We have no idea if the squirrels are happy. Or / if anyone is.

Human supremacy is
assuming the squirrels are happy.

We have no idea

if the squirrels are

having a good time,

or

if anyone is.

Sometimes I struggle

to find an outfit

that matches  the day.

So far

my best option

smells like the thrift store.

Now that I’m going off Prozac,

I think someone else

might have to

take out
the recycling.

Hormone curation,

myoclonic jerks.

These seem fewer,

but I feel more inclined

to be grumpy.

When I get old,

I hope there is time

to watch the squirrels

carry bagels

across telephone wires.

 

Telephone wires,

and clotheslines,

though by then all the telephone wires

will be buried underground.  

Who knows what will happen to the clotheslines.

 

Time for the squirrels,

and a window.

And jigsaw puzzles.

 

I will not die of loneliness,

but this may seem surprising.

We have no idea

if the squirrels are happy.

Or

if anyone is.

The End.

This outfit matches the day
better than the others.
It does not smell
like the thrift store.


Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

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First no boundaries on the Internet. Then Psychotic Break.
This was my calling on the corner of Rue Boucher and Rue Drolet just around yesterday's sunset on Friday, March 17
Rumplestiltskin


Five Days of Creative Recovery

The Permafrost is melting in Siberia

Money Issues,
Daddy Issues,
Poetry
and oil.


The Permafrost
is melting in
Siberia.


You have always made things
more beautiful than
they needed to be.
More beautiful and
more complicated.


Now that I'm going off Prozac,
I await my brand new orgasms.


Today I slept
past 6 a.m.
Just like
a regular person.


Regular person
Regular French fries.


My body contains no permafrost,
though I heard that once I'm dead
large maggots will crawl
out my mouth.
I don't quite understand
how they'll manage
to do this.


I was thinking of becoming
a gardener,
but doubt that I have
enough patience.


Plus most of my backyard
is covered in pavement.


You have always made life
more beautiful than it needed to be.
More beautiful and
more complicated.


The End.


Making things more beautiful than they need to be
comes from Elizabeth Gilbert
in a conversation with Krista Tippett
in the Onbeing episode, "Choosing Curiosity Over Fear."

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

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They smile at the sidewalks even though it's cold as balls and they must remain on leashes.
List
God Box

What does it mean to be a woman, part Two

What does it mean

to be a woman,

part Two.

In grade five

my science fair project

considered

which kind of music

made bean plants

grow best.

The categories were

Classical - both live and recorded,

Broadway musicals - Les Mis, The Secret Garden, Beauty and the Beast,

The Vacuum Cleaner,

Easy Listening

Pop Music,

And Billie Holiday.

For most of their lives,

the bean plants grew

on the bathroom windowsill

each of them privy

to my sister's singing

and the sound

of the hairdryer.

Back then

I was quite the scientist.

To gain further insight

for my research,

I watched a biographical film

about Billie Holiday

whose name was once

Eleanora Fagan.

This is when I learned that many women

have to change their names

if they want

to be famous.

Judy Garland too.

Judy and the Wizard

of Oz

were my favourites.

I even named

my stuffed orangutang

after Judy

and from a young age,

I drew rainbows compulsively. 

"Them that's got shall get."

"Them that's not shall lose."

Growing up

I was lucky to own

more than one

stuffed primate.

All I remember

from the Billie Holiday movie

was the song, "God Bless the Child,"

and Billie slash

Eleanora

shooting heroine on the toilet

and singing in a bar

where she caught five-dollar bills with her vagina.

"Mama may have.

Papa may have."

At nine or ten years old,

this was the first

I'd seen of such things.

"The strong gets more while the weak ones fade."

The bean plant

that listened to

"pop"

was the winner.

Curated by my sister,

the "Pop" cassette

opened with

"The Leader of the Pack."

Bean plants

it seemed,

responded quite well

to whining

and pining

about dudes.

It's my party

You don't own me

Birds all sing

as if they know.

Billie's bean plant

grew an average height.

Now I might remember

Billie dying her skin white.

Or Eleanora.

Or was that someone else.

My last Fat Day

failed to apologize.

My last Married Man

never climbed up

through my window.

I invited him so many times.

As for me,

when I grew up

I did not become a scientist,

or a singer,

or even a gardener.

Or,

anyone's mother.

It was never clear to me

if Billie got to keep

the five-dollar bills

she retrieved with her

vagina.

Or if that would have made

any difference.

The End.

Good morning
heartache.


Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

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What does it mean to be a woman, Part One
Not That Kind of Girl
First no boundaries on the Internet. Then Psychotic break.

What does it mean to be a woman

This is just me

menstruating

on some obscure corner

of the Internet

on Mother's Day.

 

I meant for it to be

more groundbreaking

and edgy

than it actually

turned out.

 

Slides of the in-

side of the vagina

don’t look much different

from slides of the larynx.

 

Both appear pinkish

and alive.

 

This is what I learned

from the only speech pathologist

I know.

And I trust her.

 

Once I had a speech pathology.

