Drifting in the wind,
a leaf.
Aged. Hardened.
Alone.
Not here.
Not there.
Each gust of wind blowing.
Taking it away, to bring it back.
Only to start again.
Until someone comes.
Carries it away.
To a different place.
Where it is left.
Broken. Shredded. Crushed.
Just enough left to notice.
What it once might have been,
When it was still green.
Lush.
Not taken for granted.
Or left forgotten.
====================
Written after a trip to a nursing home…
Okay, what on earth is Raivenne raving about you ask? Why I’m so glad you did!
On Sunday, May 13, 2012, The Big Fat Flea will be holding its rummage sale!
The Big Fat whatchootalkinbout Willis?
The Big Fat Flea (formerly The Fat Girl Flea Market), is an amazing all-gender inclusive fatshion rummage sale that just happens to also be an amazing fundraiser for NOLOSE. This event is NOLOSE‘s biggest fundraiser, with all proceeds directly benefiting their work to end body oppression. Plus sizes of all genders get to shop fabulous items for a bargain and get to do a little philanthropy in the process.
What kind of bargains you ask? Oh please, let me show you!
Yes, this is what I look like after molting (click for full size).
These two dresses were originally from Igigicom. Igigi has fabulous clothes for us big gals, but they are not exactly on the cheap side. Each gown retailed for nearly $200 on the website. I purchased each maxi at the Flea for – hold on to your girdles girlies – $10 each! Yes, ten dollars – each. I also purchased really some cute tops/skirts and accessories at the Flea. And because I could I also bought the most God-awful, beaded monstrosity of a sweater for no other reason to have it for the next “ugly sweater” contest. Essentially, I easily bought close to $600 worth of clothing (retail), for barely $100. Now that, my dear people IS A BARGAIN!
I have participated with the Big Fat Flea in the past, simply as a shopper. Last year, I went a step further and volunteered to help organize/prepare for the event. I had such a fabulous experience and met some amazing people in the process. I loved it so much that I wanted to cry when I thought I might miss the chance to do so this year, but I am happy to say the philanthropic (and shopping), deities have smiled upon me and I will donating my time, energy to help out again this year.
Unlike before when it was The Fat Girl Flea Market, available only to the ladies, this year it is opened to all genders. Thus the name change to Big Fat Flea because After all, no matter how we identify, we all want to look good and to be able do so at a bargain is just icing on the cake.
I’m guessing right about now some of you are at the point of – yeah well that’s all nice for you and all, but how do “I” get in on all this fatshion goodness?
Here’s the nitty-gritty :
But wait there’s more!
Noticed the words rummage and flea (as in market), being bandied about here? There’s a reason. Yes, plus-sized clothing stores and private plus-size designers donate items to the Big Fat Flea, but the bulk of the clothing comes from us the fat folk shoppers who know just how hard it is to find good stuff in our sizes. You bought those fabulous pants and without trying them on first, ripped the tags off because you know they’ll fit. Two weeks later you’re ready to wear them and only then do you realize they don’t fit they way you thought. Not that I would ever have personal knowledge of such a scenario (cough). Naturally, the store won’t take them back and they’ve sat in your closet ever since. They are perfectly fine pants, I -er- you just can’t wear them – donate them and make someone else who has coveted but couldn’t get to the store in time to purchase them happy! Have that fabulous dress you wore once or twice, but know you’re never wearing again – donate! Hey, it’s spring – now’s a good time to go through that closet and donate your clean clothing sizes Large and up to the cause and get some replacements at bargain prices.
For more information on shopping and donating at the Big Fat Flea check out their Facebook and FAQs pages.
And last, but not least – I’ll be working there – now how’s that for incentive?
When the Book of Me was fully open to the life of you, it was tough handling what was written on those really private pages wasn’t it? Now that the private section is closed off to you, it’s tough not always knowing what’s written there. Especially, the private parts you think may be about you.
Sucks for you, huh?
And what if there are? Private parts written about you…
I could tell you that there is nothing concerning you, but it’s me, with a history of you. We both would know that for a blatant lie. A part of you is always going to be in that very private section of me.
I could tell you a truth that may have something to do with you, but what could you do about it even if you wanted to? Would it assuage your curiosity? Build an even thicker wall between us?
I could mind fuck with you and tell you, yes there is something, something that I can’t tell you, knowing the curiosity of such would drive you crazy. But I couldn’t live with myself putting you through that for no reason other than Schadenfreude.And I am happy to say, I now care a hell of a lot more about who I see reflected in my mirror, than who I thought I saw reflected in your eyes.
Or I could do exactly what I did, and tell you the truth…there is nothing concerning you, that you need to know about. I know, you do not like not knowing anything that may concern you. It may bug you for a hot second, but by the time you’re reading this (if you ever do), I know you’re already over it.
