dry, mocking my good intentions. I curse her and the flamingo she flew in on. I gave at the silent auction. Bip. Bip. Bip. Carcass. That’s my word of the day. Haul this big-bellied carcass around, for what? I hate a muffin top. A squidgy belly is good for babies to lie on but shit for looking good in new jeans. Or out of them. I sit in an abundance. My legs work. My mind works, except when I forget what I walked in for. I don’t know what muse this is, but she’s mean. Wants to bite heads off and draw blood. Here, have some rum cake. That’ll do it. Long, slow, death-by-diabetes, the sugar legacy. This is nonsense. I’m just scribbling. No story. No method. This isn’t writing. I pick up the little rubber penis (complete with ball sack) that fits over a light switch. Up, excited. Down, lights out. It would be fun if it stayed on, and up. But it falls off. It has dust on it. Needs a rinse. I fiddle with the hardwood bracelet from Costa Rica. Ten different-colored woods never get boring. And the glow-in-the-dark piggy paperweight. But writing about this stuff isn’t writing, either. The wind blows in the trees outside. I think the class is infecting me. Gloomy and rancid thoughts swirl like the leaves in my carport. This day would be different if I had put on my Wonder Woman Underwear this morning. Tomorrow, I’ll do that. Objects may be closer then they appear 
I look down at the broccoli in the glass dish. I blink, thinking my eyes are playing tricks on me. Nope, the little brocollettes are waving at me. Jazz hands, but broccoli. Come on, they beckon. Go for it. So I bend my head and dive into my belly button.
I emerge in the cloister in Arles, France. Van Gogh spent time here, walking this square corridor, itching to paint the colors that swirled in his mind. But he’s not here. Only Mao Tse Tung and the Tidy Bowl man. Mao is hitting his forehead with a board and reciting a rap verse over and over. The Tidy Bowl man just wants to trip him, but he has to do it without being obvious, or he will be punished. I look around. A huge rhinoceros wearing a purple cape gallops up to me. I can’t see where he’s come from and I’m scared he’s going to trample me. But he stops, stands up and says, in delightful English-accented tones, “I’m due at Wembley stadium, but I’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere. Can you point the way?” I point up. He unfurls green iridescent wings, and, with two great wing-beats, is gone. I sink through the cold stone floor and find myself face to face (or is it face to butt?) with a worm the size of a barn. Or, no, I’m as big as a poppy seed. Now I understand how the rhino could find himself so off-course. It belches purple powdery stuff and in an instant I become a sound wave, snake-shaped, bouncing off drum heads, against infinite eardrums, everywhere at once. This is just too diffuse. So I focus myself into a particle and allow myself to expand. I glimpse the worm (who is now wearing a smoking jacket and sipping on a martini) and swim through some sort of watery bog. I zip through bubbly water until I reach terminal velocity and blast out of the ocean in a spray of blue iridescent wings. I have some too! And scales. I test my breath, and sure enough, fire comes out. No breath mints for me. I’m headed for Wembley stadium to find out why the rhino was headed there. Soon I see the stadium. There are thousands of fantastic creatures, in every color and configuration you can imagine. The rhino isn’t easy to spot, so I tune into that frequency and settle down next to him. With no words, I ask the question. His answer: Because I don’t like broccoli. 
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What Can You Do But Laugh
Times, there are times
When the bough breaks and the cradle falls.
And the body comes a-tumbling doen
Who wrote such a line as a lullabye?
Countless little kids terrorized about kids being left in a cradle at the top of a tree.
Parents not paying attention to the words…Would you sing that lullabye to your kids?
Did you?
What Can You Do But Laugh?
Times, there are times
When the sad condom breaks
And if luck is with you, nothing further issues.
Ah, but sometimes you aren’t so lucky.
Both of my kids came about through busted condoms.
A little earlier than my mind scheduled them, but we adjusted.
What Can You Do But Laugh?
Kids come when they come.
Times, there are times
When your car breaks, or your buttocks fall.
