T[EE]TH

I have good teeth

I get that a lot

I have good teeth

dominant primates flash their teeth

when showing aggression

I have good teeth

 

To the Handyman who Fixed the Kallax Shelf I “Built”

Firstly, I would like to say thank you.

Secondly, I had read the instructions and no such piece or part came with the furniture

Third, you have laced silk underwear, much better than the plumbers in America, whereever did you buy them?

Fourth, your eyes are penetratingly blue, and I do not like them.

Especially when we see each other at Ikea (separate occasion) and lock eyes passing each other in disbelief. Like dancing mirages unable to comprehend our visions and overjoyed by the possibility of tandem dancing. You didn’t look away partner until your girlfriend grabbed your hand, forced it onto the shopping cart, and pushed you into the garden section.

And lastly, I have recently broken the Kallax shelf I had recently re-purchased .

New Year’s Vagilution (in February)

This year I would like to give my vagina more attention

to awaken my cunt kundalini

majora, minora, and fury

she’s all Venus vagintata

What an asshole!

(Hello!)

(No, I’m not talking to you)

Cycle appropriated

IUD installation fee

(Comes with free Wi-Fi. Password: T1T5)

Reiterate school lessons

Don’t touch, don’t look, don’t smell, don’t tempt

I touch and look and smell and tempt

Proud of my homeostasis

Michelangel-whoops!

We find beauty in the imperfect,
not the perfect.
Beloved artistic works
were often
imperfections
of their time.

Michelangelo’s David’s
hands and head are
proportionately
too large for his
body.

But,
when we stand
at the base
looking up,
to us,
he appears perfect.

We have always seen beauty in the
imperfect,
because,
from                   our
perspective,

imperfection             is perfection.

Letter to the One that Stopped

Dearest,

I fear you. Your glorious, unfiltered power. Your topless, free-breasted march toward the unknown. You are unapologetic and inflexible in your understandings of the world because you know yourself and would never apologize for such. I remember when I first met you three years ago; before that, I had seen glimpses of you at parties, on mountaintops, in the cumulus clouds. But, I was always looking out as you were wondering by.

But three years ago, you stopped and I stopped. We knew it was our time, and we took it. Time is so much easier to grab with four hands instead of two. You helped me break, you helped me make the phone call, you helped me release the nine-year floodgate of “Fuck you!” And then, afterwards, after the mess I made and the mess I became, you told me to clean up and keep walking, to pack it up, steal the cat, and create a life I didn’t know I didn’t want until we had made it ourselves.

But I am stubborn and so are you, and I didn’t know what I didn’t want until I had lived it myself. Like a pair of shoes, my favorite well-traveled companion carrying me for miles. At some point, I had to buy a new pair of shoes. But you are not shoes, you are not worn and trampled upon. You last forever, if I allow you to, if I let you in. And I did, three years ago, when you stopped and I stopped, and we took our time.

But that was three years ago, and you never loved me more than you had three months ago. When I told my parents, bought the ticket, boxed it up, and sold the rest walking away from the life and future that cost me nine years of mental abuse and an accruing interest of $80,000. The me I didn’t know I didn’t want.

Beer buzzed in a small hotel in Pankow, windows open listening to the rain, petting my stolen cat and thinking of my reclaimed life. All crammed into two suitcases, a violin case, and a spiral bound journal. I hadn’t realized, not truly, how much I loved you, how grateful I am to have you. The feeling of love and synchronicity overwhelmed me. You had stopped, and I had stopped, and we had taken this.

My dear,
my love,
my precious, beautiful,
Freedom.

 

As I Have

How is it that you have been in my dreams?

Have you lived them too?

As I have?

Woken up

by the tears

streaming down my face

as I have?

Woken up by

a lock jawed smile

as I have?

Flown to indescribable universes

only to return to a body in a bed

as I have?

