Drying Paint in a Tall Building Leads to Sexy Feet with Quite Sum Gi Attached

Drying paint, it was the first thing I’d smelled -

when,

I interviewed for the job.

A nanny I’d be, if I passed all the “tests” -

mostly having to do with my character, I knew.

~

I’d be taking care of a wealthy couple’s children.

How old they were, I don’t know -

it was just a dream, just a dream.

Maybe they were 4 and 5, or 6 and 7 -

they couldn’t have been more than a year apart.

A boy and a girl.

~

Cute as buttons, smart as whips,

as people like to say,

yes,

as people like to say.

~

The paint burned my breathing holes,

sizzled my nose hairs -

they’d already tinted the room that would be mine,

if I got the job.

But it was just a dream, just a dream.

~

Yet, OH, it was -

so vivid, Polaroid, not a color I couldn’t see,

couldn’t TASTE, SMELL – they were so

deliciously real.

~

The wee ones were sent off to play while the

Mom and (father)

questioned me. The husband, not taking much interest -

detached, really from the whole ordeal. He didn’t care much

who they hired, as long as he didn’t have to care for his own

beautiful children.

~

But that’s not the point, it’s just part of

the scene, still playing in my pounding, searching mind and bleeding, crying

heart.

~

The house was enormous, four stories, maybe five, in a city

somewhere. It was mind-bogglingly “modern” with swirling, curling

stairs -

spiral, I guess they call them. The tight circle going up

made me dizzy.

~

She, being more concerned with who would care for her children,

wanted me to see everything, the whole place.

I knew I had it, that job was mine -

as soon as she’d said,

“Do you want to see upstairs?”

I was passing the tests. Yes!

But it was just a dream, just a dream,

I want it to be real.

Yearning. Yearning.

~

God, please, please make it real.

The Law of Attraction,

law, God, Intention -

please help.

~

I was on the third floor, I think, oh shit,

I can’t remember,

when I saw him.

I saw his feet first, hanging just slightly off of a chair,

I think,

or was it a bed?

It could have been. I just don’t know because

it was just a dream, just a dream.

~

His luscious bare feet

called me. My pumper stumped, stomped – just for a nanosecond,

I bet it, oh, I bet it did, in my sleep.

They had, I saw, as I HELD MY BREATH,

the perfect amount of “foot hair,”

yeah, there is such a thing.

~

I fought the urge, on the stairs -

Clench, shiver, shudder -

I want to lick his toes, maybe suck them, too. But I know I want to

touch them, palm them in my hands. Feel the bones, know the mind, the body

attached to them.

She,

Mom,

was behind me, thinking, and wondering, why has this woman stopped so suddenly?

Hormones, CALM DOWN, I thought -

Oh, spasm, clench, SHUDDER, shiver, clench -

~

But it was just a dream, just a dream.

DAMMIT!

~

Her thoughts breathed into my back, “What are you waiting for?”

I answered, though she asked nothing,

“Sorry, I’m a little afraid of heights, and I have a bit of

claustrophobia.”

“Oh, she said, “my sister’s like that,

do you want me to hold your hand?”

Hold my hand, her?

I didn’t respond. I wanted to hold his feet!

~

We continued -

up, up, up, up,

circle, circle, circle.

At the top,

there it was, the most beautiful bedroom I’d ever

seen.

Freshly painted, and now that unmistakable,

pungent odor of drying coats,

hit me, SLAM, full force, assaulting my sinuses.

Instant headache, button pressed.

I looked out the windows, a dizzying feeling,

being up so high. Yes, it’s true I’m afraid of heights, that part

a reality independent of the dream.

~

I wanted to cry, at the breathtaking view, my mouth began to water

at the perfect, built-in bookcases, freshly-lacquered.

I could be so happy here, SO

euphoric here.

But it was just a dream, just a dream.

~

I looked down, the carpet new, tan, but for once

I didn’t mind tan. I could be so happy here, SO

blissful here.

It had been awhile since I’d taken care of little beings,

but I knew I could do it. They were bright, new, non-judgmental -

eager to learn, from what I could tell, needing someone to

pay attention to their needs, to

really love them.

And why not me? I have a lot to give away.

