Thursday, September 20, 2012

My Poet Roommate Tells Me

She tramples in through my bedroom door and stands there
in the frame, hair a mess and the plumes of smoke from her
cigarette jumping through her hoops
She looks down at her pint glass—full of what—and dazing,
droopy-eyed,  breathes in the tension in the room.
Then she looks, I think at me, her petite and
boney body pointing a sharp finger without needing to even raise a hand.

She accuses me of “trying to finish a conversation already over”
wanting to “kiss the body of my lover, the one mouth,
the simple name without a shadow” and other countless things
as I tally up THE NUMBERS of everything she’s said so right.

She asks, much too loud for this hour of the afternoon
“WHAT DO WOMEN WANT?” and tells me.
Tells me what I want, as she sways a bit toward me,
arms with fingers, every one clad in silver rings, relaxed at her side
and plops herself onto my desk chair to say I’ve stolen her red dress.
The one that confirms his worst fears about her and
shows how little she cares about him
or anything except what she wants.
And she snickers, bluntly, how poorly it fits…
too flimsy and cheap for me.

She leans back and relaxing into her vodka-drowned mind
tells me that she knows. She knows “I can’t forget…”
she pauses, drifting the Virginia slim back between her lips, and
exhaling bursts out laughing about
“the long vein rising up along the underside of his cock”.
I wonder vaguely if she’s gone and fucked my man
however mine he isn’t anymore….and anyway

She asks me. Asks me to TELL HER if she’s going
to stop thinking about her losses now and listen to mine.
She tells me to tell her how I hurt and to dance with her
“dance with me while we fool ourselves.”
Then she’s whisper silent as she tells me
“starting things up was hasty, love” as I refuse to SPILL
and then I remember again

That she’s blunt and ugly

She lunges to punch me in my gut and sinks it
deep and penetrating ‘til I feel it in my chest,
when I’ve just held it all weighing there between my breasts.
She drowns me with my own sorrows and dilutes my words
to kool-aid while she pours out her straight Jack and I sip, direct
from her pages, hoping to strengthen my own.

+Written inspired by Kim Addonizio, a poet I have to "spend the semester with" as a "roommate" as an assignment for my intermediate poetry class. Really so excited that I chose her. She's going to be an awesome roommate to punch out some words with!

A few lines were "borrowed" from Kim from several poems found in her her poetry book Tell Me.

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Social Death and Brain Abuse

The fine print is reading rest in peace
asking if I comprehend
I’m donating my brain
and they need permission to administer
21 units of substance

my heart climbs up in my throat,
constricting and convulsing;
lungs suffocated by my thoughts
burdened by books of biased words, and
sinking in stacks of stapled papers
I sign

21 units
wading through war-zones of un-washed  laundry
knee-high and wasting in the ground
mixed with smells of last week’s dirt and grime
from both the humid heat and the death of time.

The plague of Troy fogs my eyes as                       ENGL44H             MW 
Freud strikes a fire and fries my mind,                  PSYCH1                TBA
slowly peeling away delectable layers   
to taste the fear of failure as I lie,
mastering my female anatomy                                HLED4                   TBA
while telling tall tales with little words                   ENGL 27B              Th
that tickle the tongues of those thirsting                ENGL 27A              W
for something to compute in labs where               CPAS10                  TBA
tables have no use for chairs
but provide communication.                                   COMM10                M

21 units of venom sink and slither slowly
until that’s all I am,
fearing falling asleep in the battle-field of class
while running with no breaks
along dotted lines with the zig-zag of my name
signing away my life
just for the semester.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

My First One Night Stand

It was late, but not late enough for closing time,
And we were just two young old people
with half too many beers and the heat of cinnamon schnapps
fogging our decisions as we sang too loudly to that Gotye song.

He leaned forward in his chair, beaming grin, stubble on his chin,
and pressed his leg way too hard into my thigh.
Game on, my brows answered before my tongue.
And that’s when we left the building.

For me to make a play and
wrap myself around him from behind.
For his breath to hitch just before he turned
to unleash a trail of kisses down my neck, and
strike a flame with the match-head of his finger, burning
slowly along my desire, down the valley between my breasts,
over the plains of my belly, and finally smoldering inside me.

In a blink we had voyeurs; a mommy-daddy date night,
gone terribly right as some stick-figure bumper-stickered gold Suburban
paused mid-street to enjoy a rarely-seen public mating ritual of the dark and urban jungle.
We proudly gave them quite a show,
until he licked his fingers clean of me while dialing for a cab,
attempting words from his mouth as I distracted him with the
flesh from the back of his neck gathered gently between my teeth.

And when the cab arrived, there appeared no driver present
as we tinkered and played with one another in the back seat of the car
before unwrapping each other as candy
In the industrial concrete stairwell of his building
where the current could no longer be contained
between our male and female circuitries.
We nearly melted the metal rails we held to,
As we soldered ourselves together.

And then: everything the way it was before.
His door closed, our clothes off, contemplating the pleasure of the couch,
but pulled into that too-familiar hallway on the left, and the room directly to the right.
Into those same blue sheets, nibbling, pulling, drinking in

the man I’d missed for months.
Mine, again.

+Written on 8/30/2012 for Jeff Epley's Fall 2012 Intermediate Poetry class. The assignment was to capture narrative elements in the poem.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

On Cat Boxes and Laundry

She looks at me
Big green eyes made smaller, slightly,
slighting me a little.

I know she’s thinking
Why the fuck the dog
Gets fresh-cooked chicken
In extra virgin olive oil
While I scoop what we call
“chinese food” in her bowl.
A small helping
Of essentially nutritionless
Sawdust and pulp.
The package says chicken
But we aren’t entirely sure she
Isn’t eating cat
At ninety-nine cents a bag.

And I know she figures
If the dog does something annoying--
Say, persistent whooping cough
Or whining as bulbous glaucoma
Squeezes out her eye--
And gets a treat
Maybe she’ll receive the same.

So she stares at my mom—
The queen of the house—
As she enters into her bed chamber
And squats
To piss
On the queen’s
very treasured

Monday, September 3, 2012

Dear Change

Dear Change,
I’m sorry but I
Can’t explain the
Strong aversion that I
Have for you and your
Toward normalcy.

I get comfortable with my
Pocketbook and you come and short
Change the situation
With your lack of
Balance and stability.

I get comfortable with my
Man and he
Tells me he can’t
Change…when that’s the
Last thing that I would
Ever want him to do.

I get comfortable with a
Schedule (that I don’t follow
Anyway) and you come in and
Disregard my disregard and
Change it all around.

I don’t want things to always
Be the same
But I don’t want them to

I feel…