New Year’s Time Birth

different first steps
present tense unused
initiate motion
do something shiny
never opened ending
action original
unique verb birth
start creative engine
solar restart
seasons & signs
cycles initiate motion
never opened measurements
unused annual ignition
lunar light yield
time birth
start doing something human

Seafarers Holy Day

8 A.M.: Awakened by bells, tolling for me to rise and gape in awe at a colorful array of labeled boxes. What’s in there? A bike or a pony? Is a big wheeler with racing stripes cooler than a rainbow colored pony? Would mom let me keep the pony? Probably not.
9 A.M.: Wait in basement for cousins to arrive. While waiting, tried to imagine what Laura Ingles Wilder would get for Christmas, bar soap probably. An inquiry: Why do cousins, no matter how early, regardless of Santa’s visitation, arms embraced with toys, take the latter part of a century to come over in pajamas?
10 A.M.: Ravenous. The carcasses of gifts strewn across the floor-mine were untouched, for the record, hidden in the basement- there is a cabinet under the stairs that holds them. Helped burn the wreckage. Intermission, attempted to trade, with great success, my presents for things I envy: Road Dahl’s The Twits, Dinotopia in hardcover, a collection of works by Impressionist painters, the unabridged version of Dracula, though mother really should have stopped me from taking the latter. Argued with sister, grade 2, about the importance of embracing a variety of genres and that intelligent people read a vast array. She used my books for safety rocks while playing the floor is lava.
10:30 A.M.: All males gather in the kitchen salivating as grandma pulls out the strata and Christmas cinnamon rolls.
11 A.M.: The Catholics argue over the time the “Christmas Church Service” began. It was 30 minutes ago. Wonder which basement crevasse best accommodates me for hiding purposes. Hitch stocking full of necessary goods to pajama bottoms (containing the nutrients of Christmas sugar) and begin separating from the group, descending the stairs, clenched by aunt.
Noon: Eat stale wafer and sour juice. Man in white prays for us, man in pew sleeps, Papa smiles wide, exposing hidden doughnut from jacket pocket. All seek salvation, I crave milk. After sermon, the white cloth shakes hands, nodding, smiling. I am placed on Papa’s shoulders. Says the tale of Odysseus is just as good.
1 P.M.: Lunch is well under way upon our arrival home, must be careful not to injure uncle…asleep on floor. Others have assumed fetal position in living room, deeply lethargic, animalistic snores fill the room. Now for my escape.
1:30 P.M.: Nabbed again? Disappointingly, claw fingered aunt forces me to sit while she discusses loneliness: last Christmas cat died, the one before her husband, the third a cardinal hit the glass. Continues mumbling grievances well into deep sleep.
2-3 P.M.: Charles Wallace begins showing me that there is in fact no solid continuum of time but that time undergoes accordion like compression. Tried explaining theory to cousins, caused brains to combust. Went in search of others.
3:30 P.M.: Voyage wise sea captain! Upon searching the house for a willing ear, I found Papa on the porch. Removing his gold frames he set down Cervantes’s Don Quixote within 2 seconds of my arrival. I skim his shelves lined with adventures: The Far Side of the World, Seahawk, The Iliad, Treasure Island, and The Life, Adventures and Piracies of Captain Singleton. Papa told me that Ernest Shackleton, evidently a famous explorer, no doubt to be learned in school, best explained the complexities of a seaman, both a freedom and curse. After retrieving the necessary hot chocolate, we continue our conversation about the definition of mutiny. He feels that I am old enough to handle such complexities. Furthermore, mutiny, by definition, a crew against one’s own captain, is nothing more, than a physical argument.
5:05 P.M.: At this time, the adults awaken from their comas; Modern Prometheus rises from his man made couch only to be attacked by a swarm of underling cousins. Silence has been broken-weren’t Papa’s stories better then their comatose dreams?-and the family begins reconvening for another meal.
8 P.M.: Relatives begin slowly assembling layered garments. Explain that Demeter will be with her daughter soon. Realizing the redundancy of changing my current frog patterned garb I prepare for bed, listing the necessary steps. Would I rather read Alice in Wonderland or The Magician’s Nephew? Can’t decide. Where the Sidewalk Ends or Skin? Can’t Decide. Could I be transported to another world through a painting? No, and I don’t want to be involved in a murder either.
9 P.M.: Sister complains about the unknown location of new Barbies. Turn over grinning myself to sleep.
10 P.M.: Awoken by Papa handing me a box. Cautiously, lift cardboard lid. Drop box on floor, where it remains for days.
10:30 P.M.: Eventually fall asleep.  Embracing my collection of C.S. Forester. Horatio Hornblower, 1st Baron Hornblower and the HMS Hotspur.