We stopped at a custard place for something to eat
And the cashier got our order wrong
A bunch of emo kids got the booth behind us
Their server said “if I wasn’t working I’d give you all a hug”
My daughter agreed that people shouldn’t hug at work
But I thought that’s really at the root of our collapse
Take my brother in law who goes on about the collapse
Waiting for the implosion, too anxious to eat,
Scrambling under the radar, refusing to work
a straight job because buying in is wrong.
I’ve never seen him accept a hug
Unless it was sexual, but not from one of us.
A stranger’s innocent remark is a coded “not one of us”
Suspect without some tactile confirmation to collapse
the distance. A touch if not a hug.
Mint tea in the bazaar with delicacies to eat
before closing the deal. It all went wrong
when exchange became accountants’ work.
The posture of markets is defense or defeat—muscles work
into a knot, tight shoulders and hips bind us;
emotionally constipated as though nature’s call is a wrong
number we can’t answer because our lungs have collapsed.
Look at the one emo’s red ears, his teeth only unclenched to eat,
exposed under fluorescence by threat of a lint mingling hug.
How disruptive would it be to instigate a group hug?
Circle the family, grab those teens, the staff—work
everyone into a cuddle puddle who thought they only came to eat,
unmolested, to satisfy a craving; not be engulfed by us,
pulled close; cheerful yelps when some stumble but don’t collapse;
buoyed by the breasts and flanks of strangers. Would it be wrong?
By my girth, to substitute custard for connection is wrong;
to ridicule the earnest hippie whose sign proclaims Free Hug
though he may live off the wealth of last season’s collapse,
privileged class traitor who chooses his own work
and makes it his business to manifest joy for us.
I am grateful for friends who offer me touch when I think I must eat
Wrap your arms, eat this open heart, right or wrong.
There are patrons behind us, vicarious fish in the grip of this hug;
Damn their personal space, their ice work edifice is ripe for collapse
Title won’t tell
You’ll be more delightful
When I find out your title
My Lady my ladder
my last ever after
I follow your aim
on the machine gun range
Lay me down in your sights, good night
If I knew your title,
I’d buy you a rifle
My licensed to carry my
Dowager Duchess
I gather your ducks
panting rough through the rushes
The hunter, not the dog, gets the game
I unbuckled my bridle
to pronounce your title
Of your Papal tiara
Your Egyptian scarabs
I shouted your fame
in the street, no one came
Please tell them that you know my name
![bendthedirt:
chakras by omnos on Flickr.
According to Tantric Yoga, chakras are centers of spiritual energy located in particular places in the human body and associated with different kinds of feelings and perceptions. The way to tap into them is taught in both Hinduism and Tibetan Buddhism. In this 5x7 ink drawing I have used non-traditional colors and numbers of petals and have included only four of the seven chakras (from bottom to top: sexual energy, mental power [the solar plexus], compassion [the heart], and spiritual intuition [the “third eye”]). My drawing is not a map of the chakras but an illustration of the idea of the human body as the home of different kinds of spiritual energy which can be made to blossom under the right conditions.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m3eumhwTJf1qelvhzo1_400.jpg)