And time grinds your body to an ashy pile of creaking joints and aching bones;
the words an indistinct mumble, if you can hear them at all.
Or you forget why you come in here
A tired and constant confusion, like a watercolor wash on your graying days.
What Can You Do But Laugh?
Your only alternative a final goodbye to it all.
Times, there are times
When you feel your god deserts you.
But do you desert her?
That glorious source in your heart’s eye –
Do you blink and shudder to cast her from your reckoning?
You do not!
You have faith!
You reach deep!
You find humor, make a joke.
At the guy who cuts you off in traffic.
At the spots that populate your once-flawless skin.
You reach for grace – as the Great Sociopath takes the oath of office,
knowing this too, shall pass.
What Can You Do But Laugh?
Keep the faith!
Times, there are times
When nothing goes the way you want.
Your heart sinks low
Your lover leaves with nary a nod
You ask what it all means and come up blank.
Don’t take yourself so seriously.
You think you are the only one?
To be dumped? To get cancer? To loose a child?
These are the things of the human condition.
Our expectations out of line with the facts.
We’re born with boundless hope,
soon dashed by the inevitable falls,
and Disney.
But there’s beauty, and humor, if you look for it.
The sugar that sweetens the bitter
Train yourself to look for it.
Husband leaves you for another man?
What Can You Do But Laugh?
When the bough breaks and the cradle falls.
And the body comes a-tumbling doen
Who wrote such a line as a lullabye?
Countless little kids terrorized about kids being left in a cradle at the top of a tree.
Parents not paying attention to the words…Would you sing that lullabye to your kids?
Did you?
What Can You Do But Laugh?
Times, there are times
When the sad condom breaks
And if luck is with you, nothing further issues.
Ah, but sometimes you aren’t so lucky.
Both of my kids came about through busted condoms.
A little earlier than my mind scheduled them, but we adjusted.
What Can You Do But Laugh?
Kids come when they come.
Times, there are times
When your car breaks, or your buttocks fall.
And time grinds your body to an ashy pile of creaking joints and aching bones;
the words an indistinct mumble, if you can hear them at all.
Or you forget why you come in here
A tired and constant confusion, like a watercolor wash on your graying days.
What Can You Do But Laugh?
Your only alternative a final goodbye to it all.
Times, there are times
When you feel your god deserts you.
But do you desert her?
That glorious source in your heart’s eye –
Do you blink and shudder to cast her from your reckoning?
You do not!
You have faith!
You reach deep!
You find humor, make a joke.
At the guy who cuts you off in traffic.
At the spots that populate your once-flawless skin.
You reach for grace – as the Great Sociopath takes the oath of office,
knowing this too, shall pass.
What Can You Do But Laugh?
Keep the faith!
Times, there are times
When nothing goes the way you want.
Your heart sinks low
Your lover leaves with nary a nod
You ask what it all means and come up blank.
Don’t take yourself so seriously.
You think you are the only one?
To be dumped? To get cancer? To loose a child?
These are the things of the human condition.
Our expectations out of line with the facts.
We’re born with boundless hope,
soon dashed by the inevitable falls,
and Disney.
But there’s beauty, and humor, if you look for it.
The sugar that sweetens the bitter
Train yourself to look for it.
Husband leaves you for another man?
What Can You Do But Laugh?
Winds From Tibet
Last night I flew to Tibet. On breathy wind-swept tendrils of longing, each soul among us floated up the jagged mountain, recalling the gentle tinkle of tinny bells punctuating the dry air I haven’t breathed for more lifetimes than I can name. I heard the steady plod of yak hoofs over broken stones, while tears of bittersweet memory and heartfelt empathy slid slowly down my face.
And still I was transported. Immediately, surely, like the smoke of long lost fires, I floated into each butter-lit home to see the turquoise and coral colors of my beguiling, beloved, sacred Lhasa. Soul seed that sent down roots uncountable eons before this meager moment.
