this ridiculous love for dysfunctional males:  “poo-la-la”… I needed to learn to lie down in the clover by myself, with the muses and absent presence swirling around me as pirate ghosts. the beagle scratches his mushroom-shaped butt in a spiral on the ground, all the dogs cock their little heads importunately, the foxes just slip out of the headlights: you can’t ever get a good look at them. I have half a mind to have half a mind, the wind makes me layered, the markets are full of foods I can’t reach and if I could reach them I couldn’t eat them and they probably wouldn’t be good for me anyway. A general all-round slipperiness, but without the bliss. Large steel sculpture with interesting acoustics, but I can’t see over the top, and it makes me dizzy, but then, everything makes me dizzy, and don’t think I don’t notice anything, because I notice everything. Consider that a kind of arc, but I don’t know yet if it’s comic, tragic, or tilted, only that it’s curved, and I don’t know if the curve is pleasurable or uncomfortable, if it butts up against my cervix or reaches points of delight. Nibbling on the cookie of mortality, daily, until it is done, every last crumb, like winter covering your mistakes with snow and wheels spinning in furious squeals until the rubber parts wear out and I’ve run out of frownies and indigenous miracle oil to put on my scar, but I don’t mean to sound pathetic since I’ve not been beaten by a husband when five and a half months pregnant so that my water breaks and I give birth to the child prematurely and then he threatens to burn down the house with me and my other children in it, and I’m not as far as I know being taken over inside my body by any horrible diseases and the sun is shining on the seagulls as if nothing disruptive had ever happened. Still I want to take you and shake you by the shoulders, what the hell is WRONG with you, until you see clearly the feathery mists in my solar plexus that you either chewed like jerky or twisted into long drooping braids dripping with salt crystals. I don’t know. I rub a little sage between my fingers. The seasons are wrong. These loves are like ticks or tapeworms or barbed and tapered darts, they wiggle into the layers of my clothes, go up through my foot in the slimy creek, I try to pull them out of my skin like the swan girl in the movie but there are always more, and I can’t just spin and spin in the stagelights until I have grown great black wings, I remain myself except a size O and in a state of drugged and gaping bewilderment, like WTF? Poo-la-la. It was so red and sticking up, I was afraid he was going to hurt himself. “I’m just working on my translations.” The pile of plush animals. United: untied.

One thought on “poo-la-la

  1. Nada, this is a great piece. You don't know me, but I occasionally check out your work from afar. Your writing is better than mine.
    I'd planned to come see you and KLG at PRB tonight, but I'm still too exhausted from holiday traveling. Just wanted to check in anyway, somehow. This way, as it turns out.

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