Poem: Sugar Scrub


With a sugar scrub I exfoliate with homemade cosmetics.
Sugar, olive oil, and lemon juice – scrub your legs twice.
In-between shave – these are the doldrums of the summer life.
Think twice, there is no glory in the little ways I get through the day.
And trampled down with elephant feet I slide through the year in mud.

Drudge, sludge – I am overwhelmed by typing and paper, the slice of cutting knife,
Make the cut, so the board is straight, a sharp edge and endless matte finish.
Paper cuts, the cutting wheel, slipping through the papers middle.
Make it true and make it right so that I might have peace this night.

“This,” that word, never start a sentence with it, this and that, not this is happening, just say what’s happening be clear and concise; the writer’s knife from the designer’s grip.
Demonstrate which words are sacred, those words which fit the pages just right.
Make a rhyme, or make a rhythm, form the sentence that all will understand and see the point, the big idea, the grande scheme of idealization.

These are the doldrums of my day, stretching forth into cat pose, back to happy cow
Yoga will slimline the time it takes, to cut the day with words and blades, with design and words.
Add in the time it takes to visit a friend and keep up on life.
Pay attention, look forward, listen – ignore the fog on little rabbit paws as it passes close and flows away back into sunlight, the break of day.
You are still in the conversation and bad at listening after a time has passed…
Then achingly awake and bursting forth into life for just a moments bliss.
Wipe away the blurry picture and make it shining clear.
These are crisp, crystal moments in your life – snatch them before they disappear

Sugar scrubs lead to legs so smooth a model would desire them.
Perhaps, these insignificant things in my day have cause to bigger things.
The idealization – the presentation – the humanization – of important ideas.
They represent who we are as people and form the cradle of civilization.
That a thousand years from now they all will say, ” I cannot believe they lived this way!”
Our lives the theatre in the museum, what was once the leading edge – a half hidden mystery that no man alive that day will understand but for the little things, we do day by day that his wife does too.

Write the letter, seal it blood red wax, slice the blade and see the history, the archeology in these dry bones like poison seeping into times ahead.
The ethereal future of the man and his lady, the possibility my everyday has a unique sort of meaning.
The blades of grass crisp and green swaying in the present time, the breeze floats airy whispers and I wonder if they will have grass, sugar scrubs, and the colour of clean air – words and the familiar slice of knife through paper.

The assimilation of tomorrow and today.

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