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POEM: The Goddess Letters (Part 1)


.1 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Your orangutan orange lips grin at me through a network of fuzz and lint as you lie supine on the floor of a narrow canoe. I don’t know shit about technical drawing, of circles concentrated in narrow bands. Some geniuses attempt the bone structure first.

AGH! My pencil point broke.



.2 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Dainty ham hock, you dance tippy tippy toe on a the edge of a cold marble grave marker. The paparazzi swarm! A field day!!! All breaking their bones, climbing on each other’s backs to get the best shot of your cootchie, which appears as a flame of lightning between the torn, battered wedding gown that floats carelessly about your tottering form.

You laugh.

Little do they know you’re an IMPOSTER!


.3 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

You smoke a hell of a lot, Isis. A terrible hacking cough, probably relegated to your subconscious years ago, a permeated odor of nicotine. The golden goddess of this era.

I dream of you every few months.

I don’t know you.

Level headed, sure, maybe too much. Your approval. When I vacate, your disembodied voice echoes whispers that I can’t distinguish. Disapproval of my existence?

I do not recognize this actress.

You, Isis, being watched. Creepy.


.4 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I wake in a strange house.

Diplomas shimmer on the walls. I’m groggy. You’re curled up in our posh living room watching the morning news, the talking heads, wearing a silk burgundy robe, a mug of steaming coffee in your hands.

Where in carnation am I anyway?

Are you my WIFE?

Our clothes lie, ghostlike jellyfish, splattered across the carpet. Across the hallway, I spot children, in bunk beds asleep. Are my eye boogers clouding my perception? Who are these kids? How did I get here?!?


Raising out of bed, I pause, dangling before a family picture frame full of kodaks of you & me and these sleeping children. Having a picnic. Washing a car. On the beach. In one peculiar snapshot, I am holding a little baby above the water in a pool.

The swimmies on his arm, terrifyingly orange.


.5 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

You Sharon Stone, sit across from fat versions of myself, Sal and other hairy faceless males.

Sucking a cumulus cloud from your tasty cigarette, you shift in your seat, as we inquire as to the extent of your frosty powers. The obscure area between your legs briefly firecracker lights your pubic floral arrangement. All the winter loves of all hideous men rapidly pass before our eyes, nearly killing us. In the film, the motion is so swift that I miss it. But in this version, Skadi, I see everything.

Only this is never happening.

Unknown. MAX.

.6 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Ix Chel,
I love you, you love me, sure. Never at the same time. Whatever.


I sit here weeping the corn gash. Wrong film, right word. Uh, I see how I can modulate frequencies of twitch. Er, please destroy my field of vision. Love my acuity. Either one.

Ahhhh, this is ridiculous…

Look!!!!!!!! The moon is changing.

Sincerely MAX

.7 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I can’t imagine any nipples pinker than yours, although that’s all I can do, imagine them.

A sow’s teats waddle in the breeze.

On days like this, ice tea is best out of an iron glass.

Sincerely MAX

.8 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Goddesses like you never appear in the movies.

All the women in films are not shaped like you, they all have figures that conform to a certain shape.

You with your big hips & breasts & round face, are not to be found in any motion pictures.

Unfortunately, I would rather see your rushes.

I guess studios fear fertility.



.9 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

These selfsame letters are absolute proof that men disassociate the true identities of women from their partial shadows (referenced in corporal forms) . At least during the golden era of Hollywood.

Smoke is everywhere. Can you turn it down?

Man, MAX

.10 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Notice that most motion pictures deal with objectification, with seeing a woman in a certain space in time, observed by the male gaze. This bothers me, but not enough to stop looking. Whether I turn into ice, a rock, a pig, etc….

So then, why are you staring at me so, here? I’m sure it can’t be desire.
Sincerely, MAX


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