Journal 27 - Mannequin Legs

Legs are so much more than practical automotive
muscles. Long tone curved tan beacons to sexual
desire so far removed from the everyday matter
of evolution of locomotion. And then there’s
the muscular toned ass at rest atop like a
bust on display of a beautiful pedestal by Rodin.
Round and inviting in its effortless in-your-face
‘sweetness.’ I digress. Deliciously. But a fine firm
ass can cover a multitude of stupidity. It’s
true but only partly sad. In any rate of exchange
a woman’s body is the same across any point in
time. I’ve heard of the Renaissance belly but
bring Michelangelo or Raphael here and tell me
the bulbous plump is sexier than Halle Berry or
Evangeline Lilly. I know these thoughts are reeking
with the stench and steam of shit sifting out
of the sewer on main street, or King Street –
outside the CHS Place Hotel, O but tall boots on
long white legs. Color of course is a secondary
attribute – accidental in its subjective interpretation.
Consider the nature of cheese. Injected with
color or aged to rust in its beautiful trio of
texture, smell and taste. Why must things I enjoy
be administered by the smug insecure snobs of
pseudo-intellectual egomaniacs? Wine, cheese, books,
music and cigars. I suppose I must be one myself –
if it walks, talks, looks and acts like a duck it is
(probably) not an anteater. I won’t lie when I say
that I can’t help but watch a thin fit calved woman
walk across the lobby with blonde hair and perfect
clothes with ‘fancy’ flip-flops - she is most likely
a mannequin in bed. But I still lustfully watch,
glue-eyed. It’s stupid really – the air-brushed throb
in magazine is as likely to mean something in my
dream engulfed life. Hemingway said to stop
writing before the well was dry – I should heed
his experience; these words are drivel and a bit
below a placeholder for my wannabe mediocre
existence. There are so many to blame. Unless
I’m honest. I have spiritual glaucoma.

3.28.09