Before the unspeakable horror of great, red dragons daring to eat the sacred phoenix, and with the vile and violent arrogance of ignorance and greed, crunched our brittle, butter-built bones while the blood dripped off their incisors. The oxygen-rich, deep red elixir squeezed, crushed and shot from veins seeping, exploded, or torn as armored tanks ground up our precious, fragile, and tentative soil. The people scattered like gentle ants, some surviving. Always, a tenacious few who survive, looking to His Holiness, who now holds the woe of Tutsi and Hutu and beloved, twinkling Tutu, expanded beyond reckoning by the deadly diaspora. Such painful irony that deep pain deepens and expands the heart.
And still, that beautiful, smiling man, with so much love and gentleness in his generous and kindred heart, blew his lifebreath into each fragrant flutesong. And with each sinuous note, stilled our hearts to one, conjoined rhythm, as he painted sound pictures of gratitude and love for the tropical emeralds, vibrant crimsons, and watery azures now woven into his eager reckoning.
Who can tell what should not be? The world breeds violence and hate with the same blind commitment that it breeds beauty and splendor. As always the choice lies within.
And still I was transported. Immediately, surely, like the smoke of long lost fires, I floated into each butter-lit home to see the turquoise and coral colors of my beguiling, beloved, sacred Lhasa. Soul seed that sent down roots uncountable eons before this meager moment.
Before the unspeakable horror of great, red dragons daring to eat the sacred phoenix, and with the vile and violent arrogance of ignorance and greed, crunched our brittle, butter-built bones while the blood dripped off their incisors. The oxygen-rich, deep red elixir squeezed, crushed and shot from veins seeping, exploded, or torn as armored tanks ground up our precious, fragile, and tentative soil. The people scattered like gentle ants, some surviving. Always, a tenacious few who survive, looking to His Holiness, who now holds the woe of Tutsi and Hutu and beloved, twinkling Tutu, expanded beyond reckoning by the deadly diaspora. Such painful irony that deep pain deepens and expands the heart.
And still, that beautiful, smiling man, with so much love and gentleness in his generous and kindred heart, blew his lifebreath into each fragrant flutesong. And with each sinuous note, stilled our hearts to one, conjoined rhythm, as he painted sound pictures of gratitude and love for the tropical emeralds, vibrant crimsons, and watery azures now woven into his eager reckoning.
Who can tell what should not be? The world breeds violence and hate with the same blind commitment that it breeds beauty and splendor. As always the choice lies within.
Double Extender
So I’m ripping off my hospital gown with my teeth when this nurse walks in and looks at me like I’m a feral animal. To be honest, she’s not that far off as I growl at her to help me or get the fuck out. Most of the time these doctors and nurses walk in and out of my room with hazmat suits, poking and prodding me into oblivion, but this time, I’m crazed and wild.
Anyway, this nurse looked surprised because I’m usually blank when she walks in. I went numb almost as soon as I was admitted into the hospital. So numb that as they told me I was quarantined, I floated outside of my body and had the conscious thought, “hey look at that, my nervous system just shut down!” It wasn’t hard to go almost full catatonic as they filled me back up with 2 pints of blood and an obscene amount of pharmaceuticals. But anyway, that wasn’t why my nervous system shut down. It was because I was told I couldn’t see my baby anymore as they wheeled me into isolation. Silver lining? I had a room to myself with a harbor view, and the fleeting thought that I might get a full night’s rest for the first time in almost a year. The rest of it though? Fucking miserable.
Anyway, much to the shock of just about every nurse, doctor and specialist that came my way, I was still nursing my almost 9 month old. They looked at me like I was fucking crazy when I begged them to find me a breast pump considering I was half conscious due to the fact that I had half the amount of blood a human needs to survive in my body. And here I was nursing on demand all hours of the day and night, only to be separated from my child without even saying goodbye. But my mama bear was strong as ever inside of me, much stronger than my physical body that’s for sure, and they fucking knew it too.
Anyway like I said, most of the time, they came in, I was catatonic staring out the window at a cruise ship parked in the harbor. But God forbid they’d make the mistake of mentioning my baby or my family, I’d just started screaming like a lunatic. I could see the whites of their eyes behind the plastic hazmat masks before they turned a heel and got the hell out of my room.
