Work It (Out)

Missy Elliott ain’t got nothing on this spit game. These tips. In this track suit.

You do or you don’t or you will or won’t ya

I will. I do. I’m home, working out to my Leslie Sansone (1 AND 2 and 3&4 — woo!) exercise DVD (is ‘DVD’ still capitalized these days? Does anyone even know what a d-v-d is, anymore? Digital Video Disc? Disappointing Video Data? Once, I was a king among kings, triumphant, sliding a VHS out of a late-night VCR motel without its ribbon running wildly off spools. Although, I couldn’t blame the thread for wanting to unravel itself from the case that carried it. No case contains me.).

Listening to DJ BENZI, again #getrightradio (that’s right) — I have my hair down. Not ‘up’ like when I’m gliding on the elliptical in a gym somewhere external to my cove. my Sanctuary. Hair down, on purpose, because I am a lion, wearing her mane proudly (and, very aware that only the males have the manes. But, I am writing this story. And, I’m lioness and lion all at once, who, doesn’t need permission to be what she wants to be, what she is…but, gladly respects your wish to feel uncomfortable with my choice), awaiting the first sign of sweat.

The Mane. She sways. Side-to-side.

I right. Mane left. Dew dawns the scalp, traipsing along tentacles of strands. The sweat. She’s electric. A jellyfish buoying. Bouncing. Bobbing — coming to kiss her feline-felt-tips hello: I’m here.

A movement warrior, dabbling in dance and archery, I don’t bite. But, sling my arrow to bow you at your core — b o o o m.

Unless… You like that sort of thing. In that case, I’ll make you work for it. Especially, work for I T. Work it o u t. My bites contain mouths of beasts before me.

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