When I said,

“Menstruation,”

I pronounced it like

a three-year-old would.

 

“Men-

Stuation.”

Very cute.

And edgy.

 

What does it mean

to be a woman?

 

You might have

three to seven

fat days per year.

 

I tried to cancel these

the day I turned thirty,

and had mixed results.

 

The last time I had a fat day

Vincent was on vacation.

As a woman,

I can make

my own choices

about fat days.

 

As a woman

I’ve become

mostly well-versed

in forgiveness.

Phrases that begin with

“As a”

truly help a person

to feel smug.

 

But making a whole list

of such phrases

is annoying

and seems pretentious.

This is just me

wondering if

my eternal tits

have finally grown

and if anyone will notice

and if that makes me more

of a woman. 

As a woman,

I am better off

avoiding coming off

as pretentious.

 

This is just me,

once again hoping

some dude will enjoy

my performance.

 

The first play

I ever wrote

in my life

was called

Back

When I

Used To

Have a Prostate.

 

You don’t need a prostate

to have a urethra.

You don’t need an s,

to have two urethra

at least not today.

 

The Dépanneur Café

no longer serves jujubes

at least not today.

 

This is just me

hoping the dude

will find me delightful,

charming,

witty,

sincere,

possibly good-looking.

Cute.

Edgy.

 

This is just me

Feeling hungry,

But pretending I’m not

Hungry

Or dissatisfied

In any which way

Whatsoever.

 

The End.

This is just me
wearing the blazer
I am trading for Kombucha
Tomorrow
on the Trade Hole


Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

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What does it mean to be well
This is just me menstruating on so obscure corner of the Internet on Mother's Day
Hi my name is Erica. I'm having thoughts of death.


My Eternal Tits

Finally and undoubtedly I feel grateful for my life.

March 18, 2011.

Me and my Cool Friend Fern

vowed that from this day forward
we’d refrain from puking
in our mouths
or in the toilet.


A day or two later
Fern called me
In desperation.

I was eating

an obscene amount of cantaloupe.


“Get over here,”
she said.
“I need you.”

So I went to her house
in Saint Henri
and hung out with Fern
and her emotionally fragile dogs
who drooled and farted
as Fern and I 
ate our favourite versions
of non-hazardous
green and brown foods.


I remember falling asleep

on the fresh clean white sheets

of her king's sized bed

with the television on,
the dogs snoring,
and Fern downstairs
sipping hot beverages
and perfecting
her next great advertising pitch.


By the time
it was morning
I think I had
a cold sore.


Day One,
Day Two,
Day Thirty-Three.


Day One Hundred and Seventeen.

One Year and Twenty-Nine Daysé

Four Years and Eighty-Six Days.
March 18, 2017.


Sometimes I find myself
waiting for my prize.


I guess the prize
is no more vomit.


Though every now and then I still vomit in my head
and instead of at the sun
upon the world,
my eyes keep looking at the wall.


Once I had a therapist
who thought I seemed to struggle
with life's less exciting moments
such as putting on
my pyjamas.


This does not seem
to be true
anymore
even if
I'm still me
and still here.


Emotional Digestion
is not always Spectacular,
but I love
to put on my pyjamas.
And usually,
once or twice a week,
I have the pleasant thought
that finally
and undoubtedly
I feel grateful for my life.

The End.

I love
to put on
my pyjamas.
These pyjamas
are for sale.



Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
Montreal Hippie Threads (@mtlhippiethreads)
Instagram: montrealhippiethreads


Why I am like Oprah.
What does it mean to be well
Mythological Unconditional Love

This was my calling on the corner of Rue Boucher and Rue Drolet just around yesterday's sunset on Friday, March 17th.

This was my calling on the corner
of Rue Boucher and Rue Drolet
just around yesterday’s sunset
on Friday,
March 17th.

“Natasha,”

she yelled,
up to the window
of the fifth or sixth balcony
of a tall building.

“Natasha.”

Tall
for her old age,
the woman was wide,
wearing a long brown coat
and a dark green hat
and glasses.

“Nata-sha.”

Everybody watched,

but nobody did anything.

I looked at the building,

labelled
habitation
and something about
the golden age
of elderly people.

“Natasha.”

To me

it seemed unlikely
that the door
would be locked.

I crossed rue Boucher.

“Ça va?”

I asked the woman
who was looking for
Natasha.

“Pas clef,”

she said.
No key.

I walked her around

to the front of the building,
pulled on the door and it opened.

“C’est ouvert,”

it is open,
I remarked.                                                     

We walked in together.

“Merci,”
said the woman
who was looking for
Natasha.
“Très gentille.”

This was my calling
on the corner
of Rue Boucher and Rue Drolet
just around yesterday’s sunset
on Friday,
March 17th.

Every once in a while
the doors you seek to walk through
are already open.

The End.





This is Simon's building
in the summer.
Natasha does not live here.


Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
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This is just me giving myself grace on the corner of Saint Laurent and Saint Viateur at 3 P.M. on a Tuesday
What does it mean to be well
They smile at the sidewalks even though it's cold as balls and they must remain on leashes.