I.
The Other Side
Standard billboard. Wide, angled, pummeling
propaganda: a round girl pouting to the right,
squinting in her unflattering blue, sandwiched
in the corner. The letters left no room for the two
of them: Fat Sucks the Fun Out of Childhood.
Drifting into health classes, teaching us the holes
on ourselves that we don’t know yet. Stressing
school lunches—creamed corn in big scoops
and sagging stacks of ranch in paper cups,
sitting in melted ice. While we dreaded recess,
P. E. games, hoping we got the right team,
not wanting to be the wrong one, the last one
on the line for kickball, for Red Rover,
Hide and Seek grew long and impossible.
Kids don’t need billboards to tell them of zits,
of crooked teeth, swollen thighs, and that one day
mirrors will scare them. That one June day
they’ll pull that oversized sweatshirt right over
the sound of mirrors not meant for funhouses.
The last time I spent an hour outside, I was eating
on the patio at Monterrey’s, munching enchiladas.
I don’t exercise anything more than rights.
I don’t believe in the highs you get off running.
I do most of my running from catcalls, from jeers,
from a complete lack of acceptance, and that’s just from myself.
I just can't let myself fit in
skinny jeans. Shopping is reserved for zeroes,
for size threes. Not size me’s. I can’t even fake sexy—all my panties
are cotton diapers. When can we look at me
without reminding ourselves what we had for lunch?
I want to embody the ideal body, dress it up in whatever color
is the new black. I want in magazines—Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire,
two-page spread for Cover Girl and three whole pages
for my ass in Levi jeans. Every print should play the music
I keep in my hips, the groove I work in my thighs.
Queen knows what I’m talking about.
I funk so bad that I need a goddamned perfume ad.
I want XXX to abandon the L and go back to meaning
sex. To meaning explicit. I want to wear appeal
like kids wear shoes. I want to feel all natural,
not like the Big Boy, the Great White Whale.
Not worried about pucker-faced girls on billboards
telling us how miserable we really are.
I drove past the billboard the other day
and, despite myself, looked back,
felt the muscles in my face pull and twitch
into a half smile. On the other side,
a gigantic stack of pancakes teetering goodbye,
offering in giant letters All-You-Can-Eat.
Someone, somewhere, must be thinking this,
must be looking at the other side.
II.
The Other Side
Standard billboard. Long, square, pummeling
propaganda: a round girl pouting to the right,
squinting in her unflattering blue, sandwiched
in the corner. The letters left no room for the two
of them: Fat Sucks the Fun Out of Childhood.
Pan to health classes teaching us the holes
on themselves they don’t know yet, stressing
school lunches—creamed corn in big scoops
and meticulous stacks of ranch in plastic cups,
sitting in melted ice. While we dreaded recess,
P. E. games, hoping we got the right team,
not wanting to be the wrong one, the last one
on the line for kickball, for Red Rover.
Kids don’t need billboards to tell them of zits,
of crooked teeth, swollen thighs, that one day
mirrors will scare them, that one June day
they’ll pull that oversized sweatshirt right over
The last time I spent an hour outside, I was eating
on the patio at Monterrey’s, munching enchiladas.
I don’t exercise anything more than rights.
I don’t believe in the highs you get off running.
I do most of my running from catcalls, from jeers,
From a complete lack of acceptance, and that’s just from myself.
Shopping is reserved for zeroes, for size threes,
Not size me’s. I can’t even fake sexy—all my panties
are cotton diapers. When can we look at me
without reminding ourselves what we had for lunch?
I want to embody the ideal body, dress it up in the new black.
I want in magazines—Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire,
two-page spread for Cover Girl and three whole pages
for my ass in Levi jeans. Every print should play the music
I keep in my hips, the groove I work in my thighs.
Queen knows what I’m talking about.
I funk so bad that I need a goddamned perfume ad.
I want XXX to abandon the L and go back to meaning
sex. To meaning explicit. I want to wear appeal
like kids wear shoes. I want to feel all natural,
not the Big Boy, the Great White Whale.
