POEM THURSDAY! love, DICK FANCY.

First, first, I just need to say that I realize if you happen to stumble upon this blog, or even if you've come here on purpose, it probably seems as though you've stumbled upon a relic of the past. Maybe, like, circa 1990. Blogs have since become pretty complex and spectacular. Lots of bells and whistles. At least a nice-looking banner. I'm not really up on the whole scene, because I'm both lazy and un-savvy when it comes to most forms of technology, but I have visited some blogs myself, and I know what potential they hold.

DICK FANCY wants you to know that it's fine just where it is. Stuck in 1990, which was probably a great year. I was four for most of it, until October, when I turned five, so I don't have too many clear memories of that time, but I'll bet it was probably decent. I guess H.W. Bush was still president, so maybe things weren't as good as they got starting in 1992, when Bill scooted his fine ass in there and dazzled the world with illegal blowjobs and a thriving economy and whatnot, but, anyway. Let's just put DICK FANCY somewhere in the '90-'95 region and stop worrying so much about chasing today's modern (and frankly OBSCENE) technology craze, spiraling out of control even as I type this. It is simply impossible to keep up. Some of us pick a year in our past and choose to remain there, content with what that year offered in certain arenas, like this one. I know it seems like I'm stressing out about about all this, but I'm not. I'm just worried that YOU are stressing out, and I'm trying to eliminate YOUR stress so that my own stress remains at a comfortable level. I had acupuncture today, goddammit, and it was goddamned relaxing and if you do ANYTHING to mess this up for me, I swear. I swear.

Let's get on with it then, shall we? Let's set the scene: it's 1993, Bill Clinton is exceedingly presidential, mainly because he's the president, it's summertime, the air smells of fresh-mowed lawn, the gardener's just put in some new mulch around the plants because they were starting to droop, what with all the heat, your stocks and bonds are all performing beyond expectation (can bonds perform?), and a woman (of your choosing) in an old-fashioned apron has just brought you some home-brewed iced-tea (Moroccan mint? I don't know?)

And now, for you, a newly-writ poem, about pubes:  -->

Pube-rty

Prayed I'd never bleed

because I couldn't figure how

I'd tell my mother—She—

quick to blush. She—

who once hid from me the spider-

tangle of her bush when, by accident,

I wondered into the bathroom, She—

mid-piss. She—squatting

nude upon the toilet. Her pale

skin my pale skin both of us

ashamed for being what we were,

for knowing

too much.

This was when the bible

made sense—mythology providing

context, at least, for the little things

bound to happen when you open doors

without knocking first—not that I ever

combed that doctrine of fables to explain

away gatherings of insect-y

womanhood, the plain awkward sight

of my mother's pubic hair, clotted

beneath her spread palm. Of what it meant

to be plucked from smooth ignorance

sudden, still unripe. Handed an apple

without Newton's law and made to parse out

what happens when it falls.