~

Then I thought of him, again.

I thought of him, the man,

sum gi, I knew not,

but those feet!

~

who was this guy,

he was sum gi,

sum gi I knew I wanted.

~

No matter what, I had to nail this position.

Oh, I had to nail him, too. Oh, I knew.

He, quite sum gi. I could stomach-feel that

already.

~

She watched my eyes, but I don’t know if she knew what I was thinking.

Trust. She did trust me, I could sense it. She knew I’d be okay with her children,

they would thrive in my care -

she stomach-felt that.

~

On the way back down the stairs of spiral,

like ham in reverse,

I saw his feet again. 

I don’t know where Mom went,

because -

it was just a dream, just a dream.

~

I stopped

breathing,

I halted on the steps.

Lowered myself, crouching,

his feet had been moving,

but they FROZE.

Instant rice. He was done.

Quite sum gi knew I was there.

Tummy feel, he tummy-felt me.

~

He looked at me, 

SUCK, PANG, nipples hard,

and I looked back.

He was quite sum gi -

in a tall building.

I don’t know who he was -

why he was there.

~

Because it was just a dream, just a dream.

~

I crawled, yes crawled, like Alice -

LIKE ALICE,

into his room. 

We

smoked a joint.

Quite sum gi made love to me.

Our bodies danced across the bed.

Eyes never leaving each other’s faces,

and of all places

a tall building with

drying paint.

~

I think, I’m pretty sure -

I had an orgasm in my

sleep.

But it was just a dream, just a dream. 

 

Socrates

I, yes, me, want to be best friends with Socrates -

or maybe Plato.

Benjamin Franklin would do in a pinch,

hell, I’d even take Billy the Kid,

just so long,

just so long -

as,

it’s with a guy who feels.

A GUY WHO FEELS.

I want to talk to a guy

who feels,

who thinks deeply,

one who can cry, share his tears, his dreams, his fears,

his

philosophies.

I want to be best friends with Socrates.

I, yes, me.

Wing Sauce

Wing sauce at

Hooter’s

drips from my boyfriend’s fingers.

Translucent, like his thoughts.

Burnt orange, like the anger

searing through my brain.

I wonder, ponder -

as my eyes follow his,

what exactly does he wish he could be

licking?

Oh, no, it’s not the wing sauce

from his

sticky digits -

I am sure of that.

Oh, God, help!

I can’t eat now -

I’m obsessed, never mind my food -

my stomach has only room for panic.

What thing precisely does he wish he could be

sticking -

and where?

Oh, no, it’s not the celery,

in the bleu cheese dressing -

I am sure of that.

I want to slap him,

kick thoughts from his mind -

lick him with

chicken bones.

Forget the dog house.

He’s in hot oil.

Rage fries my mind.

A Numb Idea

I am numb -

neck crunches,

pops, clicks.

My spine -

tingles and zingles

from top to bottom,

bottom to top,

reverse, repeat

and back again.

Feet fall asleep,

as do my hands.

Fingers and toes are

pins and needles,

pins and needles.

Mouth and face

feel numb to my

brain, which spits clear fear

into my thoughts.

Heart races, skips beats -

jumps, dips and dives.

Sharp pains on the sides of my hips -

buttocks tight, spasm-filled.

Oh, unrelenting pain!

Yet, this ache, that burn, that sharp stab, and another one

all combine with numb.

I am numb -

NUMB.

Stiff bones crackle, mince and swell.

What is up with stuff?

I don’t get this numb idea!

The Life Wimps Down at Mitch’s Used Car Dealership

They were always coming in,

a few dozen

a day -

of course, spending an hour,

more or less,

poking around,

sniffing with their refined smellers -

at Mitch’s used cars.

Mostly men

looking for a

deal.

But they rarely found one.

Sarah, the secretary, knew the reasons

why.

She watched them, noticed their faces,

the horrified looks -

as her fingers deftly filed

paperwork

with the phone wedged between her shoulder and the side of her

skull.

Fussy -

they were too fussy.

Afraid -

yes, that, too -

they were so afraid,

of making

a mistake.

Commitment issues!