So yeah, I’m ripping off my hospital gown with my teeth because I have this IV in the crook of my left elbow rendering that entire arm useless, and I have to get my breast pump on. Hot tears are streaming down my face because I know if I don’t pump soon, my baby won’t have any milk for the night, and since it’s been almost a week since I’ve seen him, I don’t want him to forget about me. To be honest, I feel pretty forgotten in isolation. My husband only came to see me once for 10 minutes before leaving to get the baby from the sitter. I know he’s terrible in stressful situations and I could see him shrinking in this one, but that didn’t make me feel any better about it. Anyway, my family was thousands of miles and time zones away, so they were nowhere to be found. And friends? Well, let’s just say getting sick the same day you give birth to your first child puts you in a whole different type of isolation. So you’d think that should’ve prepared me for this. Nah, no dice. I’m just fucking lonely, and my milk is drying up which makes me feel like an even more worthless mother than I thought I was before I got admitted. I mean, I couldn’t even pick up my baby for the last month. I’d put him in a chair at the edge of the shower and lay on the floor of the tub while the water veiled my tears.
Anyway, I thought that was rock bottom. But it turns out, ripping off your hospital gown with your teeth and screaming at a nurse is the new bottom. I must have scared her enough, or sparked whatever compassion compelled her to pursue a career in nursing in the first place, because she walked over to me, helped me attach the pump, and looked at me with love. She said I was an amazing mother. I cried as I thanked her for being so kind, and asked her to forgive me for being such a bitch. She smiled, and for a moment, I felt less alone.
Anyway, this nurse looked surprised because I’m usually blank when she walks in. I went numb almost as soon as I was admitted into the hospital. So numb that as they told me I was quarantined, I floated outside of my body and had the conscious thought, “hey look at that, my nervous system just shut down!” It wasn’t hard to go almost full catatonic as they filled me back up with 2 pints of blood and an obscene amount of pharmaceuticals. But anyway, that wasn’t why my nervous system shut down. It was because I was told I couldn’t see my baby anymore as they wheeled me into isolation. Silver lining? I had a room to myself with a harbor view, and the fleeting thought that I might get a full night’s rest for the first time in almost a year. The rest of it though? Fucking miserable.
Anyway, much to the shock of just about every nurse, doctor and specialist that came my way, I was still nursing my almost 9 month old. They looked at me like I was fucking crazy when I begged them to find me a breast pump considering I was half conscious due to the fact that I had half the amount of blood a human needs to survive in my body. And here I was nursing on demand all hours of the day and night, only to be separated from my child without even saying goodbye. But my mama bear was strong as ever inside of me, much stronger than my physical body that’s for sure, and they fucking knew it too.
Anyway like I said, most of the time, they came in, I was catatonic staring out the window at a cruise ship parked in the harbor. But God forbid they’d make the mistake of mentioning my baby or my family, I’d just started screaming like a lunatic. I could see the whites of their eyes behind the plastic hazmat masks before they turned a heel and got the hell out of my room.
So yeah, I’m ripping off my hospital gown with my teeth because I have this IV in the crook of my left elbow rendering that entire arm useless, and I have to get my breast pump on. Hot tears are streaming down my face because I know if I don’t pump soon, my baby won’t have any milk for the night, and since it’s been almost a week since I’ve seen him, I don’t want him to forget about me. To be honest, I feel pretty forgotten in isolation. My husband only came to see me once for 10 minutes before leaving to get the baby from the sitter. I know he’s terrible in stressful situations and I could see him shrinking in this one, but that didn’t make me feel any better about it. Anyway, my family was thousands of miles and time zones away, so they were nowhere to be found. And friends? Well, let’s just say getting sick the same day you give birth to your first child puts you in a whole different type of isolation. So you’d think that should’ve prepared me for this. Nah, no dice. I’m just fucking lonely, and my milk is drying up which makes me feel like an even more worthless mother than I thought I was before I got admitted. I mean, I couldn’t even pick up my baby for the last month. I’d put him in a chair at the edge of the shower and lay on the floor of the tub while the water veiled my tears.
