Sunday Scribbling #111: Soar/Sore/(Psoas)

The Mighty Psoas of East L.A.

From lumbar to the Pacific Rim’s
subarticulate articulator, mummified
flexor, intraterrestrial prankster:
are you medial or lateral, only
Ida knows for sure,
interrogator of the rectus
abdominus flux.
How ya been, she sez,
and all hell breaks loose: try
putting your finger in
the anterior superior iliac spine
& see if you don’t go all
postal in the territories.
The answer is, “it depends,”
& by that I mean
the femur is variable,
depending on your position.
Don’t ask you dog or cat
(or ferret) to do this, Dr. Ida
will contradict Bogduk any day,
& that’s the very day you’ll
wish you’d never seen
the advert in toddler profile
because you sure as dickensfire won’t
want to see yourself as the
evil sister of the very same thing,
awash in deregulated tissue
issuance, all floundered
beyond the ability to face
the reality of toady praise. My
anatomy trains are
neither local nor express, they’re
derailed and fossilized
beyond the west Texas fury
of distal adjustment, we’re not talking
12^th century thoracic, we’re talking 21^st
century pectineus base. Flouted, she
recoils, and the damage is done,
you’re in the manual, &
Feldenkrais himself will fusiform
you back to the beginning.
If your large bursa can
communicate with the cavity of
a hip joint, so much the better: I’ll
settle for fibrocartilage in 5
slipcovers, a sympathetic trunk
beats hell out of Beef Wellington,
your only option is Natasha Rizopoulos
& she’s only step by step,
light years beyond
the contents of the dark.