On Saturday,

Sports Man in his football

jersey

found the smallest of dings

in the paint job of the blue

Ford Taurus.

He scrutinized, pathetically

and then scurried away

in disgust.

Poor thing.

Life Wimp.

Sunday arrived and

a guy, as far as she could tell,

nearing forty,

danced and pranced around a silver Toyota Celica

but hours later three,

decided it wasn’t quite good enough for he -

since it had been in a wreck

and served time in the

“place of which they don’t speak” -

the body shop.

But it was a good deal, that car and it ran

beautifully!

The motor purred

like a loyal cat,

steady and strong.

But near forty ran like hell,

what would his friends think

if,

if,

he’d bought a used Toyota Celica that had,

shudder,

been in an accident?

On Monday, the dealership was

closed. Mitch’s day off, to care for

his aging parents.

Sarah was always glad for Mondays,

as they were a break from fighting the urge

to chuck staplers

at Life Wimps.

Tuesday came ’round the corner too soon.

As she was sending a fax, she eyed

a gentleman,

if you could call him

that -

(what with the slacks, sweater and socks

that matched perfectly in muted tones -

topped by a bright orange baseball cap that went with nothing),

turn up his nose -

crinkle his eyes -

and jerk back his head,

at the maroon-colored Charger

that bore a scratch, about two inches

long

on the hood.

Life wimp.

Life wimp.

Sad, she shook her head.

Always looking for perfect -

but they never,

ever found it.

Wednesday,

slow day,

except for the man who came in,

cocky-confident,

narrowing his eyes as he analyzed

analyzed,

analyzed

a white Subaru Legacy.

His knitted brow

told the story she already knew

would be told.

No sale,

car not sold.

Life wimp.

She knew, oh, yes, she knew

in the pit of her Wise Mind gut

that no arrogant man can soon be parted

from his cash

when there is a cigarette

burn on the driver’s side

carpeting.

The discriminating dude

that stupidly entered

Mitch’s Used Car Dealership -

on Thursday, apparently found nothing to his

liking. She smirked as he did a once-around

and swiveled out the door quickly

on his Life Wimp heels.

Friday, Sarah always welcomed

that day, as she was allowed to leave early.

She had only to put up with the Life Wimps for half

a day,

before she could get in her used, but lovely -

gold Saturn wagon and drive slowly home,

relishing the thought of spending time with her

imperfect

husband. A man she

adored.

Sublime

Once was a woman, nuts all the time,

Burped words into verses, rhythm, and rhyme,

Bitchin’ in her kitchen

She was laughin’ and twitchin’

And, thought – cool, this madness is rather sublime.

Drama Underneath Silk Sheets in Mint Green

Yo, Drama,

you’ve got me!

I
am
under

your control.

I am your puppet
once more.

So, I’m waiting,
direct my hands.

What will you have me do with them?

With my right shall I gouge my eyeballs,
leaving sockets in their wake?
No more pretty sailboats for me to see -
only the blackness of an ocean gone all wrong.
One
left to crash and recede,
crash and recede,
crash and recede.
Endlessly.
Against the shivering shores

of perpetual pain.

And with my left, will you have me
slice
a knife
through my heart?
Very well then.
I will plunge it deep and swiftly,
purging my soul of all my dastardly deeds,
of all my criminal thoughts,
and, yes, my numerous invalid complaints.

Or, will you have me cup in my hands

An orange -
perfect and round and inviting?
Ah, luscious!

But, beneath the bumpy peel of maddening desire
lies a pith of morals and reason.
Guilt. Regret. Angst.
They flash through my mind.
Still, I don’t want to abide.

I
want to undulate.
Yes, undulate.
And maybe later, I will get wavy
with my gravy.

Bah, as if I have a say!
No, I live to please you, Drama,
oh, Drama, my queen.
And the contents of the next episode
of:
“Devotion Meets Disaster”
are up to you to create.

Thoughts of sweet juices tangle my mind;
tingle my tongue.

The pleasures
of loving, of touching, of licking
the forbidden
torment my imagination.

Yo – Drama,
what’s it gonna be?

Tonight, in my naked skin,
restless and troubled,
breathing hard underneath silk sheets in mint green,
will I pay for sin,
or commit it?