Mostly Mick Jagger
By Catie Rosemurgy
Thank god he stuck his tongue out.
When I was twelve I was in danger
of taking my body seriously.
I thought the ache in my nipple was priceless.
I thought I should stay very still
and compare it to a button,
a china saucer,
a flash in a car side-mirror,
so I could name the ache either big or little,
then keep it forever. He blew no one a kiss,
then turned into a maw.
After I saw him, when a wish moved in my pants.
I nurtured it. I stalked around my room
kicking my feet up just like him, making
a big deal of my lips. I was my own big boy.
I wouldn't admit it then,
but be definitely cocks his hip
as if he is his own little girl.
People ask me--I make up interviews
while I brush my teeth--"So, what do you remember best
about your childhood?" I say
mostly the drive toward Chicago.
Feeling as if I'm being slowly pressed against the skyline.
Hoping to break a window.
Mostly quick handfuls of boys' skin.
Summer twilights that took forever to get rid of.
Mostly Mick Jagger.
How do I explain my hungry stare?
My Friday night spent changing clothes?
My love for travel? I rewind the way he says "now"
with so much roof of the mouth.
I rewind until I get a clear image of myself:
I'm telling the joke he taught me
about my body. My mouth is stretched open
so I don't laugh. My hands are pretending
to have just discovered my own face.
My name is written out in metal studs
across my little pink jumper.
I've got a mirror and a good idea
of the way I want my face to look.
When I glance sideways my smile should twitch
as if a funny picture of me is taped up
inside the corner of my eye.
A picture where my hair is combed over each shoulder,
my breasts are well-supported, and my teeth barely show.
A picture where I'm trying hard to say "beautiful."
He always says "This is my skinny rib cage,
my one, two chest hairs."
That's all he ever says.
Think of a bird with no feathers
or think of a hundred lips bruising every inch of his skin.
There are no pictures of him hoping
he said the right thing.
Nearly a foot of snow is on the ground and it's still falling, sometimes little powdery dots, sometimes bigger sharp flakes. So beautiful. May curl up on the couch and watch the Fellowship extended DVD since I haven't for a couple of months.
Today would have been my mother's mother's 97th birthday. It's also my niece Sabrina's birthday, my sister-in-law Brooke's birthday (and she may well have twins today!) and my husband's cousin Lisa's birthday. I can justify eating the rest of my Valentine's Day candy with all these celebrations going on, right?
So in addition to that card, my husband burned me a CD for Valentine's Day of Shatner/Nimoy greatest hits ("Proud Mary," "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds," "If I Had a Hammer," the Shatner Priceline Suite, etc.) Utterly hilarious. I absolutely love being married to a slash-tolerant techno-geek Trekkie.
From telesilla, Jerry Springer Mad Libs!
And from a mailing list, this reasonably cute LOTR joke.
Thank Bush for small favors. Very small. But still better than nothing.
As always, Maureen Dowd cracks me up telling it like it is! From The New York Times, like the above and below articles.
Not sure I agree with much of this logic, but I did get a kick out of the column: "Did My Car Join Al Qaeda?"