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I always thought I was better than you.
I am going to get thinner to get back at you.

It doesn’t even out but comes close
meaning I came close
meaning I almost came
close but not quite
once.

You are not a stallion, pony-boy.
A hard body with a soft little puddin’ mind.

Punishment.
It doesn’t even out or even come close.

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We’ve built a happy home
created the life we wanted
the bubble that won’t pop
the reality blissfully skewed to our liking

With adopted children from the midsection
cousins in far away places
uncles and aunts
and mothers and fathers from all those places we’ve never been

Our family
medicatedpoeticladygrin
writers, conspirators, sympathizers, antagonists all
welcome home
linger yet
don’t stay away too long

I feel as though you and I, dear reader, are beyond polite conversation. That’s why I say I probably will not have a sustained meaningful or sexual relationship with the guy who sent me an email to say hello and that he was surprised he could read the email I sent him through a dating service because said service has been acting up and he can’t read it on the site but the email came through to his real email account so he was able to read it. Then, he signed his name. I tend to attract the socially awkward or the pathologically damaged ones and am beginning to realize that these sorts are not to be fucked. I’m just saying. (Note: I ain’t no ho, I’m just saying.)

Which suddenly reminds me of the guy who stuck his dead fish tongue down my throat. I just don’t recommend doing that on a first date or ever. I was so shocked I didn’t beat him with my purse but I vow to lay the smack down on anybody else that does that. World, consider yourself duly warned.

I don’t like leprechaun hands either. If a man’s hands are smaller than mine, it will never work. I’m sorry. I ain’t trying to hate.

Okay, now that I’ve got my ghettospeak done with, I wish you peeps a good day.

Look again
ornamental
resolution
is
absurd

Keep in mind
again
yen is not zen

Tell me again
Against the grain is so passé
You know this
lesson. you know this
omen
Resurrection

     April 1981. My brother and I are running around the backyard, searching for Easter eggs. It’s cold. Our movements are static, slightly-delayed in my mind—as though this is not a memory but an old slide-show film from the 70s. 
     He’s being nice to me for once, my brother.  I remember that. Just yesterday, he stole my Miss Piggy doll and wouldn’t give it back until I burst into tears.  Today, though, he’s a gem for all to see. I’ve got on his hand-me-down clothes, a red shirt that barely covers my round belly and elastic blue jeans.  He pulls me this way and that, a little roughly, but I understand that this is “nice” for my brother.  
     For all the effort, I haven’t found any eggs.  My brother has beaten me to all of them.  But Mother, who is sweet and has a pretty, soft voice, tells him to “help” his sister find one.  So he drags me over to a large rock in the yard and lo and behold, there is an egg tucked right beside it.  I am happy.
 
     Later.  In Kindergarten, I find only one egg at our class Easter egg hunt.  I am given a mercy award for having found the least amount in the class.  I tried to find more, kind of.  It’s exhausting running around for silly eggs.  I get to the predictable hiding spots too late.
     I learn a lesson about running after the other kids and doing what they are doing that day: if you run after what others have, you’ll end up panting–with nothing to show for it.  I try to follow the kids who seem lucky in egg-hunting, but it gets me nowhere.  For one thing, these kids are lucky; they find all the eggs.  Everyone else has lots of eggs, and I am the only one who doesn’t.  If only I could do it again, I think to myself 21 years later, I would be more intuitive, finding eggs—and my way—for myself.
     Of course, lessons are easily forgotten. By the time I’m in 5th grade, the new girl at a new school, I try desperately to find a different face in the mirror, one more like popular girls in my class.  I try to be like the other girls, thinking they are sure to help me find the light that seems to glow around them.  But other girls are quicker than me, and I don’t become part of the entourage of snippy white girls in a poor town. I am reduced to slinking back to my unhappy existence, having clearly not found any eggs. 
    

     These days. The only time I ever eat eggs is if my father scrambles them. I watch my father work, smiling, laughing easily. He cracks and breaks the eggs. This is no big deal for him. Eggs are eggs to him. For me, they symbolize everything I have ever wanted but have been unable reach: popularity, maturity, understanding, friendship, and love. All the woes of childhood and adulthood found in the most common of breakfast foods.
     Sitting at the table, listening to my father carry on, I hear my dad in another place and time telling me to let it go.  I <em>should</em> let all the old go. I’ve spent too long pondering the past.  I should enjoy my own life. Resolved for the moment, I can table this struggle for another day. I smile at my father.
     With a little salt, I think, those eggs will be awfully tasty.

My ear has been gurgling for a few days. Making internal sounds that sound like choking and feel like muscle spasms. The choking I get, the Eustachian tubes being cock-blocked, or blocked in any case. The spasms confuse me. There are no muscles. Can tubes quiver? There’s no pain (yet) just an itch that would require utter destruction to scratch.

Given enough time, though, destruction always becomes preferable.

Jonesing it isn’t the best way to go
he thinks solemnly while testing the tap
for cold, not hot
finds himself enveloped in tepid which wouldn’t be so bad
if he’d had the time to spare

Joshing it works
by virtue of virtue and for some reason
he likes the thought but it fades as sun-bleached things do

Naming it is useless today even with an “ing” or an I-N-G
haphazardly applied to the end as though the ending makes any sense of
the beginning

SOB with me

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