24 August 2013

Sticky Buns

My butt hates the computer chair. From the back of the crinkled faux leather to the uncomfortable sloped front edge, my ass despises every inch of the unforgiving seat. My feet barely scrape the floor as I swivel from side to side, cursing the sweat pooling beneath my cheeks. The temperature under my posterior must be close to a million degrees. Quite possibly, at this point, the chair and my rear end have melted together. It's a hundred and thirty five million freaking degrees and I have found the scientific point at which complaining becomes an endurance sport.
Sweat is not a lubricant. Not now, not ever. The moisture that accumulates in my asscrack has no other use beyond chapping my cheeks. Powder doesn't help. The person that perpetrated that myth never felt the drench of a good record-breaking hot day; never smelled the stench of a pair of underwear in their thirteenth hour. Converting three pounds of water weight into sweaty sweat causes gushing amounts of bodily fluid to expunge itself from orfices and pores; it streaks through the layers of dirt that lay on my skin, only to collect in a pool of filth and perspiration in the radiating ravine of my derrière. The resulting Eww de Toilette is the same consistency and smell of a semi-firm pile of baby shit.
Go ahead, Powder.
Freshen that up. 


The only sweat that I want to feel is the drops running down my beer bottle into my palm. The only glistening that needs to see the light of day are the beads of perspiration that form on my brow when I'm trying to choose my next drink. The only glaring that I want to see is the sun reflecting from my coconut-lathered legs as I paddle across the cool water.
Complaints bounce off the mountains. You can't hear the bitching of a teenager over the sounds of my contentment. And most importantly, my ass doesn't stick to a kayak seat.

02 August 2013

Seaweed Feet

From up here

it all looks square.

down there?

If ever we were near
a showdown of shadows,
The darkness we should fear
is the one the heart knows.

Above, we rise.
Again, the cries.

Reached through love bent in the middle
wrestled with time, a memory to fade.
You became caught by the riddle.
Like waves upon the mountain shore;
this is man-made.