Anagram America, and: Double Tossing and Turning

Anagram America

You may say America is a crime, a lens cap locked onto its own camera. I may agree but sidetrack you with our space mace, ira accounts, Hollywood films, a stay at a nice Rama- da Inn. And what about our generous tax refund system? I race aim- lessly through the stuffed aisles of Dollar-Rama. Ice cube trays and pink sponges and a digital camera. I buy them all! Now that’s America. In Skate-a-Rama, ice skaters figure-eight even in summer. I race, Ma- donna on the speakers, my laces tight. Sure, the arms’ race (aim- ing to make peace through the threat of violence) is a crime, a- bout-face logic, to boot. But what politician can say so on camera? I watched The Crying Game, but not to better understand the ira. Came-lot, Man of La Mancha. How I love movies! “Mira!” Came- o appearances—I’m the first to spot them. A director, a writer. A cami- sole and lipstick distract you, but not me. Inside my watch is a tiny spycamera. I never miss a clue. I’m an undercover agent , ma’am. I care- about civil liberties, though, and still believe in the aclu—a crime, a naive throwback, I’m told. America tends to maim, care- ful not to kill at first. We’re all for democracy or so we claim, care- less with our rhetoric. The Korean became Vietnamese became Ira- qi. A corporate crime is a war crime is a crime, a passionate one at that. But first play nice. Rama- dan starts tomorrow. We don’t want to cause any disgrace, ami- gos. (We’re off to Abu Ghraib, so let’s recharge that camera.) I am all for the way the “eye” becomes the “I,” camera- ready, happy to shoot and be shot, the web cam. I race to turn on cnn, but there was nothing about the war. Instead, Shakira came on shaking her hips in Spanish. Her mica ear- rings shone. Dancing in a language other than English is a crime, a topic, said the Senator, for the next political race, aim- ing for the wallflower vote. Oh news camera, I know a commercial when I see it. Medicare, I am on my way. Welcome to America where the letters can be twisted into almost anything, even Ma, I care.

Double Tossing and Turning

At 2 pm I get out of bed. Tired of waiting for zzz, benchwarmer to the game of dreams, I finally concede I’m wide awake. My hubby’s given me sex, decaffeinated Sleepy Time tea, a Melatonin tablet, all below eiderdown, but nothing’s worked. Not the mute tv flickering blue, not the cold leftover au gratin potatoes I gobble standing up, aghast, holding the refrigerator door open with my hip. Was I socking enough away for retirement? Our joint account is only earning 2%. My financial iq kaput, I go online to a mortgage calculator and slap last month’s “interest only” payment in. ZeroMoney Down pop-up ads freeze my desktop. I’m a moron— no way should I have blurted Betty’s a jerk in front of Sam or repeated that distasteful joke about the rabbi to Joel. Paranoid, I imagine my friends griping about how much I suck, quacking into their cell phones. I guzzle oj right from the carton. When will Iraqi suicide bombers make it to the States? I do the math: taking the 100 civilians killed each day, multiplying that by grieving uncles and aunts. Then I add religious belief, vacuous political strategies, and the way we divide without much regard. My pajamas are made of dread, xl, machine washable. At last, I pick up my Bic— yes, that’s mine with the chewed-up cap—and grab zwiebacks. I write my title, then fall fast asleep.Abracadabra.