Sunday, October 29, 2006

Traffic, Again

One would assume, as much as I drive, that I would accept the inability of the public to navigate the highways and byways with any semblance of skill and/or ease. That's not how I work. I just become more frustrated with it day by day. So frustrated, at times, that I feel I should be able to lecture those who are inept.

I'm aware that I've proposed this action before, but I am now more adamant in my belief that it is a need - a necessity- for the safety of our travels and the sanity of the good drivers of America.

Our license plates should be our cell phone numbers.

So when jigaboo with his spinners, Ridin Dirty tint, driver's seat leaned back so far that the headrest touches the backseat and both hands typin' on his two-way knows that I feel his 97 Honda Accord in the left lane traveling at a mind-boggling 62 MPH should probably be in the right lane with Grandma Georgina and the Wal-Mart delivery truck who has mistaken his load of Brawny paper towels and Fancy Feast cat food for Nitroglycerin. Don't drive above 60! We might explode!

(Please, do not interpret jigaboo as a racist term - despite its checkered past - in this particular instance it is being used to refer to a very white man with prison tats and a diamond and gold grill adorning his teeth. Attractive, yes? Ladies, do not hesitate using the cell phone number license plates as not only an outlet for your anger, but also a dating service. This man is anxiously awaiting your call.)

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

How You Know You're Female

If the anatomy, itself, didn't tip you off.

You spend THIRTY-TWO minutes sitting at the bottom of your walk-in closet searching for a pair of black boots.

You find 7 pairs: black leather ankle boots with a pointed toe, black leather knee boots with a square toe, black leather mid-calf boots with a round toe, black leather mid-calf boots with a pointed toe, black leather knee boots with a rounded toe, black sueded slightly above the knee boots with a pointed toe, black sueded just below the knee boots with a square toe . . . .

(yes, some of these are out of style, but you never know when they will return)

What you DO NOT find is:

The one pair of pointed toe, stilletto heeled, right at the knee, black calf-skin leather boots that you KNOW you own, but can't for the life of you locate.

I would finish this post, but I think they MIGHT be in a BCBG box in the back of the library/office closet.

Monday, October 16, 2006

The Moth

My flame was burning an orange red glow that cautioned others to their distance but beckoned you strangely for reasons I won't fathom and as you grew closer I faded to the blue white of gas stoves and pilot lights hoping it would stop your steady pace but brought a smile to my internal face as I saw your step quicken and I extinguished myself, now shadowed from your view I observe your confusion and can't stop the laugh that maniacally breaks the dumbfounded silence of the empty room and you follow the echo to the wrong corner and I dig my torn nails into my sinking palms and hold my breath so I don't whisper my hidden position to you bringing an end to a game I didn't want to play because I couldn't write the rules and you slump into the corner where you didn't find me and I watch and decide I never wanted you at all.

Friday, October 13, 2006

Collage

I could mend myself, if only you would start to tear me apart, instead of leaving me here, picking myself into pieces and sticking them willy nilly to a page with an off brand glue stick and tweezers that were never mine but won't be returned to the owner. The sharp metal ends dig deeper than my nails and the clear drying of the glue doesn’t satisfy as much as the red stickiness that emerges from the small cuts I provide. You watch me delving into my arm, my leg, my hand, my cheek, missing the heart of me and smile because you know I’ll never go that deep. The red dries black on the page, soaking through the peach-pink of my skin with the jagged edges and I watch transparent fade to opaque. I scream soundlessly in non-existent pain and watch your tears course over your laughter in streams. Pulling the tweezers from my hand you stab them into my center and I implode on myself and blink out of existence the only bits left are the ones on the page.