10 Things Hair Can't Really Do

1) Stir Soup.
If you dipped then end of your ponytail in some soup and tried to give it a stir, I don't think you'd be pleased with the results. I guess if you had a whole lot of hair and some shellac, you could make some kind of stirring device. Unless shellac melts in hot soup. Then you're just back to swirly hair. Which really, no one wants in their soup. So, I'd say no. Hair would not make a good soup-stirrer.

2) Get you out of a traffic ticket.
I've heard it said that busty ladies can arch their backs and get all bustier and perhaps the officer who pulled them over won't write a ticket. I can arch my back all I want. Nothing sexy or busty happens at all. I just look like I'm trying to suppress a belch, which officers don't find sexy. I can imagine shaking my head back and forth to show my shiny hair or even grabbing the officers hand and making him pet the top of my head- neither of which I think will end with him not writing me a ticket. Officer =1. Hair = 0.

3) Stop a train.
If pennies on a track won't stop a train (experiment circa 1987), I'm pretty sure a wad of hair won't. I guess you could take a bunch of hair and try to make some sort of train-stopping net to go across the track, but I'm pretty sure the train would just bust right on through it. Aqua-Net, maybe. That could do it. But that's cheating, I think. You have to just use hair.

4) Provide a good substitute for contact lenses.
Take a piece of hair and swirl it around until you have a nice circular shape. Now, pop that in your eye. Open your eye if you can. Look around. Is your vision clearer? I didn't think so. You can't see very well through hair and it doesn't feel so good under the lids, either. I will not put hair in my eyes when I run out of contacts.

5) Relieve a sore throat.
This would involve gargling. Gargling with hair. I don't have cats, but I'm not unfamiliar with their hair-gargling, and perhaps that is to soothe their little throats. But I'm really thinking it through, and I can't see gargling with hair (1) working and (2) making me feel any better. Even if your hair were minty or echinacea-y or whatnot. It's still hair.

6) Pay your cab fare.
Get in a cab. Give desired location. Watch rain dance down window as you're driven through the streets. Smell stale cigarettes. Arrive at location. Pull out a clump of hair and hand it to the driver. Open the door to exit. Pull a smaller clump out and hand it to the driver and say, "I forgot the tip. Here. Keep it." Run.

7) This one's not appropriate for print.  But, trust me. I just pictured about 5 things hair couldn't do and if I mentioned them, I could never see another one of you in public again. Give it some thought. Picture something. Ew! Right? See? Hair does not work. Repeat thought process 4 more times for 4 different results. Blech. There's another thought. I must move on.

8) Defend you in court.
After the first lawyer gets up and makes you feel like a total ass, the judge is all, "It's your turn, hair." And then the hair just sits there on the table or on the floor or wherever it is. Even if you hold it up so everyone can hear what it has to say, it's just hair and no one will take it seriously. Or be able to hear it. Because hair doesn't talk or defend people in court. So it's about now that you realize all of the money you've shelled out is going to get you nothing but time in jail. Hair would be a useless defender.

9) Grade papers.
I put a piece of hair on a big stack of essays the other day and then left for a long run. I was really clear about what that hair had to do while I was gone and I put a pen within reach. When I came back, the hair was still in the same place and not a single essay had been graded. The pen didn't look like it had moved at all and hair was laughing at me. That last part isn't exactly true, but all the other parts are.

10) Go get help in the case of an emergency.
God forbid I ever fall down and really need some assistance. It's becoming increasingly clear to me that hair is narcissistic and downright rude and has no intention of helping anybody out when they need it. I don't know about your hair, but if it's anything like mine, I'm fairly certain that lying in a pile of my own fluids, hair would relax into itself and be totally content to laze about while I work myself into a panic. Thanks for nothing, hair.

No Reason To Get Upset

Now, there's no reason to get upset.
I only took this razor to your eyebrows while you were sleeping
because I read about it in a magazine.
It's supposed to make you feel smarter
you know, with no eyebrows.
Don't you feel smarter right now?

