The Spell

Once upon a time, a prince was bewitched by a magic pussy. His soul became but a
dream of the pussy's. Sometimes he imagined his entire life, his raison
d'etre, was like sugar cubes melting beneath her tongue. That's how much he
loved her. She, however, had a habit of entertaining other dreams.

The Pussy's Debut

Pussy is not a good word. No one should use it. Instead it should be kept like
a prisoner in the mind, carefully chained and gagged. But I, for reasons
inexplicable, am powerless to resist it. I must warn you that every time I
give a poetry reading, if I allow the pussy to make an appearance (and I
always do), it's bad news. The instant the pussy arrives at the reading, one
man, always one, walks out. Which, I have to confess, pleases me just a bit.
Perhaps a bit of pleasing is a good thing, maybe better than too much. Like
salt, I like it in small doses. A single tear, not a deluge. And that's
exactly how it is when one man leaves. Of course, he doesn't go right away. I
always start out with something sweet and innocent, maybe a poem or two about
childhood or bees. But he's not fooled. He's waiting. He knows it's coming.
And so do I. The pussy's debut. After which he stands up abruptly, scraping
his chair, rustling his papers. He's not satisfied until everyone turns and
stares. He meets my gaze with a hostile glare. And then I can't help myself.
I announce it again with utter composure, no smile, no apology, the single
word, pussy, to accompany him to the door. Sometimes I think, I could be
saying pride or prudence or pectorals. I could be saying pansies or posses of
palominos. Or platefuls of Patsy's pitless pink peaches. But pussy is
simpler, like a petal in the wind. So solitary too. And so many thoughts
follow it . . . his and mine, and sometimes yours. Pussy. Pretty, isn't it?
It's not like a swear word, and it has no harsh gutturals and fricatives. And
afterwards, I look out and feel suddenly, almost happy, maybe as happy as a
prairie dog peeking out of its hole on a sunny morning in April or June after a
long, dark sleep . . . or as happy as a wasp atop a warm, wet plum, or a frog in a
tree after the monsoons. It's true. And wonderful really. To think what
could happen when one enunciates a single word of power. And afterwards,
always, when the door closes, and my departing man is gone, leaving us behind
with the pussy, a wind blows in. Precious wind. I feel so much better then.
I sigh with relief. I swear the pussy does too. If it could, it would laugh a
little. It might even cheer. But I try not to. I wouldn't want to be rude.

How the Pussy Is Like a God

Only the pussy can guide you in the right direction, though usually you are
sleeping or don't seem to notice.

The metaphor for your life? Getting stuck in city elevators, riding up and down
for hours. The pussy takes no responsibility for this.

You are but a single heart beat, a mere flicker or tail wag in the vast body of
the pussy whose measure and limit has not been established, for the pussy seeks
the boundless, the eternal, the blouseless. One day you, too, could be one with
the pussy.

You must take notes and observe the pussy carefully.

Once you have learned to recognize the pussy, you will know that the pussy
always abandons you by enveloping you.

Sometimes the pussy mistakes a nude buttocks for a loaf of bread and takes a
swift bite from the soft, sweet flesh, leaving tiny teeth marks.

The pussy can become more desirable in absentia, sort of like the items in a
catalog of sunsets in a travel brochure.

When the pussy leaves for its annual seaside vacation, it rarely takes more than
7-8 days to return. During its absence, you will feel as if water is filling
your ears. At night you will dream of whale songs.

Neither your family nor your culture gave birth to the pussy. The pussy comes
from beyond and prefers to remain invisible, though sometimes it can be seen
crawling across your skin like a small, red wave.

Few have ever witnessed the sudden and inexplicable flight of the pussy.

Pussies can never be reduced or repealed. Each pussy is as unique as a
fingerprint with its many whorls.

Even now the pussy is working in your life. A shadowy stranger, an afterimage
of you, it leaves wet footprints on the tile floor. You must learn to
distinguish which footprints are your own, and which are those of the pussy.

from Portable Pussy

(There's a saying, my mother used to tell me: Put your head before the heart and
you are a king. Put the heart before the head, and you are a fool. But my
mother never told me where to put the pussy, before the head and the heart,
after them, or in between?)