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Will you be my V-A-L-E-N-T-I-N-E? Valentine, you hardly know how much you mean to me. Sugar and spice and all things nice is what you mean to me. Will you be my V-A-L-E-N-T-I-N-E?
A shout out to Ms. Sigliano, my elementary school music teacher, for this memorable tune.
I made a collage poem/song/story… medley! It’s a medley, for YOU, listeners. It’s complicated because love is complicated.
Plodding along uphill with heavy rubber boots in deep wet snow—calves burning, quads burning—my will and my fatigue making sweet love that I find creepy and disgusting, like parents making love, because these are two things that made me who I am. Cross Country skiers left their trails and I barrel through those trails, but only in my mind. In real life I trudge along beside them, eyeing the level and easy, pining for simpler times, hunting the wild creatures with long flat feet.
I’m always trying to reinvent myself as self-effacing; the kind of girl everybody loves more. I grab my jaw in my hand and squeeze the shit out of it but it stops for no man. And what’s the use of trying when my face is worth a thousand words and everyone already knows me as second cousin to the devil?
I have an extreme sensitivity to adrenaline. I imagine this means I am expertly tuned for excitement. I’m like a bear in winter, making the most of reserves, or a snake anytime, taking a week to digest one meal. I must have evolved to survive a very boring environment. For a girl like me, this modern world can be too much of a good thing.
A sequoia named General Sherman is the biggest living thing on earth. Sending off his nesting birds, he learns the news of California. How cheated he must feel—to have parried root to root, and root to stone, and root to earth for two-thousand years, where the tip of every spindly sprig must be a thumb, master in the art of war—now that any hairless ape with some damp cash for a set of clothes can waltz into an elevator and scrape the sky. Once he lorded over man and beast. Once he was the grandest phallus in the land.
A sketch by George Hrab that I’m in. My voice is so crackily croaking because I’m sick. It sounds cool to me but how do you know I’m not lip-synching right now? I got drunk as fuck at a Valentine’s Day party.
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Are you a true believer?
Shout outs, show notes, ephemera:
– Kevin Willis (also Al Phlipp and the Woo Team.) You should all feel free to follow Al’s lead and send me your stuff (collaboration material is especially welcome). Send it to: soccergirlincorporated@gmail.com
