The woman’s body (especially when YOU are the woman’s body) is beautiful, amazing, mysterious, OUT THERE, and messy-gross sometimes.

But it’s like, awesome, dude.

Once I was told to sit down and shut up.
That just hurts my feelers.

I feel like showering as well. This poem reminded me of the first time I met a bachelor. When I was twelve, a man moved onto my street who painted his own car and caught bees in open beer bottles. He had a glazed wooden board on his garage wall. Under the thick polyurethane was an image cut from a calendar. The image was of a bare breasted Thai woman washing herself under a waterfall. I came to his garage pretending to be interested in his car and his goofy friend who always seemed to have just been stung on his lip. Really it was to look at this image. Something about it brought me back to his garage. One day he saw me looking at the image. He took it down without stopping his discussion about carburetors versus fuel injectors. I never visited him again.

Women should own more imagery like this. It would make them more appealing to twelve year old boys than cars. Imagine the world we would have. Junkyards full of cars that have no hope of ever being painted and sober friends with clear cases of cold-sore.

Bring your worst, Chicagoan psychic.