What magazine? I don't know.
I read so many these days.
But I remember it was on the left side of the page.
Right under an add for some kind of Carnival Cruise
under $500.

I know! I didn't believe it either!
I even thought about booking a trip for us.

Oh, you mean about your eyebrows.
Oh.
Well, believe it.
What's done is done.
And I think it's a look you can really pull off.

Look, if it makes you feel any better, I saved them.
Your brows, of course!
I mean, they're not intact or anything.
But if you feel that attached to them,
I'm sure I can reattach them somehow.

Oh, I don't know exactly.
But I'll figure out a- stop that. Stop crying.
They're just eyebrows.
Look, I'll shave mine off right now.
I've always wanted to be smarter.

What, those? Those little red dots?
I don't know. I'm not a doctor or dermatologist or anything
but it appears to be a little skin irritation.

Here. Let me get some aloe.
I'll just dab a little bit right here---

Now you're just being uncooperative.
How am I supposed to put the aloe on your skin
if you won't let me touch you?
Has anyone ever told you that you're a bit of an overreactor?
No?
Well, let me be the first.

Now, there's no use in showing off with those big words
just because I removed your eyebrows and now you're all smart.
You think you're smarter than me, don't you?

Oh. "Audacity." I take it back.
I know what that means.
I thought you said something French.

Wait. Why are you packing a suitcase?
Is it because I didn't want to eat out last week?
Really. I just felt like staying home.
That happens to everyone.

What do you mean, I don't get it?
I get it all.
You got your panties all in a bunch
because I wouldn't eat out last week
and now you're packing your bags.

Your eyebrows? Jesus! This again?
I thought we moved past that.
See, this is what I mean about you being a bad cook.
And a sore loser.
And a thief. Those slippers are mine and I'd appreciate
if you put them back.

So what? I buy shoes two-sizes too small all of the time.
Just because they're "technically" your size
doesn't mean you were the one that actually bought them.

Me? Me? Oh, that's great.
I think we know who the crazy one really is here.
Yeah, well, that makes two of us.
I don't believe this either.

You try to do something nice for someone,
try something you saw in a magazine
just because you're adventurous
and nice,
and it just goes all shit-wrong on you.

Oh, I won't.
You don't have to worry about me ever calling you.
Why would I want to talk to someone who
doesn't even appreciate when someone
does something nice for them.

Wait! Come back here!
I missed a spot!

Pull Me Up

take a needle to my belly button
push it all the way through
from my lower back it will appear
pull up!
and out!

If you remembered to tie a knot
a knot a tidy little knot
then you are now ready
with a little coordination
and a bit of strength
to dangle me over just about any surface

start small
over that puddle, perhaps
I will teeter and totter a few inches above the ground
but I will try to help you out
by straightening my legs
and my arms
and holding them solid
so nothing touches the steamy asphalt

above the puddle
I will look down and see
my distorted features
my rippling nose
my wobbling eyes
and I will blow a stream of air
onto the surface
of the reflective me

when you tire of that
try something more challenging
something higher, perhaps
climb with me up the steps
of a playground slide
dangle me here
above the heated metal surface
warn me not to touch it
and I will not touch it

or take me to an overpass
above a busy highway
test the string
give it a tug
I would not want it to break
(nor would you)

when safety is assured
pick me up by my waist
and toss me high in the air
over the protective fencing
grab hold of the string
(both hands are preferred)
and watch me soar
until I jerk to a stop

here again I will make my legs
long and stiff

and my arms I will hold out
far and wide

the engine noises
will rumble in my chest
I will close my eyes
it will sound like the ocean

I will wonder if
you're ever going to pull me up
again

Creation Story

On the day that God made the heavens and the earth, the land was all jacked up.  The earth was cracked and dry and nothing could grow up in that mug.