(I hope) you know me well enough to realize, if it really were important for you to know, I’d tell you.
So you say you can’t read me any more, not the way you used to. Is it really that surprising? We had a long time apart and neither of us are the same people anymore. I had to quickly learn to build one bitch of a thick ass wall to function around you without falling apart. The wall held shakily at first, but it is formidable now. I don’t know how to lower it.
Besides, I don’t think I should.
When I desperately need a friend to open up a page to at 3am, your name is no longer on the short list which comes to mind. While, I may still choose tell you things others may not be privy to, you’re no longer among those few 3am-ers. Thus you no longer have access to deep private pages written any more. And that really is a shame; for you were an excellent sounding board once.
These are the new chapters of the Book of Me.
Only time will tell if you are a continuing character…
…Or already an epilogue.
Pachynsis
my sacofricosis,
eurotophobia
and absolute medomalacuphobia
so ruins my chances at venus observa
that my gynephobia has its way
the words I do not say
‘come and play’
<>==========<>==========<>
Yes, I have issues – but none of them are listed in this write! (Big grin)
Pachynsis– An unusual thickening of the skin of muscle; in this case referring to male erection.
Sacofricosis– The practice of cutting a hole in the bottom of a front pants pocket in order to masturbate in public with less risk of detection.
Eurotophobia– The fear of female genitalia.
Medomalacuphobia– The fear of losing an erection.
Venus Observa– The clinical term for missionary position of copulation.
Gynephobia– The fear of women.
When the music moves the chef and the menu
I can not help but rock to the venue,
I grate and wind and fold and dip, all while cooking and that’s just my hips
Serving Foie gras to a Beyoncé bass beat?
I’ve played Metallica while serving Crème brûlée sweet.
I sway to a strawberry’s single sweet soliloquy
As I would to any doo-wop’s three-part harmony
My sifter sounds like maracas, the water running is backup hum,
And I’ll drop them all in heartbeat to do a Phil Collin’s air drum
Notes ringing crystal clear as an opera singer
Are like the perfect bite whose flavors linger
The perfect flavors require as much of a chef’s orchestration
As any conductor pulling together a musical temptation
And I dance as I chop and I chop as I sing and I sing as I fry, it’s a symbiotic thing
I can not help but rock to the venue,
When the music moves the chef and the menu
<>==========<>==========<>
Written for
Poetry Picnic Week 32: Topics on Twitter.com
Source Tweet: When Music Moves The Chef And The Menu
To those not familiar with Phil Collins I included a link to the reference within the poem. While the specific drum solo starts after the 5:00 mark, you really should listen to the entire song to get the full feel on why any of us familiar with the song will drop almost everything when that part comes to do the air drum.
<>==========<>==========<>
If only I could drive my car to work
I wouldn’t be caught in this urban haze.
The streets spots filled, the garages are packed
Garage is too expensive anyways.
Going home from work in a funky sweat,
Back of my throat like bottom of ashtrays.
The hour’s lucubration gone downhill,
Under the glare of my boss’ sharp gaze.
My corporate suit felt so good at work,
Now I’m out in midst of this darn blaze.
The walk’s a distance by foot to the train
And my suit is torture under these rays.
If only I could drive my car to work
I wouldn’t be caught in this urban haze.
Want to take off my jacket but I can’t,
Caught some strange guy checking me out slant ways.
Can feel my silk blouse sticking to my skin,
Yet I’m so not about to make his days
And see just how fitting my form can be,
But it’s worse in the sauna of subways.
For once again the AC’s not running.
This train’s the epitome of clichés.
Practice mental transference while I’m here,
To somewhere with pools and drinks and valets.
If only I could drive my car to work
I wouldn’t be caught in this urban haze.
All packed up on each other like sardines,
Is it the train or heat that’s causing sways?
Grateful that I’m finally at my stop,
Caught again in of those train delays.
At last! I am the phoenix bird rising,
From the deep pyre walking up the stairways.
Got the number for dinner on speed dial
The thought of cooking has me in a daze.
Little trooper I am I brave the heat,
But sometimes I swear I hate the weekdays.
If only I could drive my car to work
I wouldn’t be caught in this urban haze.
<>==========<>==========<>
Today’s form is a Raccontino.
The raccontino is an unlimited number of couplets, rhyming xb xb xb xb xb, etc. The syllable count is set in the first line and followed throughout the poem.
<>==========<>==========<>
Last week I went to an underground concert to support and critique a friend whose band was performing there. Let’s just say I could have given birth to most of the other attendees with whom I was front stage and center dancing up a storm. Conversations while different bands set up, comparing the ones performing that night to other older (sometimes much older), bands is when some realized I was not even within fifteen years of their age. As faces ebbed and flowed that night, it became something of a running gag for some whippersnapper in the know to grab a newcomer and have him or her guess my age. Yes, Advil was dear my friend the next morning, but this Mama held her own proudly that night.