Not worried about pucker-faced girls on billboards
telling them how miserable they really are.
I drove past the other day and, despite myself,
looked back, felt the muscles in my face pull
and twitch into a half smile. On the other side,
a gigantic stack of pancakes teetering goodbye,
offering in giant letters All-You-Can-Eat.
Someone, somewhere, must be thinking this,
must be looking at the other side.
III.
Straight on Through to the Other Side
It was your standard billboard. Long, square,
pummeling propoganda. A round girl pouting
on its right, squinted in her unflattering blue,
lips puckered and pursed like Prada bags.
She was sandwiched in the corner, the letters
left no room for the two of them, before it said
Fat Sucks the Fun Out of Childhood. Perhaps,
but I did not know our obsession with pounds
had progressed to such large-scale proportions.
Did not know that when we left the British in
the Treaty of Paris, there was a clause to keep
our adult minds on their European currency. Do
you know what kids keep in mind? Health classes,
teaching them the holes on themselves they don’t know
yet. They stress school lunches, creamed corn in big
scoops and bottles of ranch sitting in melted ice too long.
They dread recess-line ups,P.E. games, hoping they get
the right team, not wanting to be the wrong one. The last one
on the line for kickball.
For Red Rover. Kids don’t need billboards
to tell them childhood sucks. The teens suck. Adults suck.
Kids need time to consider themselves
before they’re forced to pick them over. They need time
forget their acne and zits before they start. Their crooked
teeth. Their swollen thighs. While they’re running a game
tag, kids don’t need massive reminders that one day
mirrors will scare them. That one June day they’ll pull
that oversized sweatshirt, right over their bulges,
right over their curves. You know, they say that kids
should spend 60 minutes outside daily. Most adults
Have not acquainted sunshine that long. Who are they
To tell kids they need more UV rays, less weight. The last
time I spent an hour outside I was dining on the patio
at Monterrey’s, muching on heaping piles of cheesy
enchiladas. I don’t exercise anything more than rights,
and I don’t believe in the highs you get off
running. Don’t chastise me for not chasing
your silly runner’s high. Until I can see my feet
I won’t be chasing any other lifestyle. I am physically
handicapped--coordination-impaired, big. You would not ask
a man in a silver wheelchair to run a 5k marathon. Like kids,
I do most of my running from catcalls, from jeers, from
a complete lack of acceptance, and that’s just from myself.
The added burden of your negativity swells heavier than every
ounce of fat. Heavier than breathing your nonsense in, breathing
your calories out. Harder than trying to find something to wear
outside of Wal-Mart. I strive to be a food conniseur, sampling
snacks for anti-stress because retail therapy is not the option.
Shopping is reserved for zeroes, reserved maybe even for
size threes. Not size me’s. I can’t even fake
sexy--all my panties are cotton diapers, and lace thongs
are high-priced ass floss--dental care for my biggest
cavity, splitting me in two. When can fat be sexy?
When can we look at me without reminding ourselves
of what we had for lunch today? I want to embody
the ideal body, dress it up in the new black. I want to see
me in magazines-- Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire. I want
a two-page spread for Cover Girl and I want three whole
pages to see my ass strutting in Levi jeans. Every print
should play the music I keep in my hips, the groove
I work in my thighs. I move to Fat Bottomed Girls,
Queen knows what I’m talking about.
I funk so bad that I need a goddamned perfume ad.
I want X-X-X- to abandon the L and go back to meaning
sex. To meaning explicit. And I want to wear appeal
like kids should wear smiles. I want it to feel all natural.
