Asleep Eating

When I went to bed I made note that I needed to figure out a bracelet I have that has a little bull on the end of it and I knew it meant something. But what? When I woke up to feed in the middle of the night, I mouthed one word to myself of course, because nobody listens. This closeted vestibule is quiet and isn’t want to wake anyone up. I said the word “Mithra.” Wondering what it meant and flipped open my MacBook light and wiki-ed it finding a cult that slaughtered bulls. Leaving me wondering how do I know what I do not know and not know what I should know before my next installation of sleep?

Ouch 0.00

In my youth I didn’t recognize the mechanism of passing. I pictured my belly as one might a party balloon, but skin hued underneath a checkered shift, empty. A blimp without loft. Manifestations or exits on the event horizon issued not from the donut but the hole. With fermentation I’ve found a core of pain that migrates inside this outline of air inexplicably settling month to month without lease. Last week under my right breast on a scale of 1 to 10 a dull fist. Betwixt this mourn and the night before it retracted pulling up stakes circuitously moving to a spot above my left rear lymph node. Now a smaller knot in the back of my head rousingly greater than a pimple and all together dependably transient.

If you need the practical magic of FASHIONMIA’S return USA address

In the morning I sing to Meeshoo, tails of her heroic happiness & space travel

the garden folk want to know
whose the baby babba?
whose the baby babba ganoush?
her genesis
the tail of how it is
she became the surveyor and Mayor
resident of these hills
it’s all metronome and song
and everyone here speaks
a different dialect
we nod a lot at each other
so the story is a bit scattered
but this I know
once upon a plastic squeak toy
a platypus pale from the sun pink
gone dirty peach
once upon this platypus
an infant eggplant
missed the grill and seeded the garden
for a period of gestation
and then a burp
from the earth she did
sprout pointy ears first
that fly double duty
a spinning salad
twirling the top soil
brown nose up
she dug herself out
that’s how she was born
with sheer panache
painting herself
an underbelly of white
unsteady on her tiny paws
she made a splash using all of her mistakes
as porpoise and up the slippage
meant for the deck
the pail of white paint went bloop
assigning her surface
more black than white
but what’s to complain?
some of us were enamored
we flock together with our understood
misunderstanding
even the birds whistle
summoning her to morning rounds
but keep their distance
she does have teeth and
after all they aren’t stupid
she is more black than white
yet daily are her visits to the less
fortunate her incarcerated fellows
all the barking you can tell where she is
the little dogs down in the next field
having a higher level of excitation
and sometimes
quiet while she hears confession
she’s everywhere Meeshoo
but comes immediately
for the chance of a pig ear
then she’s a trotter making a clip clop
clatter back to the homestead deck
racing herself circling
she’s the rich hot smoky creamy one
panting and game to play what
working dog breed?
maybe a public service party docent ~

Esther Williams said I should concentrate on the bottom of my feet instead of tearing off my face.

The Witches of Etsy

I know I should be paying the bills right now and I’ll get to it. But I’m annoyed right now and still about an incident well over 10 years ago ~ I bought my mother in law ruby red slippers. If you know her name you would know how clever that is. (Evidently I’m not smart. I’m clever. According to one ex.) “CUSTOM” handmade, felted to her exact size. I don’t think she would mind me telling you she has big feet. Which is neither here nor there. I ordered them 3 months before Christmas. The slippers arrived looking very snazzy I’m told but for one small detail. The custom handmade slippers came, miniature.

I had been communicating with the seller for months explaining the import of this gift. I told her ALL about my mother in law. That she was a writer and an academic. That she had retired. I wanted something extraordinary and comfortable and effortless for her to slip on. Something she would never buy herself, something luxurious for an 85 year old woman. What arrived were instructions on how to customize micro slippers and growing  directions on how to make them form fitting. The recipient was to put the Barbi sized slippers on (so tiny they wouldn’t even fit on my big toe) and stick feet thus into a bowl of water and let soak for 15 minutes.

Then to walk around with sopping wet slippers which may have to be repeated in future months? PROBLEM. First of all I can barely reach my feet. My belly has grown in scope since you last saw me. I can’t imagine my mother in law while naturally diminutive, at her age she shouldn’t have to reach. I told the seller I need to return these to you after they get returned to me. Dorothy doesn’t want them. She’s already posted them back to me. I asked the seller who was very unruffled why didn’t she mention this soaking detail in her listing?

She was unwilling to refund my custom order. I contacted ETSY and appealed to them to intercede on my behalf. I had to submit a folder of documentation to headquarters in NY. I tried to be succinct and offered what I thought was the most germane information. A copy of the listing that never mentioned that the slippers would not come to custom size ordered. A copy of tedious 2 page sizing instructions that would have to be repeated. Aren’t they an important detail? I even went to the shoe store and found size 6 shoes with a huge size 6 tag and photographed them next to the size 10 tiny finger puppet ruby slippers. Further evidence, pictures of the the ruby red slippers inside a “Brannock” measuring device and still lost.