Because when this mama rocks, it’s not in a chair.
A conversation I had yesterday regarding my love of head banging music reminded me of last week’s concert. I decided to immortalize it by trying another Zeno poem (Ten lines with the syllable count: 8/4/2/1/4/2/1/4/2/1 and a rhyme scheme: a/b/c/d/e/f/d/g/h/d).
That it also happens to fit this weeks dVerse challenge of “keeping it small” is an added bonus. 22 words total!
Other than my poem, A Lesson Deferred and a Facebook status post, I have been pretty quiet on the whole Trayvon Martin matter. A friend called me on it knowing I must have some opinion. My response was along the lines of simply not wanting to go there again. Today, I read a comment from a fellow blogger’s Slice of Life post from yesterday and she has nailed my feelings right on the head…
“I am so very tired to being quiet, of having to be concerned about the degree to which I can express my feelings because I have to worry that people will label me an “Angry Black Woman””
This is how I feel in a nutshell.
What does it say when a public figure such as Rush Limbaugh regularly feels free to spew vitriol on a variety of subjects, but I feel that I feel the need to self-censor? The very fact that I feel this restriction, this need to play the “Good Negro” just makes me more angry.
>==========<
Visit the rest of today’s Slices of Life over at Two Writing Teachers.
Drifting on a mode so deep – had to put it to words so I can sleep
Some of you won’t like this I know – but the muse goes where it wants to go
My Baby
He Loves Me
He Loves Me Like Chi-Town
Gangsta All The Way, ‘Cause He Know I Don’t Play
Before He Could Love Me Here, He Had To Love Me There
He Had To Speakeasy To Find The Key To Unlock My Mind
Because Once Unlocked There Is No Prohibition To What He Won’t Do For Love
Because Once Unlocked There Is No Inhibition To What I Will Do For Love
Because Once Unlocked There Is Just The Mission To Love
My Baby
He Loves Me
He Loves Me Like Detroit
Do-Wop Singing, Joy Bringing, Hip Swaying, Motown Playing
Hot Car Driving, Always Striving To
Giving Me The Best That’s He’s Got
Giving Me The Best ‘Cause It’s Hot
Giving It All Until We’re Bloodshot
My Baby
He Loves Me
He Loves Me Like New Orleans
The Big Easy – Easy Like A Sunday Morning, Just As The Day Is Dawning
Like Cool Jazz On The Hot Delta, I’m Telling Ya’ll I Never Felt A
Who Do The Voodoo, Like He Do
The Bass Of His Sax Makes My Skin Thrum
The Bass Of His Sax Makes My Lips Hum
The Bass Of His Sax Makes Me Just Wanna Succumb
My Baby
He Loves Me
He Loves Me Like Compton
Timberland Wearing, Rough-Neck Swearing
All The While Smiling Cause We Doggie Styling
Free-Styling On Crenshaw Where They All Saw
The Liquid Ounce¸ Ounce, Ounces Of The Forty
Drip On The Flounce, Flounce, Flounces Of My Booty
In The Bounce, Bounce, Bounces Of The Hoopty
My Baby
He Loves Me
He Loves Me Like The Big Apple
Creating It, Making It, Taking It, Never Faking It
So Good It Makes Me Weep For The Sexing That Never Sleeps
Ain’t Got A Damn Thing To Say When He’s Laying Down The Broadway
Shoes On The Counter, In The Hall, Still Outside The Front Door.
Buttons Splattered, Clothing A Tattered, Scattered Mess On The Floor
No Shame In My Game ‘Cause Don’t You Know?
I’m Well Versed In The Language Of Fellatio
Going From “oh baby, oh baby, oh baby, oh.”
To “Oh Baby! Oh Baby! Oh Baby! Oh Baby! OH!”
Back Stinging From The Sweat In Trails His Nails Left
And Moaning For More ‘Cause I’m Not Done Yet
Tom Catted, Hair Matted,
Sheets Twisting, Sweat Glistening,
Cock Throbbing, All Out Sobbing
And That’s Just Him . . .
Menage A Trois? Yeah! Fuck That And Get The Strap!
Tongue Dripping On The Cunt Dipping For
The New Jack Trick Of The Deep Licked Long Dick
Where I’m Laid Down To Get Jacked-On
Where I’m Held Down To Get Sucked-Off
Where I’m Tied Down To Get Fucked Up
Stroking, Stoking, Toking, Smoking
Steaming, Streaming, Screaming, Creaming
MY! BABY! IS! LOVING! ME! UNTIL! WE! ARE! FUCKING! EACH! OTHER! AS! HARD! AS! THIS!
And Oh – Did I Tell You About My Baby?
He Loves Me…
>==========<
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