Convey my Regrets 
 

When my flowers bloomed, you never graced my garden 
nor inhaled its fragrant summer air 
At every celebration I gave, there remained 
one empty cup, one empty plate, one empty chair 

On so many glad occasions 
Some other friends rejoiced with me; you were not there. 

When my fever raged, you never sang to me 
nor brushed back sweat-soaked tendrils of my hair 
When bad news came, you never lied to me 
‘til truth was something I could bear 

On so many sad occasions 
Some other soul consoled me; you were not there. 

Now here you stand, cut flowers in hand, 
Your face engraved by lonely years, 
Making amends, conveying regrets- 

You speak to a stone. 

I am not here. 
 
 
 

Romance 
 

Like the witch's house 
My abode is made of sweets 
You may break off 
and savor a piece of me 

But if you come inside 
be prepared to find 
Hunger and anger 
naked need that twists and gnarls with time 

Unlike the witch, 
I fatten no one for the kill 
The cage is mine and you can leave at any time - 

And no doubt will. 

 

Miss Ameri-con

I had the misfortune of catching the last part of the Miss America Pageant on Friday night (those I was playing cards with insisted on watching).  The winner, Heather Renee French, is supposed to be, according to the theme song, my "ideal" as a woman.  In order for me to achieve this ideal I would have to lose about 100 IQ points; in the interview portion of the contest, Ms. French referred to Bach as "one of the inventors of music" and at one point actually responded to a question by saying "I have coined that term my whole life." (I am going to assume that you the reader understand what's wrong with those statements)

They make such a fuss these days about how heavily the scoring relies on the talent and interview sections of the contest.  If Ms. French represents the highest level of mental functioning of the contestants, I say just tape their mouths shut (with some attractive pink sparkly tape of course) and let them parade around in high heels and bathing suits.  I'd be less embarrassed for womankind by seeing the participants honestly valued for their T & A than pretensively valued for their non-existent personalities and intellects.

Another thing they made a big deal about was that this was the first year a woman (Marie Osmond) announced the winner. Ooooh!  Is this what feminism has won us?  The right to exploit our own selves? I am so impressed.

I think we should have a feminist beauty pageant.  Contrary to what Rush Limbaugh and other anti-fems would like to believe, feminists are not all unattractive hags and/or butch lesbians.  The contest would have no winners, it would just consist of various women of all types parading on the stage while their sisters praised their pulchritude. No buttcheeks would be taped.  No vaselined teeth or silicone breasts would be allowed in the area.  Unprocessed African hair would be shown off to great effect.  Womanly hips and round tummies would be in. Nikes would abound.  Afterwards we'd have a poetry reading and a coffee klatsch. And each woman would take home a party bag filled with vibrators, candles, bubble bath, herbal tea, and inspirational literature. 

...Any takers?  Email me to sign up.  Gay guys, sensitive guys, and guys in drag welcome, as long as you behave yourselves. 
 

The Comedy of the Conference Room

At my job as a residential counselor for the mentally ill, we hold a weekly staff meeting in which we discuss our various clients' habilitation plans and progress, any crises that have arisen,  etc.  At one meeting this summer, we were discussing a particular client's addiction problems. During her lengthy speech about the seriousness of the client's problem and the urgency with which we must act to rehabilitate the client,  the addictions counselor drank three cups of heavily sugared, caffeinated brewed coffee, and rushed outside after the meeting to smoke a cigarette.

My irony-challenged colleagues seemed to see nothing funny about this episode; the client got a real kick out of it when I told him the story on the way to therapy.

Honky Blues - I was shopping in a five and dime store with a client of mine when I spied a beautiful blue silk ‘do rag  which I really wanted to buy.  The only problem was that there was a picture of a black woman on the package, wearing the do rag and looking very proud and Afro-centric.  I felt extremely hesitant about purchasing it.  Am I allowed to wear this, seeing as how I am about as far from black as you can get?  I imagined the big black woman at the register glaring at me, or even actually stopping me from purchasing it.  I'm sure ethnic minorities often end up purchasing items where the packaging has white folks on it.  Does purchasing such items give them crisis of self-image too, or are they used to it?  I finally flipped the package face down on the conveyor belt amongst some other items, apologetically paid the cashier, and slunk out. 

The client I was with, who is black, asked to see my purchases in the car on the way home.  Despite my good relationship with her, I found myself unable to broach the question with her.
 

At a certain point in my college graduation ceremony, each graduate was to recreate a Native American ritual where you whisper your hopes and dreams to a butterfly and then release it.  It cannot tell your secrets to anyone and it carries your dreams up to the Gods with it as it ascends.    The butterfly cocoons were placed  in these little triangular cardboard boxes like a week before, and at some point they had hatched. The baby butterflies were frantically trying to get out (at least mine was) all through the ceremony.  I thought all that was rather ghoulish in itself.  Then near the end of the ceremony we were supposed to open the boxes and the butterflies were supposed to fly out.  Only most of them could not really fly (I am assuming this was because their wings were not dry yet). We were under a tent and there was not any sun so that didn't help their wings to dry.  So there were all these baby butterflies crawling around on the grass under the fold-up chairs.   My butterfly had managed to fly two or three rows ahead of where I was sitting and then went down somewhere I couldn't see it. At the very end of the ceremony, people were all excited and not paying any attention as they were processing out. I watched one butterfly get trampled so then after that I tried not to look anywhere but where I was walking. I can't believe people can sit there and listen to all the optimism and sweetness and light of a commencement address and then reveal their true nature as butterfly stompers. I can't believe people can think their degree means anything if it hasn't taught them to be mindful enough to avoid stomping butterflies.  I could also of course see something metaphorical in people inadvertently trampling their own hopes and dreams, but I think this crowd already had quite enough metphorical training for one lifetime and could stand to see a butterfly as a being and not symbolic of anything else.