I just buffed this piece, written a year ago; still relevant and holding, Oh Lord, be still my heart-esther
Point of View
Get this, you can look thin. Forget all about that hogwash of dieting, food plan, thinking yourself thin, eating rooted tarrow weed, boiling gargoyles in your kitchen on the night of a full moon; or eating the worms in the garden before the sun emerges over its rosy neighborhood, or cooking aubades for that matter; now get this, there’s a good one; and you too can be thin; and I think, I too can be thin. I look at my wrists, which have expanded since I’ve been a 4-pound baby; matter of fact, if I’m lying I’m dying, I was a four pounder, and get this, if I’m lying, I’m dying, I am 4 pounds cubed or undehydrated to the Einstein theory of relatively to the max, but if
I’m lying, I’m dying, my wrists are still thin.
So there is a simple explanation for why I feel pencil thin in my new expanded billowing by the hips, caught-in the wind-gossamer
black pants, and reasonably fitted wide waist; too wide to fit a Scarlett O-Hara waist. and wide enough for a beer truck but not as
wide as a bread truck parked at Peets Coffee.Are you with me? Are you listening? Heavy women of the world unite, because I have a new idea. I am always thin if I look at my wrists, and I am sorry God. Forgive me for living in California, make that Los Angeles. I am not thin in other parts of my body. Are you with me?
Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, bless me father for I have sinned. I have eaten, last night after I resolved to eat only oatmeal and apples
and vegetables of the cruciferous kind, crunchy on the tongue, the palate, I ate a beguiling, smooth, small, come and get me, violate
me in the vilest way possible, white cake, trembling under the florescent lights, lined up in serried rank with all the other
little cakes. This little cake, are you with me, this little cake, whom I immediately bonded with and became best friends, let’s call
her Cuppy, well, Cuppy said to me, “Come, let us be one, pick me, pick me, let me slide down your throat, go by your epiglottal stops,
let’s stop your epiglottal ways and come with me, and that’s when the song, “Come with me, come with me,” overcame me and I knew I
would no longer have thin wrists, because can you get this, Cuppy and I became one, a sybaritic experience, and now, instead of food
plans, meetings; mea culpa banged upon my breasts which until I expanded I called chest, now, now, now, I will put long floor t
ceiling mirrors at a tilt, and gaze at my rolling hills of a body, and get this, I will awaken and throw my long legs into the air, and
in the widened room, they look thin and tall, oh so thin and tall.
God, I am ready to live in California, silhouette thin, depending upon your point of view, and God, I’m off for the day to find
another Cuppy. Let us rejoice for the Cuppies of the world.
Thinking of calling this “Before the golden Age”
Elizabeth Vargas bids goodbye from the news
Wait How is Peter Jennings?
Now I know
Of his kind heart, his last days
His frailty-but what of his regrets
About those last cigarettes?
Nine eleven – my fingers
Probe memory’s silt
Braille the reality of those days
Find terror’s dullard cousin Disbelief
Our earth stood still on nine eleven.
Together in cylindrical need
We lurched towards one another
A oneness prayer
No words or syllables or sounds
United, until the politicians
Like Crows form New Jersey,
Fat cigars hanging from their mouths
Carped, scavenged and hawked
Their way up ladders of
Avarice and greed.
“The necks of men are stretched out in malice,”*
Crows cavorted long back halls
Of politically elite and Power’s salacious divide.
Language used for Dark reptilian thoughts
Separate, the enemy, the other
The Crows, did I say crows?
I meant Boys, Boys at play
Like Gargoyles in a game
Crocodiles shopping for dental twine.>