Thursday, June 12, 2014

Silent Auction- Poem- The Bodysmooth Consumer is a Woman

The Bodysmooth Consumer is a Woman
Jessica Helen Lopez

For we are all factory with smooth metal legs and consumable parts
Necks like smokestacks and Bic blades pink on a frosty Sunday morning
We are sexy consumers and passive violent offenders, sleek credit card swipe and mad jangle of the gold coin rising.  We are third world racketeers. The bodysmooth consumer of a first world woman.

We are debt and glory.  We are wrinkle free foreheads and frozen crow’s feet.
We have no time for time.

For we are hot breath hangover and hot yoga class two for one
so we take our best hung over friend and sip Bloody Mary’s post-bliss

For we are all about dancing on barstools and kissing cigarettes into ring shaped smoke. We are ass shake and bend-over-hos. We are bendable.

For we wear ladders for shoes and tower over our competitors. 
We are stealth and young forever.

Praise the artificial breast and its swooning sloshing beauty.  The rhinoplasty and the third
first world nose job. Admire the toe worship. The bejeweled cuticle.  The summer diet.  The winter diet.

The spinach puree cleanse.  Admire the summer house in the Hamptons. The ski season in the Aspens.

The Mexican maid.  The Korean maid. The Honduran maid.  The Venezuelan maid. 
The breast milk by proxy.

Praise the glitter song. The tiara.  The sexy five-year olds on parade.  The barroom brawl lyrics and the maddening microwaves and UV lighting. Keep clipping coupons girl.  You are almost there.

You are 957 Ways to Turn Him On.  You are 101 Recipes for a Skinny Bitch. You are the latest anti-aging technology. You are obsession.  You are infatuation.  You are beautiful neurosis.

For we are Summer’s Eve mask-the-smell make-overs. The polite douche bottle beneath the bathroom sink. The tucked-away tampons.  We are hairless bodies and waxed, tucked, plucked, fucked, goosed, and chemical peel. We are overcrowded mouth and bleached cusped.

This is for all the women whose hearts hum electric.
Whose hearts are shrink wrapped cadavers.
Whose hearts have been deodorized.

We who palpitate with key strokes and Facebook posts. We who stir with caffeinated online purchases.  We who gulp pharmaceuticals and green-eyed margaritas. We who haunt drug stores and strip malls.

Go to sleep.

Sleep. Sleep soft. 
Sleep hard.  All the signs are mounting.
They point to sleep.  The mellifluous halo of stillness.
The small explosions behind the eyelids like white static chrysanthemums.

Your middle name isn’t happy hour. It isn’t Eau de Parfum. You are not your nervous breakdown.

You are 200,000 years of slanted rain.  You are Lilith rising, bald and golden-headed baby. You are Thought Woman and a satchel of eggs webbed to your eighth leg.   You are the squall and thunderous storm.

Your femur, the longest mile. Your body, anything but smooth, and never a factory.
Never a cog or mechanic fulcrum. Never a this for a that.

We are rough-patch hewn of the fossil.  The calcified woman.

We were here first.

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