smooth criminal

i self-pampered tonight, shearing off my winter wool and massaging oil on the naked parts. the storms here are sharp and stinging, and i couldn't resist feeling it on my newborn self. i stood on the porch, in my favorite blue and green striped long shirt -- the one that falls off my shoulder -- and nothing else. the wind pushed me back and my feet fell apart, and i opened up -- i felt it all. it bit me like ice, but i laughed all the while.


then i wrote this silly fantasy poem (i like to rhyme):


i am determined to find
my spring clean
your sunday-dream
what did you mean?

let's start at the bottom
where my toes are
often forgotten
in your haste to believe


using the sharpest of five 
blades, you say
you will change me over
whisk them away


it tickles when you move
higher and lighter
your smile gets softer
my muscles get tighter


are we there yet?
i haven't felt in years
it's kind of a fear, what
you'll see inside here


ah, but it's lovely!
burnt sienna and crimson
and a secret shy pink
just for your eyes, or so you think.

anything more would be obscene.