SLAP

Stretched out,
Stark naked,
Across my lap,
I deliver slap,
After slap, after slap,
My hardened palm,
Stinging quivering cheek,
She gasps, and moans,
But cannot speak,
Though she need not,
I can hear each thought,
As I deliver blows,
I sense her shiver,
From head to toes,
Encompassing her exposed whole,
There lay open,
Heart and soul,
“Will he stop soon?”
“Will there be more?”
“If I say stop, will he ignore”
“Will he continue, again and again?”
“Will there be pleasure, after pain?”
“A tender kiss? A slipped in finger?
Or just stop,
To let the stinging linger?”
“Does he enjoy, this show of nerve?
Or does he feel that I deserve,
Some punishment, for something deep?
Just why do these thoughts creep,
And seep into my concious mind,
As he wails away on my behind?”
Me, I sense each and every wonder,
As I strike her with an inner thunder,
My imprint marked upon her skin,
I share her questions from within,
Punishment? Or gift? Or is it neither?
When will I stop?
…… I don’t know either.

Hardcore Grandma

About five years ago, I sat in my mom’s cubicle at the Arcadia office of the Fish and Wildlife Service and wrote this down in a leather bound journal:

She’s not the average grandma. As I approach my forties, she’s still alive and kicking, although not as high as she used to. When I was little we would make jam and cookies. She’d curl my stubbornly straight hair with steam curlers, and we eat cheese and crackers and drink Constant Comment tea. Now hot water has turned to wine, and we have adult conversations over glasses of chilled Pinot Grigio. She tells me about her high school days in the 1940s. She shows me a photo of her in her knee-length song leader skirt, one knee raised, and both hands gripping enormous crepe paper pom poms. The picture perfect All American girl.

She was a real stunner then, and was still as glamorous as a movie star well into her 50s and 60s. More pictures reveal her older, married, pregnant, her head piled high with Betty Grable curls. When I ooh and ahh over how beautiful she looked in a bathing suit, she chuckles with embarrassment or maybe sadness, that she no longer has the figure of a pin-up girl.

She hates being old. Not that anyone actually loves it, but she really, really hates it. She hates having to wear glasses after a lifetime of 20-20 vision. She can no longer wear high heels due to her feet being damaged from years of wearing too-tight shoes. She rejects computers and hates sending emails, but she’s nevertheless a modern woman. She lives a quiet life now, a lonely life. Though she still drives herself around in her Honda CRV, uses her cell phone, and reads books on an Amazon Kindle.

During one of our last shopping trips together, she couldn’t get her handbag open. The zipper was hopelessly stuck and neither of our best efforts could budge it. So she asked the cashier for a pair of scissors and proceeded to cut open her purse to retrieve her wallet. We laughed and laughed as she performed this emergency wallet C-section. The cashier looked at us like we were nuts.

“I’m not the average grandmother.” She said.

Indeed not.

“Grandma, you are hardcore.”

The Core Issue With Male-Female Relations

I’ve managed to summarize male and female relations, and identify the difficulties we have in that regard:

“She’s a genius,
Can cure cancer,
For every question,
She’s an answer,
Can’t underestimate,
Her abilities,
She is more,
Than the eye sees,
Literary,
Artistic, wise,
Worldly, with all,
That that implies,
Equal, and more,
Every respect fits,
And all I want,
Is to see her tits.

LAUGH, OR CRY

Damn.
Laugh or cry, laugh or cry?
Or better yet, just wonder why,
We’re in this goddamned circumstance,
Where decency doesn’t stand a chance,
Ruled by men who can’t keep it in their pants,
Who wield power like a drunken dance,
Narrow minds, small hearts, seem to rule the day,
Unfettered greed finally has its way,
Rights, justice, and Love,
Go sailing on by,
I wonder,
Should I laugh or cry.

Marshmallow Farms

20180616_145740

I bet you didn’t know,
That marshmallows grow,
Big, white and round,
Right out of the ground.
Of quality top,
This organic crop,
So perfect this year,
Time for harvest is here.
Plain white is society’s
Most wanted variety,
But some specialist growers,
Produce some real showers.
Pink and yellow in heaps,
For marshmallow peeps.

Man-bun

Man-bun,
Sitting, taunting me,
With your pseudo-masculinity,
You think you’re cool, on the edge, out far,
But I see several of you,
On the same subway car,
You believe that you’re rad,
But it couldn’t be clearer,
You live in a proverbial house,
Without a proverbial mirror!

A review of Neil Young’s Paradox

Pass the mushrooms…
….and the hashish cakes,
Fire up the moon,
We’re showing introspective outertakes,
And not a flash too soon,
Time bending forwards, bending backwards,
Night in the afternoon,
Sweet peyote, morning glory,
Fire up the moon……

This film is like a compressed Tom Robbins novel, and that’s high fucking praise in my books.

“When seeds are outlawed, outlaws will save the seeds.”

We’re Not In Kindergarten

I’ll be here for you,
Not there for you,
I’ll show you that I care for you,
But don’t ask me to copy, cut, or paste,
I’m pretty sure that’s not the answer,
To either Alzheimer’s or cancer,
Plus it’s tedious and in rather poor taste,
I’ll do things that I should,
I’ll fight the fight that’s good,
I’ll call or PM, to see you’re on the mend,
I’ll do those things that are real,
Based upon the way I feel,
And not because it’s another Facebook trend.

SPREAD

Her history, she said,
Was one to dread,
Which she did.
Kept things hid.
Too much to feel,
She couldn’t deal,
And so instead,
She’d find,
With an open mind,
Her legs could spread,
Let others tread,
In her secret garden,
She’d grant them pardon,
To have their way,
So she could say,
She’d kind of feel,
Though not for real,
But it was a start,
It’d plant the seed,
So she’d grow to need,
To be truly freed,
To spread her heart.