Mobile Masseuse
An interesting
idea, massages on wheels —
Does he have candy?
Inspired by my friend, Austin B.
It’s a gambit to get to know people.
We roll, we wait, we see, and think
Will you like me? Will we get along,
pair planted in stardust, platonic soulmates
in a desolate land enclosed between the ribcage
and constant beating to find
a friend.
Funny little word that, friend. It implies it,
the end, as if knowing is always dangerous.
It all eventually leads to heartbreak.
Either death, or worse, disconnection and disassociation
because we rolled and landed on snake eyes
difference can be the killer and creator
of the dividing line.
And yet, when I see in me what I see in you,
and kindred souls align in a matter of chance,
oh, what a life it is worth living, having known
and been known by someone with different eyes than you.
They see what you are blind to
and fill your cup with all their knowings,
the ichor of their passion, making you feel
alive again.
Passerby on the street. Eyes stop behind shop’s stained glass.
An object of loving obsession sits plainly in the daylight’s gleam.
Bell chime, bought and asked to be wrapped with care.
“Is this a gift?” No hesitation to affirm. “That’s nice of you.”
A chuckle because there’s irony there,
what knows and loves, knows and loves.
Fond smile reaches lips,
“I’m just lucky to have friends to know.”
(714) childhood area code unknown to me
that first call home
on my dorm room landline
a guessing game
682- sole hometownprefix
no guessing needed
3273 comforting pattern
2 brothers, 2 sisters
3 girls total
7 member nuclear family
(602), (480) new state, new life
exploding population,
new area code
941- odd and even,
up and down,
navigating marriage,
motherhood, career change
2876 counting down
to two college grads
to empty nest
to enjoying our adults, our grandchildren, our sons in law
2802 can’t escape the 28
school district employee ID
my 20-year companion
85281, 35 years of increasing urban density
85288 mandates a new zip code
another change,
another adaptation,
life.
The iconic scene from Twister,
the cow getting blown around,
missing our protagonists and
landing, well we never find
out where. Can bet there are
some broken bovine bones involved.
They say you can fluctuate two pounds
during a day, depending on when
you’ve eaten, what your activity
level is. I have tested this theory
with our bathroom scale, going between
whether it hates me or it really hates me.
There’s nothing pinning me to the ground
except gravity. I like a wide open sky
and rolling hills, have even went driving
in the mountains of Colorado to be
that much closer. I have a fear of heights
if I look down, but not up and out.
I wonder if I lose weight, if I’m
more likely to be taken by tornadoes.
I might want those extra two pounds
then, or maybe, if I’m sucked up,
I can appreciate the view more than a cow
until my weight comes back, the sky
no longer accepting me.
Late summer, and, although it’s night
and the farmhouse is empty of children,
it’s not quiet and the air grows hotter
with all the windows I shut to muffle
the bellowing of cows to their calves
who are calling to their mamas
now separated by fences for weaning
but close enough to sense in adjacent fields.
I know not all make good mothers,
sometimes a cow will birth a calf
and walk away
or forget one in a great field
and go grazing with her slow-moving herd,
but these will not sleep, nor will I,
until this unnatural season ends.
If I opened a window,
opened my mouth, I could
join their mourning
out of empathy or instinct,
or both, I don’t know.
As I sit down
with my journal
a cream-colored notebook
with tiny strawberries
all over it
I feel
that same peculiar feeling
creeping in
when I pick up
my pen
and my journal.
I open
the worn pages
to a blank space
while that peculiar feeling
rises
from my stomach
to my throat.
Yet
I am silent.
All you can hear
in the house
is the sound
of my pen
scratching the paper
as I write.
It’s warm.
It’s exciting
to see what words
pour out of me.
I never know.
It’s a mystery.
The pressure
boiling inside
releases smoke
as I write.
I quiet
my inner critic
and trust
my creative voice.
I read
the stranger
who lives
inside me.
Each word
heals a part of me
that I can’t see.
I was born a poet,
and a poet
is what
I will be.
Technically, it is hotter within me
than in this air that wraps my sweating skin,
but the margin is slight,
and the sun assails every attempt
at homeostasis.
A body is a meat sack filled
with thermostats, or so I’m told.
All day, my flesh measures
heat, hunger, need,
toggles this or that
toward some hoped for
equilibrium.
Scientists say it might be
this uncertainty, the very volatility
of our world, the need
for some safe return to zero, the fact
that we never stay at zero—
It might be this
that gives rise to feelings,
sentience,
the conscious mind.
I think,
but first I feel,
I thirst,
I overheat.
It is so fucking hot today,
therefore I am.
I haven’t decided which scares me more,
Cars or men.
So many vehicles on the roads these days are so tall,
I call them pedestrian killers.
Not all cars, but you know the type
The hood comes up to my shoulder,
Which is saying something, because I am six feet tall.
You’re more likely to die thanks to those guys
Because you won’t roll over the top like you might a sedan.
Cars, though, are predictable.
Every day I can pick out who will run the red,
Who will slip right on through when I have the right of way,
Who will be aggressive with me.
Men too are predictable, but volatile.
When I leave my house for work I know there will be cars,
After all, the city is built for them.
The city too is built for men, but their access knows no bounds.
I cross eastward on my way home
And a car almost runs me down.
My crosswalk theatrics ensue and a window rolls down,
Exposing a man who calls, “I’m sorry, baby.”
I stomp past, flip him off and wait to see if this act will cost me.
“Fuck you too then you big ass bitch.”
Relief rushes as I realize I got away with it,
I get to walk away this time.
So, I guess, if I had to say which is worse,
Being a woman or a pedestrian, let’s just say
I’d choose the car every time.
Silence blankets
the 19th Century homes
on this gentrified street
that once hovered
on the brink of decay.
Summer’s dusk falls
and the city’s heart settles
into evening’s routine:
the preprandial drink,
child’s report of school,
six o’clock news, dinner
from the Aga, microwave
or nearest deli.
An older woman walks
a wolfhound in the park,
pauses for a deposit,
picks up the excrement,
while three pugs frolic
through their nightly outing
and a passing Mercedes
tootles a greeting.
No gangs run in this area,
no graffiti adorn the walls.
The stench of garbage
or urine does not offend,
but a darkness emerges
when babies sleep
and screens flicker:
a drunken stumble,
cry, thud; hands grope
for satisfaction that is taboo;
a belt becomes a whip or noose;
a fist flies, perhaps a bullet,
and blood splatters.
America loves a cowboy.
Heck I’m obsessed too!
But this may be our fatal flaw.
We are always looking for the Lone Ranger
When what we really need is a good posse.
Or maybe, just maybe,
We need to spend more time in the saloon
Singing ancient ballads
And discussing the merits of our brand
Or how to choose a remuda.
Is the best cowboy the one who points the herd
Or those who flank the herd to keep it together
Or the drag riders who help the stragglers forward?