Then, some misty business came all up from the ground and God was all, “Whoah, did I do that?” He did. It was cool. It was like the fog machines that God would help people invent years later only it made a lot more fog. Misty fog.  God couldn’t see shit. And He was cool with that for a while.

When the misty-fog cleared, God reached down on the ground and pulled up a dirt clod. With no one to throw it at, He shaped it into a little dude. He used a little stick to form details like rockin’ ab muscles and God was pleased with himself, having never had any formal art training.

God ate a breaf-mint and then blew some breaf into Little Dude, and Little Dude came to life. It was epic.

God needed a place for Little Dude to live, because having lived alone since the beginning of time, God really didn’t want someone all messin’ with his shit at home and leaving the toilet seat up and creating piles of crap around that weren’t His.

So God made a sweet, sweet living place called the Garden of Eden. And He thought that was a pretty good name.  He presented it to Little Dude and Little Dude just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Eh” and this irritated God to no end. Little Dude was already an entitled asshole and God wondered if he had made a mistake by making him.

God said to Little Dude, “Look. I’m giving you all kinds of cool shit. Here’s a Playstation 3.” God pointed to a Playstation 3 under a fruit tree. “And here’s an i-Pod so you can listen to music. I’ve already downloaded some Lynard Skynard on there for you.”

And since Little Dude was born singing “Sweet Home Alabama,” before he even knew what Alabama-pride was, he was excited about God’s gifts.

“But,” God commanded Little Dude, “you are to never, NEVER, listen to track 4. Do you understand me?”

Little Dude did not understand God. And he did not yet know how to form a question, so he sat there slack-jawed, with a little drool coming out the of the corner of his mouth.

“Track 4,” explained God, “is a podcast from Rush Limbaugh. It came with the i-Pod purchase, and despite all my attempts, I cannot erase that track. You’ll just have to skip around it.”

“Ruuuuuuuushhhhhh,” Little Dude mumbled.

“Not to be confused with the entire “Moving Pictures” album, which I downloaded on there for you.” God then did his best air guitar and made some Tom Sawyer guitar solo sounds and Little Dude was impressed.

“There’s Rush,” God clarified, making frantic drumming sounds, “and then there’s Rush.” Now God was pantomiming a jolly, if not completely dumb, Santa type. “Ho! Ho! Ho! Women are whores! Ho! Ho! Ho!”

Little Dude did not quite understand this last part. He did not catch the mystery. Nor catch the drift. But he secretly wanted to listen to track 4 and find out what these “women” and “whores” are that God was speaking about.

“Rush Limbaugh,” God shouted, “is a NO-NO!” And then God proceeded to smack Little Dude on the nose with the i-Pod before handing it over.

God left Little Dude alone to listen to music and play video games in the Garden of Eden.

By nightfall, Little Dude’s eyes were glazed over and he fell into a deep sleep, the sounds of “Call of Duty” still in his little head and the Playstation controller still cradled in his arms.

God looked down upon Little Dude. “The world is….the world is,” God thought. But then that thought was over.  And the next one came: “Love and life are deep,” God decided. But Little Dude only knew of life; not love. And this was sad, thought God.

“Oh, well,” thought God. “I can probably make something out of this.”

God took a flower and put it on top of the rib. He attached some wax lips onto the front of the rib and made a little dress out of leaves. He sat back and look at what He had made.

It was hideous. Little Dude would never want to mate with this rib, no matter what it was wearing. So, God ate another breaf-mint and blew his breaf on it.

The rib transformed into a smokin’ hot lay-day. When Little Dude woke up, he was really happy and they got busy. But not totally busy. Just kind of busy. It was epic.

Smokin’ hot lay-day was very curious. The next night, when Little Dude wanted to get busy (but still not all the way busy), Smokin’ Hot pretended to be asleep. When Little Dude gave up and went to play video games, and then fell asleep in front of “Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2,” Smokin’ Hot got up and reached for Little Dude’s i-Pod.

She had to know what was on track 4.