Anyway, I thought that was rock bottom. But it turns out, ripping off your hospital gown with your teeth and screaming at a nurse is the new bottom. I must have scared her enough, or sparked whatever compassion compelled her to pursue a career in nursing in the first place, because she walked over to me, helped me attach the pump, and looked at me with love. She said I was an amazing mother. I cried as I thanked her for being so kind, and asked her to forgive me for being such a bitch. She smiled, and for a moment, I felt less alone.
Tennis Match
I see him every afternoon. Muscled calves flexing in the sun as he lunges across the court. Return the ball or flash a smile. It’s all blinding. The allure. Concentration of effort. Pure and pinpointed. Crushing.
Unaware of my gaze. Maybe.
Now that I think of it, he could be watching me, too.
It gets so I don’t have to use my eyes. I can feel his movements; taste the sweat trickling through golden hairs on the side of his neck. Back and forth. Baiting the hook. Tracking. Tracking. I stay focused on the game, engaged and tracking. As my pulse races and my undershorts grow damp.
The perfect L of the vastus intermedius (times 2!), and the one, crooked incisor – they’re like catnip. I want to roll on my back and wriggle; purr and claw and bite. …Which only hones my resolve.
Oblivious to females at first glance. At least he’s curious. The females watch him, and feel the catnip. It make their hips wiggle, too. I see it. The males write him off as a dreamer, a dork. There is no place for such beauty in their pantheon – or for such remove.
Hard to pin down. Hard to define. A hard man is good to fine. And enjoy.
I walk to the net and stand. The sun bright and brassy, like every other mid-valley afternoon. Distant sounds of splashing in the pool and birds chirping in the parched trees. His white clothes stretching delicious over tanned skin, and balls scattered at court edges.
My undershorts need a tug. Shoelaces need a pull. I feel my heart beat, steady, and my eyes take in everything, without moving. I stand, transfixed. Motionless. Love swelling in my breast. Like a bird, pinned in the crosshairs, knowing its goose is cooked.
He’s somewhere beyond my peripheral vision. He’s not all the way grown yet. But he’s big. And strong enough to take down. His father. Or me. Lion cub with lethal paws, innocent, kills without intending. Trying to figure it out.
I turn my head and smile. Not aware until it’s too late. That I’m the one who’s been hunted, and bagged.
Unaware of my gaze. Maybe.
Now that I think of it, he could be watching me, too.
It gets so I don’t have to use my eyes. I can feel his movements; taste the sweat trickling through golden hairs on the side of his neck. Back and forth. Baiting the hook. Tracking. Tracking. I stay focused on the game, engaged and tracking. As my pulse races and my undershorts grow damp.
The perfect L of the vastus intermedius (times 2!), and the one, crooked incisor – they’re like catnip. I want to roll on my back and wriggle; purr and claw and bite. …Which only hones my resolve.
Oblivious to females at first glance. At least he’s curious. The females watch him, and feel the catnip. It make their hips wiggle, too. I see it. The males write him off as a dreamer, a dork. There is no place for such beauty in their pantheon – or for such remove.
Hard to pin down. Hard to define. A hard man is good to fine. And enjoy.
I walk to the net and stand. The sun bright and brassy, like every other mid-valley afternoon. Distant sounds of splashing in the pool and birds chirping in the parched trees. His white clothes stretching delicious over tanned skin, and balls scattered at court edges.
My undershorts need a tug. Shoelaces need a pull. I feel my heart beat, steady, and my eyes take in everything, without moving. I stand, transfixed. Motionless. Love swelling in my breast. Like a bird, pinned in the crosshairs, knowing its goose is cooked.
He’s somewhere beyond my peripheral vision. He’s not all the way grown yet. But he’s big. And strong enough to take down. His father. Or me. Lion cub with lethal paws, innocent, kills without intending. Trying to figure it out.
I turn my head and smile. Not aware until it’s too late. That I’m the one who’s been hunted, and bagged.
