She had impossibly huge round tits

having been around awhile and being a man meant he was a voyeur   and being a 

breastman meant Nothing got past him

not one cleavage                                                                                                                          

or not                                                                                                                            

not one gaping neckline or button unbuttoned                                                                      

or not                                       

too bad there wasnt any money in it                                                                                                   then he might be too busy counting his dough peeling off $100 bills from a roll kept in 

his front pants pocket to pay any attention                                                                           

or not

there was no missing these                                                                                                 

a blind man would recognize a disturbance in the Force

they became the salacious humored subject of conversation between he and his grrlfriend      

a liberal banter back and forth

--    Would you want tits that size

--    Would you want me to have tits that size

--    No  You wanna answer the question

--    No

they hadnt seen anything that xplicit in a very long time

                                                  the first time they saw her she was dressed in Spandex  

they gave her that shed just come from the gym  her posture slack  seemingly exhausted  

(youd probably be too  -  carrying that rack) leaning heavily on a cart as she walked up 

the fragrant bread aisle  resting their copiousness on the carts handlebar  on top her hands

           her breasts  tanned  freckled  bulged like balloons compressed by her black–and-

pink-ribbed sports bra

he remarked if he wetted her breasts  grappled her  a hand at either side of them   he could 

make them squeak and sing as childrens toy water balloons did when they ran as kids  

clutching a half dozen or better in their arms  running madly  barefooted  across their

neighbors grass  through their backyards  during a water balloon fight

                                                                                                      no one could possibly 

sneak up on another unless they were down to their last one or two balloons                

the squeaks betraying them

then they saw her again

it was a small town                                                                                                              

grown smaller now in perspective of and the advent of her Colossuses

but this time she had them clothed                                                                                

although the cotton shirt was tight                                                                                          

strained across the chest                                                                                                 

the Henley unbuttoned  impossible to button                                                                                 

its hem pulling up and exposing her belly

                                                                                             she walked with her daughter

they and them converged to xit out through the automatic doorway at the specialty food 

market

              courteously they stepped back  outnumbered  allowing her and her and her and 

her daughter to pass first

their liberal banter deflated like a balloon

they hadnt imagined she had a daughter                                                                      

a daughter old enough to realize the difference before and after her mother opted for the 

elective surgery

he was tempted to touch her at the shoulder and ask her what she said to her daughter

his clawed hand index-finger extended fell short

walking out to their parked car his grrlfriend asked him what he was possibly thinking

--    I was thinking exactly what you were thinking

--    And I was thinking

--    We were thinking what kind of message did her augmentation say to her daughter 

about her daughters body and about other womens bodies

--    You read my mind often

--    Only when provoked

                                               a deep silence passed between them . . . their humor 

squelched . . . an unconsidered reality realized . . . between them they couldnt muster 

an upside . . . pro vs. con . . . the scale pulled drastically down . . . the gravity perhaps 

irreversible . . .

                         if a woman looking in a mirror cant accept herself for who she is vs. who 

society contorts her to be . . .

                                                where was this society leading

1246,  Saturday,  3  5. 14       

dirty canvas bag

what would a dirty canvas bag of bones  a grinning skull
blueglass conductors and rusted railroad spikes say about him

after he was gone

if it wasnt known he was dead it might be said

Why did he leave his shit behind

or if it was known he was dead . . . and that uncertain  -  he was known to chide death  -  that it best not be sneaky and try and come up behind him or when he was asleep  

cowardly

hed say No you can get the hell away from me  Come back when you can face me like a man

he wasnt sneaky 

wasnt shy

his shyness gone out of him as a boy and nothing in it he considered cute or toward

he was defiant

quarrelsome

and if need be he was violently-disposed

more than willing to throw the first punch if it was inevitable

a violent boy a violent teenager a violent man who wore his scars as sharp memories

like gleaming brittle showering glass . . .  

the only way hed leave his shit behind was if he couldnt take it with him

and Death required the barest of minimum he possessed

Himself

and that was a load onto itself

his head burgeoning and tied off tight

unyielding

the shit packed in his elastic skull was fearsome

he couldnt forget or forgive it if he tried

it was a tinderbox awaiting a spark

to bark to life

vivid as a lick of flame or pyre

No  he wouldnt leave his shit behind if he could help it

that dirty canvas bag held memories and stories fast

deformed parcels of having lived

a curiously-scoured Life

afternoon,  Friday,  5  11. 11

you never speak ill of the dead

because theyre listening

whenever he tried to convey that . . . sense . . . as indead it made keen sense to him     

those listening  

                         their eyeballs ratcheted open wider and the hair on the backs of their necks 

stood on end

                                                and hed know they hadnt watched their tongues

he knew from his incursions                                                                                           

his sparrings                                                                                                                                      his “wait a second!”  directed at them to buy himself a slender scintilla  a slip of time       

to step back   sensitively   

and recognize either his                                                                                                                        

                                      or their transgression

of course they listen

                                they listen like curious children from hallways or antechambers outside kitchens  on sideboards in the diningroom  from livingroom overhead etchedglass fixtures 

nestled in eased transoms  or clinging to roughcut timbers floorjoists and their braces 

beneath our feet 

listening at keyholes in doors where skeletons keys had been lost long ago  

                                                                                                                           or hidden

hed seen faces scratched and cheeks slapped  bodies shoved from behind

and had to insert himself as a peacekeeper  raising his voice sternly  -   Well have none 

of that                                                                                                                           

--   Keep your hands to yourself

Keep your hands to yourself                                                                                                

because they can                                                                                                             

if you have earned their respect

because if youve talked badly of them                                                                            

as anyone who is badly spoken of behind theirs backs or blatantly threatened to their 

faces

         there seethes an animosity

and they possess the element of surprise                                                                                        

                                                                   like guerillas or bloodsworn jihadists fingering 

maiming IEDs

one logically fears being maimed to death

of course they listen

never speak ill of the dead

0110,  Friday,  2  5. 14