Holiday Hecticness

I have 7 handwritten poems which i will transcribe and scan tonight! then i have to write another poem for today - damn this is hard.

Terricloth Closing.

I got a splinter that morning
because i was nervouse
running my fingers into the tiny intricate grooves
you hadn't put finnish on the table yet.
it was freshly cut, still raw bleeding pine.

you wore chrisp starch linens,
the curly bits of your chest hair
catching and releasing the v neck collar of your shirt.
"swweeeetheart" the words: a tourtis escaping from prison.

there was not a drop of coffee left
but i put the chipped china cup to my lips
to catch the mantra from spilling out onto the table,
"i am not ready for this conversation"

you became a johny cash concert
singing your blues without remorse or recourse.
you could say the word i never said,
my mother never said, my family never said:
"divorce."

i reknotted my robe over and over
making sure it closed tightly
i couldn't let you see your
marching band of declaration stoming on my insides.

your eyes retreated to the newspaper, the local section
with the picture of Council-Woman Freeman
her left arm raised proud with a glass of milk,
toasting the patrons who voted her into office.


...

barnes & nobles

we were total opposites from the get go.
you had one book.
i carried a mountains worth, like gus from cinderella, balancing the tall stack under my chin.
the coffe bar was elevated, some higher plane of javaness than the rest of the store and patrons.
i saw your face through the slats my hands grasping for just one more paperback.

were you looking at me?
hard to say.
i carefully found the steps with my feet and joined your java hut.
my table married to the trash bin but all the better to see you from.

the butch on your left turned out to be your son, or is it grandson?
he left while you read feing shui.
i thought, i could find you a better book. i've read that one and it's no good.
i thought about foraging the store to find one.
but instead i watched until you watched.
i blushed until you blushed.
i caught you until you caught me.

while you were bent below the table tying your lace, the smallest bit of hair flowing down and brushing the brim of your nose, your son's nose, your grandson's nose.
i could see your long delicate fingers maneuver the lace like plucking strings of a guitar, i followed the hair line crack from a smile down the length of your cheek.
it was a lovley view.

when your husband, or is it exhusband, or baby daddy
appeared infront of you
i smiled openly and stared without abaondon.
what could you do? look back and blow your cover?

when you rose to follow him into the endless stacks of books
you paused a bit long too beside my table.
too close for me to look directly
and blow my cover.
my hands balancing the book of andrienne rich poetry chuckled
"it would have been good"

while your eyes traced the outline of my face
i continued to stare down the words on my page
all seemingly wishpering
"go back to being yourself: a mother, or grandmother, or wife."


...

this is making love

sobering breeze and my fingers playing out the window of the speeding suv.
the sky is shuddering and sobbing up ahead, globby tears that won't make it
to my windshield before bursting apart.

loud lights jostling over head, people jogging, cell phone prats slowing me down.
the car lurching forward after every red light, inane traffic that won't let up
until i'm in my driveway alone.

hungry hands tangled while my eyes never let go of the ground.
the pulse between us loud enough to wake the neighbors dog, too short to see
past the fence between his home and the restaurant.

laugh lines bleeding into my cheeks and speading across my body.
the kiss was thunder; uproarious outpour of silenced lips, too modest to say
the loveliness of evening was ruined.

remorseful retreat towards your car, only two spots form my jeep.
the pathetic sound of engines coming to life, too loud to hear your eyes plead
"come to bed with me" or "let's forget it"

sobering breeze and my fingers playing out the window of the speeding suv.
the sky is shuddering and sobbing up ahead, globby tears that soak your shirt and leave streaks on your jeans.

hazy headlights scan my driveway where he has waited for my joy ride to end.
the simple slow blink of his eye lashes tells me i am none too late
for his sweet berry colored memories to spoil.

stammering steam from the tea kettle boils endlessly.
the nakedness of your voice along my palm screams at him, too obvious for him to miss that i have kissed you.

gently grieving alone while he is on top of me.
the sheerness of this exchange where his hands graze me, too cliche
to ask for a separation, for him to release alone.

determined drumming of his pelvis hammering you out of me.
the audacity of him, assuming i enjoy this better. assuming i'm not replaying our walk around a parking lot and into each others arms.

he mutters: "this. is. making. love."
so seriously, i'm sure he's speaking to you.