Naturally, kids should worry about what games to play,
whether they should be a Princess or the President, not
whether another bowl of cheerios is too much, not
whether its ok to be the Big Boy. The Great White Whale. Not
worried about pucker-faced girls on billboards telling
them how miserable they really are. I drove past
that billboard again the other day, and despite myself
looked back as we went by and felt the muscles
in my face pull and twitch into a heedy smile. I liked
the other side. IHOP, a gigantic stack of pancakes teetering
goodbye, wishing you in giant letters All-You-Can-Eat
Pancakes, four ninety-nine, and my stomach did flips, watching
as the waving stacks disappeared into a speck,
Into a chuckle, another media memorandum
I knew someone somewhere must be thinking, must be
looking at the other side like me.
Ho-Hos and Ding Dongs
Ronald McDonald, you pedophile,
with your wide red lips and empty lap.
You defiler of childish ease. You clown.
Why is your food so good?
Your Big Macs so stacked,
Your french fries so golden?
And what about the Arch nemesis,
with his flame-broiled slabs
of quarter-pound goodness,
sandwiched between two sesame buns.
I’d have my buns my way--
Like garbage bags I'd have them Hefty.
Like a QuikTrip slush I want me large.
When did we become so obsessed
with pounds?
I thought we left the British in 1776.
Skinny bitch, eat a twinkie. Anna Mae,
eat the cake.
I wanna indulge the Cheerio,
I don’t want to wear it. Hula Hoop
it. And don’t tell me you don’t mind
the weight, that its all about personality.
Next time I’ll wear personality
to the grocery store and we’ll see
how much you like that.
Ronald, I thought you loved kids.
There’s a billboard on Hwy 5,
telling plump kids that fat
sucks the fun out of childhood.
You know what sucks the fun
out of childhood? School desks,
pressed as pumpernickel
in a chair attached to the plastic top.
Cafeteria lunches. Recess line up
to pick tag football teams.
Kids should spend 60 minutes outside daily.
The last time I spent an hour outside
I was dining on the patio
at Tony’s Mexican Grill.
Ronald, why do you keep telling me
to exercise? I don’t get high
on running. I can’t see my feet.
I’m handicapped.
Would you ask Tiny Tim
to run a 5k marathon?
I do enough running from teen years, mirrors
and I never liked Ms. Piggy. I am
no athlete. I’m a food connoisseur.
I sample snacks since shopping
is reserved for zeroes and maybe size threes.
I wear my clothes Wal-Mart sharp.
My style assistant is a man named Lane. Mr. Bryant
gives me push-up bras in the hopes
I get a man longing for some cushion pushing.
We hate thongs. Do you know what those are?
Ass floss. Dental care for my biggest cavity.
That doesn’t mean I can’t be fashionable.
I’ve got role models to give me pointers:
Roseanne and Oprah in her purple days.
Weight Watchers, you killed Jennifer Hudson’s
underside. Where did you hide all that evidence?
I remember her before she’d been dismembered.
and now I see her on magazine covers.
I wanna see me in Marie Claire, Cosmopolitan.
I want a two-page spread in Cover Girl.
I wanna strut my ass in Levi jeans.
My hips hear music, my thighs groove.
I want a goddammned perfume ad.
I sweat. I stink. I spend half an hour
scrubbing hard deodorant stains
out of worn white tees.
Don’t tell me men find my phero-funk sexy.
I won’t accept that jive. I wanna rock
to the melodies for Fat Bottomed Girls.
Ronald, when did X-X-X stop meaning sex,
appealing and explicit. When did it need the “L”?
Women with curves used to be Renaissance.
In my bed I’m Venus of Urbino.
My hips are semi-sweet Snocaps.
I am a continuous plane.
I'm 1.4 million pounds of
Jared's nightmare. I'm Ben and Jerry's dream.
Ronald, I have a need to self-satisfy.
Ronald, I get hungry sometimes.
Ronald, do children climb into your lap
and if they sit for a while and cut off
the rush of life to your toes,
make your knees buckle under pressure,
Ronald, what do you do? Push them?
Do you grimace? Laugh?
Ronald do you diet them?
Or do you pat their heads, hand them a McChicken,
and wide-mouth, red lip, ear-to-ear smile?
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