Part of not knowing what is true
anymore is an opening up to all sorts of taboo.
What have I sectioned off as valid and invalid,
appropriate and inappropriate,
good and bad?
Well, I’ll tell you, that sectioning fence falls in huge chunks
daily around here.
Tattoos are ice breaking, and beautiful.
Art that makes me curious and loving –
Yet, when MY 19 year old appears with a tattoo, unannounced,
a piece of flesh that was formed within my own,
my knees go quivery soft. What is the difference?
I have a hard time even remembering to put creams on me –
jewelry a rare afterthought-
yet I do cover my face with foundation, often, and draw little lines around my eyes
making appearing naked face, at times, a taboo. Ridiculous – yet, no. habit, face, world –
silly comparison, nothing compared to
bold, relentless piercing –
What am I to make of my feelings
when my daughter says her comment about being a dancer
led the whole restaurant to assume she is a stripper?
She laughs, I still cannot!
Why not a whole face tattoo?
Do I wince at cussing? not anymore.
So mild, that!
Have I ever known a sex worker?
What if she were my granny?
Where do the fences lie?
Why do I lose my sense of humor when it comes to my daughters, sometimes?
OH, you gorgeous fence stompers!
A late night game of cards against humanity –
I feel easing around the dark collection of words with
this group of souls who embrace uncomfortable, strange, random, dark –
opening dear mama to whatever is arriving here now.
Where do I have trouble loving –
Where am I boundless –
open, observing,
impassively –
out and out and out – a land without ownership, a mind without opinions?
Life as Improv 