Time on the Proverbial Couch

It is so much easier to write about things like

my encounter at the tanning salon,

where everyone thinks I'm there

for the same reason I assume they are.

Which is funny because I'm not white.

At the same time, it's nice to feel Normal

like I Fit In, even as I'm indignant 

because I hate the smell of roasting flesh.

I'm there because winter makes my skin worse.

My mind goes into withdrawal 

and my body follows suit,

longing for dregs of Vitamin D.

As opposed to my afternoon in the OR,

excising breast cancer with Dr. K.

Dr. K chats as he supervises me working,

ensuring no errant artery or nerve is led asunder.

We stumble upon the topic of my parents

and suddenly there's too much to say,

a paucity of words with which to say it,

and too many ancillary ears waiting to hear.

We're past the point in the case requiring concentration,

now it's rote muscle memory, closing in layers,

bringing the tissues back together minus the tumor.

Dr. K knows I'm struggling- he always knows, 

whether it's with the case or the conversation-

and he leaves it be.

"Good job, doctor" and he shakes my hand

over the sterile field like he is sometimes wont to do,

but this time he gives me an extra pat.

19 January 2012

2020

Pathos

I have a friend named Calvin

who spreads shit

and tells lies

but somehow brings it back

to how much he loves 

You,

The best of friends.

Except let's be honest,

his name isn't "Calvin".

Identities have been changed 

to protect the innocent,

unlike "Calvin" who's as innocent

as he is guilty as sin.

We coddle him,

shield him from his reality,

a tacit understanding among friends.

A reticent river of deep dark secrets,

sinister insecurities only to him.

It's hard to resist pity,

until you've shared a drink

which often turns into ten,

followed by reckless abandon,

"Calvin" pushing away

the demons in his head.

9 January 2012

2200

Heavy Metal

The gym smells of sweat and impermanence.

Solid black rows of silent weights 

next to panels of unblinking mirrors.

Maybe that's why the gym brings

such excellent stress relief.

While daily tribulations bear down

like the weight of the world,

heavy as the bar you struggle against,

the sweat dries and the machines forget.

The scales always stand ready,

the machines unyielding to infinite reps.

Like the gentle ebb and flow of one's physique-

gym goers tending toward the extra holiday cookie or two,

then toning their resolve with a new year

or the impending specter of bikinis and the pool-

problems take on new perspective.

Unfeeling rows of ellipticals ridden round the moon

have pedaled through the break ups, the take overs, 

the buy outs and the meltdowns,

have transformed the energy of every saddled rider

into tighter abs and leaner thighs

and brought them through to the other side,

arriving at a finish line though stationary the whole time.

4 January 2012

2245

Conversations in the Car

"I'm a feminist!" she declared,

eyebrows raised.

He looked at her askance,

doubt in his features.

"Really?" he questioned,

"it just seems"

his voice trailed off,

dot dot dot.

"What?" she wanted to know.

"Well your past hardly seems the feminist ideal" he countered,

almost apologetically.

She sighed and shook her head.

If only the heart could be made to listen to the mind more often.

3 January 2012

0700

Melancholia

Crazy's only crazy until it really is the end.

Then all of your worries about the worth of the world

are suddenly validated.

Put another way, maybe mental illness is relative to its context.

For example, we'd all seem a little insane

preoccupied with raking the leaves and watering the lawn,

making our endless to-do lists and resolutions,

crossing and adding, subtracting and erasing,

if in reality, the world really was coming to an end

hurtling toward a hidden planet hitherto unknown.

It would be beautiful though,

a fiery apocalypse to end the earth

with dueling stars across the sky

and surreal shadows slipping across the lawn.

Then suddenly her crazy obsession 

with the end

and the evil of humanity

transforms from a deluded rant

into prophesy.

3 January 2012

0630

Juxtaposition

The little men saunter with such swagger,

perfect miniatures of the world around them.

Big brown eyes amidst a sea of cornrows, 

there's a startling contrast of hardness and light.

It's unnerving to see them walk with an affected limp,

puffy coats shrugged past small shoulders,

perfectly imitated versions of their reality.

It serves as an unavoidable reminder

that we are so much a product of environment,

that little men become full fledged adults

molded by the society inculcated unto them.

Their tiny Tims walk down self fulfilling prophesies,

coerced into stereotypes we've perpetuated.

3 January 2012

2205

Down the Rabbit Hole

Over the years, I have found I curse my memory often.

Thoughts tumble out my ears with each turn of my head.

For important moments I focus hard,

willing my brain to imprint each word, each inflection.

It succeeds with intermittent success.

The mundane activities, the everyday life,

washes by like the eternal current of a river,

peaceful or raging but traceless.

Knowing these moments will grow mossy with age

no matter how I dam the flow or direct the stream

fills me with frustration, or sadness.

My friend, who's robotic memory churns out dates and minutae,

says it's a blessing to forget.

He keeps it all, the good, the bad, the painful,

the best forgotten.

Maybe I'd agree with him if the forgetting were volitional.

As it stands, on the whole I'd say he comes out ahead.

At least he'd remember cracking roasted chestnuts,

champagne in the glow of the ball drop,

jello and reunions to the tune of country music

Even if it comes along with every evil thing said,

every moment of self-doubt and regret.

2 January 2012

2330