Fixing people

 

I wish we could fix people.

I wish wishes could fix people

And support

And kindness

And presents

And hugs.

I wish we could say the perfect thing.

I wish we could help

Really help.

 

But often the best we can do

Is stand by their sides

Support

Be kind

Give presents

Hug

Try to say the right things

Help

 

And watch them

Fall apart

Anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Your Personal Slave

 

Let us suppose that you own a slave. You would be responsible for his/her food, exercise, education, everything. If you were not allowed to give him freedom, how would you treat him?

I really hope you said something like, “I would give him the best life possible.” You would try not to work him into the ground. You would let him have his own way whenever you could. Adequate sleep, good nutritious food. (If you said anything worse than that, go sit in the corner and rethink your ethics. )

Well, guess what? You do own a slave. A hopelessly devoted, flawlessly obedient slave. It is your own body.

Do you take good care of your slave?

Do you make it drink until it’s sick, even though it begs you to let it stop? Do you make it stay up late, doing your homework because you didn’t get it done earlier? Have you ever worked your poor slave until it fell asleep, despite its best efforts? Do you feed your slave good food, or is it forced to survive off of gummy bears and Cheetos?

Your body tells you when it needs something, but it’s always a gentle nudge. You get the final word every time. It is fully bound to your insane demands.

Ask it to run. Like a faithful horse, it will run until you say otherwise or it collapses. Ask it to stay up so you can watch one more episode, and it’ll put its own needs off to please you.

It timidly requests water, so quiet you might not hear if you aren’t paying attention. Do you give it enough? 

It pulls lightly on the corner of your mind and whispers, I’m happy to keep working but can we please take a bathroom break. Do you force it to work until the need is on the verge of disaster? 

It’s been doing your reading for four hours straight and its eyes are fatigued. Do you tell it to squeeze its eyes shut for two seconds then keep on?

So many people seem to be waging war with their bodies. They are disconnected from themselves. Hannah and I always joke about magazine covers: “Wear a new body for summer!” “Find your bikini body!” “Get abs!” They seem to think a body is a fashion accessory which can be shaped and molded like clay, or maybe they think we’re made of interchangeable Lego pieces. It’s a weird way of looking at your own body.  People talk about building it up, breaking it down, burning it, whipping it into shape.

Poor body. It never rebelled. It just gets tired sometimes. You were the one who got it addicted to television and donuts. It would love to break those habits but it can’t do it alone.

Make sure and give your body plenty of outside play time, fresh water, nutritious food, quality sleep. Keep it clean and listen to its spare, unselfish requests. Check that it has clear skin, bright eyes, and strong nails. If you’re treating it well, it will be happy to greet you in the morning and excited to start a new day with you.

Now you have a new weird way of looking at your body.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Zen Waterfall

 

 

Electronic waterfall.

Zen you can buy.

Tiny.

Tinkling of elf bells.

Chinese water torture.

Tickling trickling.

Unwavering, relentless.

Uncomfortable.

Wetly cold.

Miniaturized peace.

Better than nothing.

 

Inconstant creek

Sun warmed

Life leaves ripples in the sound.

The water cavitates

Deeper bubbles.

Little granite cave

Darker tone.

Weighty cascade

Runs over boulders

As it pleases or not at all.

Alive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

Garlic breath

 

“Kiss me,” she said.

He wasn’t sure. He could smell the garlic from here, and it wasn’t pretty.

“I have an idea,” he said, leaning away. “How about we whip up some mint milkshakes?” It was a good idea, but she wasn’t biting.

“I’m fuuuuuull,” she pouted. The garlic rolled by him as she whined the word, an invisible tsunami that hit him with nearly physical force. It was all he could do to keep himself upright.

“I can’t,” he murmured. “I just can’t.”

“What?”

“I SAID I CAN’T,” he cried out desperately. “I’m sorry! You’re just too garlicky!”

Her warm, cozy expression shattered. “What?”

“I’m so sorry! I can’t be in this room with you any more!”

He ran like the hounds of hell were after him, burst out the door, stumbled down the stairs, and zoomed away in his car.

She leaned back in the couch, nonplussed. She never got a reaction like that from a man. Garlic odor? What an odd way for his fears to manifest.

She grabbed her phone and sent a group text to her coven.

Sorry gals. He was a sensitive, sensed something wrong and ran. I’ll get us a fresh one tomorrow night, I promise.

 

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Your hand

 

your hand

fragile

replete with vitality

laced with veins and arteries

padded with springy muscle

elegant bones the support trusses

you own this hand

it will fold whichever way you dream

each digit an extension of your unconscious

this hand can beckon, halt, support, negate

lose balance and it steadies you

cry and it wipes your tears away

 

All you artists,

let your hands give something form

and watch them express

what you never knew was in you.

All you workers,

allow the tasks to fall into place

marvel at what

your hands have wrought.

All you parents

brush hair, wash faces

prepare dinner

caress the infant

whose first unconscious expression of love

is the grasping of your fingers

in his warm little hand.

 

We are alive

how wondrous we are

with such capacities.

we wreck, we pet.

We let our hands lead us

these finite tools

a hand’s breadth

a finger’s length

flushed with redness, with vigor

Are we really

made of such things?

Are we really made by them?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

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