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Awe Inspired Fun

As divers from the sky fall to the earth

With flying-squirrel tech and Plan B chutes

Engaged is one on guessing her net worth

Involved’s the other, flexing lats and glutes.

Now cliffsides peel away and greenswards beckon

Santana riffs and Dylan lyrics meld

Puréed epiphanies lend sense to reckon

Intrinsic navigation of the veld.

Released by ripcord pulls, the chutes unfurl

Engendering the braking of the falls;

Delivering safe-passaged boy and girl,

For yet another ride unbound by walls.

Umbrellas, canopies and awns are things

Now alchemised to take the form of Wings.

in these climatically incendiary times

and in this dutch oven we call the valley of the sun

the weather guy on kjzz referred to the temperature range for the next few days as “in the one-teens”

meaning between 113 and 119 degrees fahrenheit
.

the jackass in the white house talks of buying “or annexing” greenland

were i a conspiracy theorist i would say that his climate change denial plus his collusion with the petrochemical predators in fucking up the environment were part of his sinister plan to make greenland one of the only inhabitable places on earth

so that with “annexation” (rape with violence) he would consummate the biggest real estate deal of all time

while simultaneously extending the trail of tears into the 21st century and into the arctic circle

since approximately 89% of greenland’s population is indigenous greenlandic inuit

.

but i am not a conspiracy theorist

drop a syllable and i become a piracy theorist

and my theory, backed by circumstantial evidence of the long history of theft and fraud and pillage perpetrated throughout his career

is that donald trump is a pirate of the worst sort

of the same ilk as spiro t. agnew and Bluebeard

and he’s given this country a jolly rogering since day 1 of term 1

and should be made not to walk the plank

but to walk a mile at high noon here in phoenix

wearing speedos and flipflops

with the temperature in the one-teens

“The King Hath Received His Comeuppance,” 11″x6″x4″. Work in progress.
“Surviving Pawn,” 3″x2″x2″.
“Wizardly Bishop,” 3-1/2″x2″x2″.
“Somebody’s Queen,” 10″x4″x5″. Work in progress.

This morning brought a three-hour session of improvisational sculpting at PIP Coffee & Clay. I broke some new ground by doing the heads of the larger-scale chess king and queen using pinch-pot technique rather than wheel-throwing for their heads. It seems a more intimate, tactile way to do portraiture.

some kisses were perfunctory

and merely punched a ticket

whilst others were spelunktory

bilingual and wicked

but in between were sacred blossoms

from orchid girl to duchess

as just as sheer as gossamer gossams

electrifying touches

.

her holiness of honeyed voice

still calls her now and then

she lives alone by fate and choice

but likes to chat of when

last century they had a time

and as she reminisces

a mountain goat resumes her climb

enfueled by sacred kisses

grandmother’s chanel number five

bludgeoned her grandson’s nose

and he blinked back tears when he hugged her

.

sixty years later

the grandson weeps for his grandmother

as more pieces of the puzzle of her click into place

.

it has become obvious

that as a tri-delt alumna she had desperately needed

to feel as though she were still in the game

the dog, a shepherd-chow mix, was plucked from the mundane reality of a cement-floored living room in the late 1990s and was suddenly hurtling through what appeared to the dog to be a featureless patch of sky. the dog’s brain translated the motion into a terrifying endless fall and he yelped and scrabbled at nothing. those who had captured him also had taken the volume of air he had inhaled, and they had surrounded the dog with an enormous volume of air of the same mix and pressure, mindful of the dog’s survival.

as the dog slowly calmed, the kidnappers performed endless scans and other tests on him, and soon they had enough of what they wanted to be able to return the dog to the living room from where they’d snatched him. they observed the household periodically thereafter while a genetically identical version of the dog was created and brought to maturity.

the original dog died two years and two months after his abduction. the observers watched passively as the family buried the dog in their back yard.

a few days later the family was sitting in their living room and heard a scratching sound at the front door.

(Recap: a boxer has a girlfriend whose magic thread, sewn into his gloves, gave him stamina and helped him win his fights. She unstitched it at his request and he won matches without magical help. She grew jealous of his female fans and restitched the gloves to wilt him, both in the ring and on his shorts. He confronted her and she again undid the stitching and committed to doing whatever he asked, provided he won his next bout.)

F.R. was outweighed by 7 pounds at the weigh-in

And was glad

He felt lean and slippery quick

And at the bell he was silent and tentative at first

They traded inconsequential jabs

F. got clipped with a glancing roundhouse to the brow

Then danced back from a left of murderous power

Then he weaved in under his foe’s punches and said You are getting one in the ribs just as he delivered a non-dominant-hand uppercut below his opponent’s guard

And just as the round was ending F. said I hope you like snowstorms

.

In round two F poured it on

He attacked like George Patton and he trash-talked like Larry Bird with a snowstorm of punches in flurries that built to a blizzard

Heedless of defending his face he did get a convincing punch in the nose that brightened the inside of his head and gave him blood to taste in the back of his mouth

But he barked a laugh and said Share and share alike and delivered an amazingly accurate payback punch to his foe’s nose

Then threw body shots that landed faster than jumprope smacking hardwood

And then the enemy was down

.