She listened. And she listened some more.

She tried to listen in silence. She really did. But her blood boiled and her rage became unbearable.

This is when she lost it. She screamed and swore, although her language was not quite developed yet, so it came out more like "Mwaaaahhhhhoooorrrr!" with lots of spitting and hair pulling.

Little Dude awoke and knew not what to make of this. Smokin' Hot seemed to be in touch with some reality beyond the gilded cage.

God heard all of the commotion and came down to the Garden. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!" he yelled. Little Dude immediately pointed at Smokin' Hot, absolving himself of all responsibility.

Smokin' Hot, having no other human to point to, pointed to the first thing she saw moving- a snake. "He made me do it," she said. But, again, it came out more like "Nerrrrwallllluhhhguh."

Snake was all, "Aw, HELL NAW, woman!" and slithered away.

"Didn't I tell you to STAY AWAY from track 4? Didn't I? You listened to Rush, didn't you? DIDN'T YOU?!"

Little Dude replied, "I have no heart to lie. I can't pretend a stranger is a long awaited friend."

"That doesn't even make sense," said God.

"And the energy you trade, he gets right on through the friction of the-"

"Knock it off," said God. "And YOU!" He was addressing Smokin' Hot now. "YOU LISTENED TO TRACK 4!"

And this is when Smokin' Hot muttered her first words: "No birth control for me. Birth control is for whores." 

"Oh, no!" God put his head in his hands. "I never thought this could-"

"Whore slut women whores-"

"THAT'S IT! EVERYONE'S IN TROUBLE!" God's voice was booming and made all of the leaves fall from the trees. "Little Dude! You allowed this women to be ruined. You will run around your whole life and play video games and live in your mom's basement where you will return to dust."

Smokin' Hot giggled. "AND YOU!" yelled God. Smokin' Hot jumped and peed herself just a little bit. "YOU will have gnarly-ass menstrual cramps every month." Smokin' Hot grabbed her belly and squinted.

Snake didn't get punished because he didn't really do anything. And he's a snake. Which pretty much already sucks.

But that snake- the one that was hiding under the tree with the unusual zipper running the length of it's body- that one was in for some of God's whoop-ass.  

"YOU!" God yelled, and he picked up the snake and with mighty force, ripped apart the zipper and pulled out the doughy, cowering man hidden inside. "You think I didn't see you in my garden? I'm GOD! You're just a radio talk show host!"

Rush peed himself a lot.

"You," God angry-whispered right into Rush's ear. Close enough that little God-spittle was mixing in with Rush's nervous forehead sweat. "You were cast by the devil in this unlikely role, and even so...you are ill-equipped to act." 

"He's got insufficient tact!" yelled Little Dude. God turned and nodded, but he was not smiling. Not even a bit.

With one mighty swing, God threw Rush into the universe, where he exploded into an impressive display of pyrotechnics. 

"Wheeeeeeee!" shouted Smokin' Hot.

"Fuck yeahhhhh!" yelled Little Dude as he got out his lighter and held it overhead.

"Get out of here, you two," mumbled God.

And they went. 

Body Stories

a tiny red dot on my belly button
as if I accidentally dropped
my red grading pen
on the very spot

a mole, like the top of a new pencil eraser
on my right shoulder
a birthmark, I am told

freckles on my right thigh that when connected  
(and I've done it often)
make the Big Dipper

a white raised scar like the edge of a thumbnail
on the inside of my right thigh
cat tooth or cat claw- a feline catastrophe
in the parking lot of the Humane Society
on a hot summer day in 1976

skin rubbed raw on my right hip
by asphalt
between being flung from a bike
and being stopped by a tree
it grew back like a piece of porcelain
a smooth alabaster oval
its companion is located on my right elbow

scar tissue on the right side of my scalp
(from the same fall)
feels like a golf pencil surgically implanted
beneath my hair