...

"honey really, i don't know why you two don't get along. you are so alike"

have you even seen two women fight in public?
no, i don't mean women fighting in the wwf ring...
in public, with other people whom they respect.
just that one single woman
in her group
that is all it takes to sour.

but it is magical to see them attack.

one smiles widley, revealing razor sharp fangs, and catipultes a compliment at the other.
poor compliment, who was merely biding his time in the pool that other guests often go fishing in, where he would have had a happy home in a malnurished ego.
instead, he is shot like a cannon into the cavity of the other woman. his belly roasted on her simmering skillot, his facial hair singed off.

the counter attack takes skill to be done to prefection. the loud unashamed laugh. it has to be equal parts audibal threat and pitty laughter. it has to be loud enough so that her ears will surley melt morbidly interanlly
yet quiet enough that the guests notice nothing of unease.

a break in the action. both sides retreating for reinforcements
moments of conversation. rest easily for a few moments. after a few more moments it appears that all is well.
A cease fire.

or is it?
the peace aggreement disrupted by dropping a name into the conversation.

the agressive hand hold, usually one hand but look out if she grabs both, and if she shakes the hands in air...well lets hope you're family knows you love them.

and the laughter, a potent mix of gun powdery disdain, "he was my college mate"

the light pat of the back or perhaps head, depending on the carnage so far, "oh is he really that old?"

look for it at your next gathering, you may be surprised that you're girlfriend and your sister really dont "just love" one another.


...

Take your Rings off

back seat of my mothers sedan, arm draped around a turkey.
a dead one. no head, no feet, no signature double chin that defines a turkey as such.
a beakless wonder, that smushes and ozzes between my thumb and its plastic parka.
i whomp my palm against it's breast in time with 'pretty woman.'
the sound hitting the air like a wet towel against tiled floor.

i bet she was a damn foxy bird. she had the jowls to make all the other chicklets jealous. her refined beak of purplish indigo that made the rest whisper, "do you think she's had work done?" and "i heard she's part quail." her tufted peach fuzz atop her head looked regal in the summer sun against the younger birds stubble. she flirted with the farm hands, unfolding her dazzling swan white feathers only for Charley.

i saw his mother while i leaned over the freezer full of them. i reached for her, the 19 pound stunner of a bird, my ass on display for all of stop-n-shop. "well hello there!"
the Barbara Streisand daggers clawing across the mass grave of turkeys. What was she doing in the frozen meat section? her husband was a granola man, it was faux turkey for the fitzpatricks. she was fondling my bird, "so lovely to see you out" her mouth forming words heavy with Italian jersey vowels that screamed, "i married the Irishman" and "you were a damn fool to leave my son."

smiling i scooped up my bird and balanced the beast on a propped up knee. she seemed to unhinge her brown lip lined mouth to speak again but i felt desire from the dinde in my arms. desire to escape the mass graves of turkeys and relationships and boyfriends moms.
"happy Thanksgiving" i snapped, shuttling towards the check out line.

unpacking the rest of the holiday riff and uncorking a bottle of red. curling up to a new book while an apple pie backed in the oven. the bird perched in the sink, her legs peaking out just beyond the lip. singing dean martin to her all the while.

"take your rings off" my mother warns me while i watch her pry the legs open and nod towards the cavern ripe with indecency. i reach into the abyss that is damp and barren except for the bagged guts. vacuum sealed. such order to her ending. i can almost hear her cluck to me reassuringly, "it's ok, where i'm going is someplace warm, i'm moving on"

tossing her heart into the tall trash can below the sink i whisper "me too...me too"


...