Wobbly after the eight-count F.’s opponent proved vulnerable to combinations to the swollen-eyed side of his head

And early in the fourth round F. knocked the guy out

.

How shall we celebrate? Cecilia asked him, eyes shining.

We’ll have to wait till tomorrow, F. told her. I have some unfinished business. He gave her a quick kiss and said See you in the morning and left her.

.

Where did you go? Cecilia demanded, regarding her man carrying an assortment of thin packages under his arm.

First your grandmother’s. Then Macy’s, where I bought these, and he slightly hefted the arm-bundle, then your grandmother’s again, where I spent the night.

He lifted his arm over their dining-room table. The packages, which contained bras, scattered on the lace tablecloth. You’re a 34B, right?

What the hell…?

These are Maidenform bras. Some of them have the “M” logo charm on them, some don’t. But what I did, I had your grandmother, who is even more witchy than you are, sew different variations of “Maidenform” on each one of them. If you put one of them on, it will change you, just like what you sewed on my gloves changed me.

Her eyes widened.

He picked one of them up. This one is “Maldenform.” It will, honest to God, change your nipples into replicas of Karl Malden’s nose.

She gasped.

He picked up another. And this one is “Maidenfarm.” Ever wonder what it would be like to have udders instead of breasts?

She shuddered.

Hey, you shuddered. Fun fact: You can’t spell “shuddered” without Udder.

She rolled her eyes and then looked aghast.

But I will only ask you to wear this one. And last week you told me you would do whatever I asked. He handed her the bra.

She looked at her grandmother’s stitching and it said, in elegant cursive, “MaidenfOMFG.”

WHAT WILL HAPPEN?? she wailed.

He grinned. Trust me. Like you said you would.

She looked at him balefully, then stood up and slowly unbuttoned her blouse, then wrestled herself out of her sports bra. She looked down at her perfectly normal, slightly slouchy breasts, then slipped her arms though the straps of her new bra. Before she fastened the clasp in the front she looked him in the eye, trying to get a clue from his expression, which was inscrutable.

Immediately after she fastened the bra, a humming noise came from the cups. She felt her breasts grow warm, then almost hot. The voice of Hank Williams came from the clasp, singing

Hey,

Good Lookin

What

Ya got cookin’?

How about cookin’ something up with

Me?

Abruptly the singing stopped. The humming stopped. The heat from the cups subsided.

Her hands flew to the clasp and she pulled the bra open, then looked down with astonishment.

Her breasts were unchanged.

She looked a question at him.

He grinned. Guess they were OMFG all along.

And he explained that he hadn’t wanted revenge

He had just wanted her to go through something like he had gone through

And he did like her breasts just fine but she was no more her breasts than he was his fists

And he loved her, jealousy and all, and wanted to be with her forever, if she could stand it that he enjoyed the admiration of other females at a distance

And she inhaled and held her breath for three seconds and said Okay and I love you too and

She suddenly laughed and said You wear Jockey shorts, right?

Yeah…?

Any problem with me sewing Hung like a Jockey’s Horse on them?

He laughed and said Go ahead. I doubt if you will notice the difference.

She rolled her eyes and said You are SO full of..

He kissed her.

The End

(Recap: The witchy girlfriend of an aspiring boxer has used magic thread to reinforce the “Last” part of his Everlast gloves. After winning bouts by going the distance, the boxer told his girlfriend that he wanted to win without magical help. She bought him new gloves and he started winning by not going the distance, winning by knockout or TKO instead. His growing fame led to a surge of e-mails and snail-mail from his female fans (among others) and his girlfriend got jealous. In spite she sewed a tiny N to the left of the EVERLAST on his gloves, and now the boxer finds himself totally useless, both in the ring and the bedroom.)

[N]Everlast, part 2

Bereft of manhood

Both in his hapless fists and in his boxing trunks

F.R. the boxer wept

And worried

With an important fight coming up in mere days

.

He went to his jealous lover Cecilia

Accused her of sabotaging him

And she pulled the shoebox of letters out from under the bed

And asked him who was sabotaging who

.

You know what? F. said chuckling

I totally love those letters

And I’m sorry you saw them

Because I knew you would go ballistic

She started to answer but held up a hand

I like that women want me

But it’s just lust for the big sweaty boxer

Just craziness

Now undo whatever you have done ASAP

You don’t want a man who can’t be a man, right?

.

She saw his honest earnest face and apologized

She showed him the little Ns and got out her forked unstitching tool

And unN’d the gloves

He pulled his trunks by the waistband to check his junk

Smiled and said Little F is waking up

She beckoned to the bedroom but he shook his head

Sorry Doll

I got to save my juice for the big fight

And if I win I will want some payback

He looked at her lovingly but repeovingly

I mean–you invaded my privacy and then got me clobbered

She blushed and nodded

He asked her Do you trust me?

She said Yes I do

If you trust me, and love me, will you do whatever I ask you to do after the fight?

She nodded and said Yes I will.

(To be concluded)