a divot on my forehead just below the hairline
looks as though someone might have
put a cigarette out there
I assure you
it was only the dresser drawer
slightly pulled out
catching my fall on my way down

a faint arc across my left knuckles
from Tremon
the kindergarten student who
I caught eating crayons under the table
and who decided
it would be better to scratch and kick and bite
his teacher than to stop eating the crayons

below that and to the right
near the base of my thumb
mark the places where my hand met a wire fence
while walking my dog- now long gone
she saw a squirrel and took off
the leash wrapped tightly around my wrist
an unexpected game of crack the whip

a freckle on the second toe
of my right foot
a toe that's slightly longer
than its neighbor to the left
and its neighbor to the right
a sign of beauty, my mother used to say
and I believed her
at age 5

and then there are the places
that are smooth
unmarked
showing no evidence of a story
a change
a defining moment
an incident to remember

like the place
where a baby grows

A Couple In Love At Starbucks

They're sitting three feet from me.
No more. No less.
He on the edge of the brown leather (is it faux?) chair
and she on the edge of the matching ottoman
pulled so they are knee-to-knee. Facing each other.

She holds his left hand in both of hers.
She pets it as if it were covered in mink fur.
The thumb of her right hand moves back and forth
back and forth
across the surface of his fingers.
She is reading his hand-braille.

His right hand holds a paper travel coffee cup.
He bobs it up and down and swirls it around in little circles-
little punctuation marks to his stories.
His stories make her laugh.
When something he says strikes her as particularly amusing,
she throws her head forward
almost into his lap.
I'm sure he wishes she would.

I cannot make out what they are saying
what he is saying
what she is laughing at.
I only know what I see:
A man and a woman
facing each other, knee-to-knee,
long moments of silence make both of them giggle.
Their eyes never leaving the gaze of the other.

Valentine's Day is in two days.
I wonder if he'll tell her "It's not like I'm in love with you or anything"
on their way to dinner at a fancy restaurant.
I wonder if he'll sit in the other room, silently angry about who knows what,
while she sits alone at the kitchen table
looking at the cupcakes and roses she bought herself earlier that day.
I wonder if he'll pull a greeting card out of his pocket
and mumble "Here. I got this for you" and toss it in her lap as he's driving
and she's sitting next to him.
I wonder if she'll open it and see that he didn't write anything in it.
Not even his name.
I wonder if she wonders what she's doing with him.

But his hands felt so soft. 

That Bone

You've been lickin' that bone for weeks now.
No, months.
Wait a second, make that a year.

How your teeth aren't cracked
or worn down to little nubbins
is beyond me.

What could you see in that bone?

It must taste like...
bone.
Every time you sit down to chomp on it.
Not chocolate bone.
Not sausage bone.
Not pizza bone or crepe bone or tabouli bone.

Just bone.

And I don't see the
fun in that.

I shoved peanut butter
in there once.
And that made you happy.
Happy enough.
But what you really wanted
was to aggressively lick away
the non-bone center
so you could get back to
lovin' the bone.
In its purest form.

I lifted it to my nose once.
Maybe I'm missing something.
Maybe it smells like heaven
or the top of a baby's head.
Maybe that's why you
can't get enough of it.

But it smelled like bone.

You run through the house
Where is my bone?!
Looking for it
Where'd that dang bone go?!
I try to distract you
Is it under this couch?
with something squeaky perhaps
Yeah, I hear that, but have you seen my bone?
But you're not interested
Oh, Booooone! Yooooo-hooo!
And I start to feel a little guilty
Is it on the bed? It smells like it's been here.
It's sitting on top of the refrigerator
Oh, shit. I'm really starting to panic here.
I reach up for it
Where is it?! Oh, God! Where is my BONE?!
And let it clop to the floor
Oh my God! My bone! Oh! Thank you! Thank you!

Away you run
to the furthest corner of the house
Your cave spot
Admiring your kill
And the impeccable job you did
in removing its pelt.

Do you remember nothing?