Bright Red Dress (a.k.a. Anima)


She wears the Bright Red Dress, dances on marble table-tops


Has that perfect laugh — Head tilted back


You know the kind.


Yes, she’s That Kind


The kind they like to put in slow-motion


On the movie-screens


The kind who gives the teens


Wet dreams


And makes men stiffen in their theater seats


As they squirm over to one side


So the wife won’t see


The hard evidence of their fantasies.


Yes, she’s That Kind –


Her smile blinds,


Those wide big eyes


Blink innocently


While what they think is underneath – unbridled sensuality


Simmers through transparently


Because it ain’t necessarily


Her own sensuality


But I won’t bore you with


Such Things.


They all imagine she’s Untouchable


While fiending oh-so-desperately —


To touch her ever-endlessly…


Projecting every wanted woman they have ever seen


Unconsciously on that Bright Red Dress


She happens to be wearing.


Betting to themselves deep down, “I know her and she knows me.


And if I could only win her over, she’d see we’re meant to be.”


Oh, how they think Know her!


And there is some magic quality.


I’m not sayin’ she don’t have it —


It just ain’t the Realest thing.


‘Cause they all think she’s the Virgin Mary


And Madonna —


Goddesses Sophia and Innana —


Some twisted kind of Freudian mama


That they secretly beg to Keep.


Sweet souls just projecting onto her


Their hopeful, true-love dreams.


Nothin’ wrong with this except


When the woman removes the dress


She hopes the men who said


She was the greatest thing since whole-grain bread


Will be able to, instead,


Love the regular, plain ol’ “me.”


You know — the very real wife beside them


In the theater seat.















I want a fast car –

A Jaguar

And a werewolf-vampire boyfriend.

I want a close-up when I wake up

That shows perfect lush lips and long, curled lashes

As I slither out my California King in silk and lace lingerie

Slipping artfully pedicured feet into cashmere slippers.

I want to inhale imported Italian espresso as I pad to my pristine

kitchen —

The one my top-chef cooks in.

I want to look out my various-home-windows and gaze upon oceans,

And skyscrapers, and the Leaning Tower.

I want to wear buttery-leather skin-tight pants and stilettos that feel like flats

Because they’re made by Someone Fancy.

I want to be naked on one of those faux-fur rugs that feel better than the real thing –

All sprawled out in front of a glowing fire on a stormy night

Waiting to be seduced by my other-worldly boyfriend whose millionth kiss

Feels like it were the first kiss

Every Single Time.

I want the thick anticipation; the rich, shaky kind of energy to vibrate between us

Like Commitment was an Illicit Affair.

Instead, I sit in my 500 square foot apartment with the broken A/C

And wonder if I should make the effort to brush my teeth tonight.