Farce, food and clean underwear

Hardly a day goes by now when I don’t feel a little ripple of unease about the state of our world.а Was it ever thus?а The thing is, I don’t want to think or write about it. Well, there goes the blog.а So, this morning, in a conversation with myself, I said: “Self, you’ve done this before. Just rerun stuff from your blog archives.”

I suppose I could, but heck, I know I can do better than that. So it was off to my other archive to see if I could cobble together something that has a modicum of originality.а I must say, what I found was entertaining (I wrote that!?). So here goes.

I’ll start by taking care of the world situation. Nothing has changed since I wrote this in 2006.


Tarting it up

The more life becomes farce,

the more we pretend normality.

In our world,

the rational is ludicrous.

Silliness is profundity.

Illogic is the norm.


Anyway you tart it up,

farce is still farce.

Pour honey on a turd,

it’s still a turd.


We are either lunatics

ааа or fools.

God help us all.


To save your sanity, it’s better to focus on things you can control. аYou could start with personal hygiene (literally and metaphorically).


Always Wear Clean Underwear

There’s nothing worse than being caught

аа with your pants down

аа or your skirt up,

revealing – gasp! – dirty underwear.


You think if you’re always meticulously

groomed, stylish even, with an edgy flair,

no one would ever know that

аа underneath you wear

аа dirty underwear.


But mother knew best –

It’s not just what’s on show,

but what’s underneath that counts.

With your skirt up or your pants down,

make sure you’ve nothing dirty to hide.

Always wear clean underwear.


Self-image is always a good (make that “painful”) topic for a poem.а I tried, in 2009.


Body Type

Oh my god, when

did my ass get so big?а

Used to be I could sit

on a barstool without

oozing over the side like

unbaked dough.


Lord knows, I was never

a dainty girl. Told myself

I had big bones – my excuse

for having a generous



Besides, I was young,

and plumpness,

if not overdone,

could be kind of cute.


I learned how to dress

for my body type.

The fashion rags

never called me “fat.”

I was just a nicely

rounded pear.


Now this old pear

has passed her

“sell by” date,

squirming on

a barstool as

younger, fresher fruit

perch their firm

little bottoms

on ridiculously

tiny chairs.


Of course, being pleasingly plump just doesn’t happen all by itself.а You know what I’m talking about.а Want a hint?



A Love Affair with BLT



The thick marbled edges

curl and snap

shooting hot needles

onto her hand.

She curses, dropping a lid

on the popping mass,

pulling back from plumes

of steam loaded with

saturated fat and

the odor of

frying meat.



Small showers wet her feet

from dew on weeds and

overgrown vines

in the backyard garden.

She pushes aside

leggy kale,

engorged zucchini,

and reaches for a fresh

bunch of frilly greens

preening in the morning sun.



Still warm from the vine,

the smooth red globe

rests in her cupped hand.

She admires its perfection

as sheа washes it in

the stained porcelain sink.

Tenderly, she places it

on the butcher block

for its execution.



Running her finger lightly

across the crusty warmth,

she measures by touch.

Raising the knife,

she rests it on the

invisible line

and cuts,а

watching as the slices

fall like dominos onto

the wooden board.



She lavishes mayonnaise

on facing slices of bread

and piles on rows of

crispy bacon.

Then, to stifle the warning

of clogged arteries and

fat-encrusted heart,

tops the heap with the


of lettuce and tomato.


After BLT

A quiet burp pops

past her lips,

still moist with the

taste of BLT.

She licks away

the last smear of guilt,

feeling her heart’s quiet

thump offering




Sometimes, when you overindulge your appetite (food- or opiate-wise), you can end up with weird dreams.а I still don’t know where this one came from. And I swear I wasn’t smoking anything.


Dream World

I drift, riding moonlight waves

stretched across the speckled sky.


A wink from the sly young man

in the moon sends me soaring

into a backwash of stars.


I am showered with drops of diamonds

sprinkled by a swordfish leaping by,

a one-eyed owl perched serenely on its bill.


Comets dance a fierce flamenco,

flinging themselves about,

barely missing planets sailing by.


Below, the marbled earth dozes

in a bank of purple clouds, heedless of all

but its own fantastic dreams.


And there are those dreams that set off your internal plumbing. Don’t you just hate when that happens?


The Urge

She swims up out of

cool spring water parting

at the prow of her fingers,

tendrils of algal weeds

sliding past hands, arms,

fluttering legs.

She feels the pressure

of the water build into

an urge to pee.


She floats on the border

of sleep, a decision

nudging her

out of bed.


She feels her way in

the half light, eyes

lowered to hold

onto the dark.


Her ass finds the

cool oval, and she

tinkles trying to

stay within the edges

of sleep.


Crawling back

into the cooling

sheets, she curls onto

her side, pillow

between her knees,

and wonders

what time it is.


On that note, I think it’s time to call it a night. I’ll end with a haiku that has nothing to do with this piece.


Life is about change.

When they switch the rules on you

Try not to suffer.


ай Maya Leland 2014