Monday, December 31, 2007

Perhaps...

I met an old man who tied a string around his johnson during church services to keep from pissing himself. He wore thick glasses and short-sleeved button down shirts. His jeans made his ass bubble out behind him. I think he wanted to have sex with me. Maybe.

I met an old woman who read my palm. She told me my first marriage would end in divorce. She said I must have had a rough infancy and a spiritual upbringing. This was wrong, but I answered yes anyway so she wouldn’t be embarrassed. I read one of her short stories. It was about the Ku Klux Klan. She said it was real.

I met a boy in high school who told me I was pretty. It was winter and we would switch scarves and gloves and jackets during fifth period art history. He told me about his drug use and his dysfunctional family. Nothing else ever happened. I was too afraid then. It’s different now.

I was little once, and I ran around barefoot and made daisy chains in the rain. My mother and I used to play a game where she was my mentally retarded sister, and I was her caretaker. I would put an imaginary pill in her mouth and stroke her throat like an animal to make her swallow it. We would laugh for hours.

I write truth in pretty boxes and call it make believe. Teach me your vagabond wantings and I will bear the halogen lights and waterlogged shoes. I will buy the Goodwill pushpins. I will change my definition of love.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Something New

Still Shots

Sometimes I want to hear the closed off things.
It's not enough just to know of the Do Not Enter signs and private drives.
When will it be for me?

I miss the whispered times and the nighttime tricks.
We have the same knuckles, you know.
Shit.
It always comes back to those longed-after still shots.

We clack rhythms with our teeth.
I perform Fred Astaire's tap routines in my mouth.
They rattle inside my head, along with the popping of your jaw.

Don't think about it don't think about it don't think about how it was.
I want to follow my advice.
Sort of.

Old Poem 2

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago.

All Sorts of Melting

They never came.
I mean that in more ways than one.
I am reduced to drinking tea with wayward winds and tinsel twigs.
My drawer is filled with unused sugar.
The smear of chocolate is on my lips only.

We can be televangelists saving souls,
While the peaks of the city spires throb in Freudian bliss.
Let me weave a tale with my fingers.
Let me breathe the smell of piss and European cigarettes.
The sound of my heels on the pavement makes me feel like a whore.
I knew a guy who liked stilettos and very white skin.
We were never alone together.

I'm counting the pleats in my skirt in an effort to divine the future.
I'm buying super absorbent paper towels.
I don't know the difference between a heathen and a heretic.
My father has worn a Star of David around his neck for as long as I can remember.
We're still having ham on Christmas Eve.

You told me you were all sorts of melting,
As if that meant something to me.
Can you feel my heart? It beats in a doom-doom way.
Different than yours.
I'm trying not to think of your hands.
And the night we walked in the snow.
Maybe in my next life I will ask the questions much earlier,
And you won't be afraid.

Old Poem 1

I wrote this in response to a poem Bryan sent me a while ago.

For ______

This is where my mirror turned to rotting.
This is where the pussy willow went through my ear holes.
This is where you hung your galoshes and peach-flavored swishers.
This is where my natural disaster struck a chord.
This is where you changed all your weeping to leopard-shaped boxes.
This is where my father spoke like an old man.
This is where I loaded my pipe with grape-colored Doppler.
This is where he kissed me.
This is where I wanted him to kiss me.
This is where our Plexiglass chain fell in bits to the earth.
I will stay.

i'm catching up with technology

so

i suppose i am now a blogger