A Poem: WWJTD? *explicit*

WWJTD

Do you remember the Jesus-bracelet movement? 

There were bracelets of all colors and sizes

With four initials on the four beads 

WWJD

What would Jesus do?

It was a catch phrase, a reminder

To think before we judge

To share and be kind

Before we turned up our noses

At the wicked

Moons have passed 

Since I found Jesus on a bracelet

And lost him

Then found him again

…Within a rough proximity, 

At least

To where my heart lives…

Sometimes, 

I still ponder

What would Jesus do?

And I aim for that

Other times,

More often than not,

I consider,

What would Jon Taffer do?

A New York/Italian

With the voice of a lion

And growl of a wolf

WWJTD

He would bark at my self-pity

And call me a pussy 

He would tell me

To get my ass back in line

And go for what I want 

And treat everyone

With some damn respect

Dreaming

I awaken from a scandalous dream to quiet sluggishness in an earth toned room, warmed by sunlight. Rousing gently to the voice of reason, I softly tumbled into the present, formulating linear thoughts that began to make sense. Pleased with myself, I smiled and rolled over onto my right side – the more comfortable angle for a degenerative lumbar disc – and thought about the important message in my dream.

In dreamland, you see, I am an entrepreneur. A businesswoman, with one employee, finishing a day’s work by making the world smile. I don’t work for the man, and I sure as hell don’t take shit from nobody. Queen me, Lady Boss.  

What can I say? Business is booming.

In the CandyBar Car, we bring the chocolate fix to you. We travel far and wide, music up, windows down. And when the day is done, we pull over on the side of the busy freeway. 

No need to lock doors. We don’t roll the windows up. We abandon the car and walk miles home, and miles back, into the next day freely. 

People walk into oncoming traffic to catch my one employee and I; they catch our attention before we part ways with the CandyBar Car. They even ask us to wait, return to our open-closed car on the freeway, so that they can indulge in Butterfinger. We oblige them, with little dread. 

Why? I’m here to serve the people.

Besides, interruptions are like Bob Ross’ painting mistakes. “There are no mistakes, only happy accidents.” 

As the end of day’s dreamland shift carries into the beginning of day’s reality shift – I determine the lessons learned from the night as I bask in the sun, also momentarily before two unsolicited dick pics arrived on my cellular waves.

  • Invest in one employee for highway safety
  • Make the world smile
  • Eat the chocolate
  • Stay open, even when you think you’re closed. Not to unsolicited dick pics, though. Never be open to that.

The Journey Begins

As I finish weaving the long braid around the right side of my frame, I assess my presentation in the mirror. Fair to middlin’. Choosing another shirt with a cropped rain jacket, I complete my take on the modern native look with combat boots and tribal jewelry. 

No mirror needed. Be the best you, I reminded myself. Be-you-tiful.

Okay. Good enough. I spray myself multiple times with Pumpkin Cupcake body mist. 

Is that me? 

I smell myself again, raising my right shoulder up to meet my mountain nose that can barely smell rotten potatoes. I spray the mist over my torso once more, just to ascertain that my body odor doesn’t radiate stronger than the perfume. If I’m going to bear a strong scent, I’d rather reek of perfume than body odor.  

After requesting an Uber ride and half-heartedly jogging down the stairs – I open the fridge, to open a bottle of Biltmore Estate wine, to open my throat, for the evening dose. 

Could it be something in my room that smells? I don’t smell myself anymore. Am I having an aura? 

Sometimes, before a convulsive seizure, there is a pungent smell lingering in my nostrils. Sometimes. 

I toss the wine down the hatch, and as quickly as it slips down my throat, it seems to warm my veins. I need the liquid courage for the quest that lay before me. 

Christmas shopping isn’t a journey for the faint at heart.  It’s a battlefield that may require you to unsheathe your mighty shopping sword and go into close combat if supplies run low… but the Christmas music could be all it takes to set you over the edge. 

Everyone is chitter-chattering superficially in your space – closer than comfort – while the nearby photographer squeezes a squeaky toy or shakes a rattle at a crying baby, sitting on Santa’s lap. 

Consumerism consumes, and elitism ensues.

I’m almost grateful to step into a lingerie store, out of the noisy crowd and into the quiet space of loud minds consumed with sex. After handling a few sexy items, I make eye contact with a few consumers without intent. Half-annoyed, half-exhausted – I offer a smile to anyone that peered in my direction, at the risk of being the pervy wanker eyeballing everyone’s skivvies. Most of the women returned my smile. However, the men made it a point to exhibit eye contact with my curves, after ascertaining that I had a visual display of it. 

I need another glass of wine.

Further annoyed, I pondered on similar thoughts of the tan, hard jaw-lined, 20-some year old voyeur. Making no display of my desire, I smashed my sexual fantasies of him with a feminist sledgehammer of clarity, beating it into nothing but dust. With a swift realignment, I picked up the dirty, dusty desire from the garden of my mind. I blew it from my hands, into the great wide open outside the mall doors. 

Not today, America.