Pier 99

he contorts his body like a member of Jerome Robbins' company
one arm arching over his head and following the slope of his pointed toe up towards
the heavilny rubles of suvs racing off the island
the muscles in his stable leg do not quiver like like a woman after sex, like a man hearing of his mothers death.

the muscles mimic the pillars of the brooklyn bridge beside him
his stomach steals the spotlight from the woman painted alabaster and the three legged dog.
our applause lapping at his feet drowned out by the punk rock kids who moonlight as intrepid ticket hawkers. a drone of steel tounges and eyebrows.

i catch his eyes for a moment as he dips his head backward and lets his body flow with it. his fingers fondle the pavement and tease the crowd with this faux back bend.
before flipping his body upright, his tiny mocha forehead forrowed in concentration, it is the sun that makes him squint.

but i know he is measuring his cup of sky, the backwards glance assuring it is still his.


...

I didn't Pass Penmanship

Sad Limerick #2

A Tap dancing noise form inside
It seemed her hard drive had died.
"I hope you saved often,
Or else it's a coffin!"
"All the time!" she tearfully lied.

You Only Think of It drunk

She spoke your name between your thighs
her voice: a pungent cocktail.
Between her breasts all those julys.
She screamed your name with crossed tight thighs
the breakup over voicemail.
you remember her name, her thighs,
her voice, while gulping a pungent cocktail.

...

"I just wanted you...

"...to know, patti"

I say holding the glass, its ice cubes dancing around
and blowing my cover.

i want to pull it into my mouth.
the whole glass
crunch down on its crystal ridges and swallow the peices whole.

that would be comforting.
more than this.
this moment where you are looking with huge russet eyes and a shocked white cheek.

You look as if i've just confessed to murder.
this is suicide i know, it's nail biting, loose sleep, hair pulling agony waiting for you to respond.

i take the drink, parying it's laced with something that will paralyze me, vaporize me, or at the very least turn me into a small insect with extream squashability.

finally, your lips part and you beem a smile.
"Is it gone?" you ask still licking your teeth?

...

Mr. Keeneng

{Handbook of Poetic Forms pg 95 :
Is a serious limerick possible? How can one take that familiar da da ta, da da ta, da ta rhythm and mute it sufficiently that the words of a poem create a somber response? How about a serious limerick on the subject of death? here's my first attempt!}


Danny puts on his coat the same way
and still bikes to work every day
right past the spot
where his wife was shot
no more does he say the word 'Faye'


...

enchantrancing elixir

Mum's tea bags are filled with bones of wee fairies
that sit on your nose and play with your lashes
while sooniz, in the mornin' mum's boozin on wee fairy ashes!
peek at her cup you'll see no murky dairies
floatting to the top like a bay of cranberries.
it's wings that you'll see frayed from the gashes
bits of gossomer and glitter, on Mum's face in small flashes
"Fairy Wings" you say pointing feirce, "No child, it's just a canary's"


But how does she do it, you may want to know?
snatch the stealth beauties in the black of night
never waking her childers with fatal fariy screams?
Cats eyes, she has, to see a fairy's glow.
a pinch of her fingers snaps their legs off outright
and if you wake with a shock, she coos "it's just a dream"

...

obsessive love

or is it stalking

she will never be in love with him

she is mereley his camp mentor

she is assigned to help him

she works to mend his eating disorder

he dosen't eat when the others make jokes

he dosen't eat when it rains

he dosen't eat if she sits with Jim

he dosen't eat if his shoelace unties

she should leave him alone

to help him she should leave him alone completely

God these

poems SUCCCKK!

i think i should say i'll write one and edit it in 2 days

making half the quota

i just hate writing them without really taking time to work on them

i mean i have poems that take longer to write than BOOKS

they can take years editing & tweaking

shoving so much emotion into a peice of perfunct length takes time.


god i hate this idea of mine! !

but i will keep going -- just understand I KNOW THE POEMS ARE CRAP!

i know it, and i dont like it but

the goal is to have 365 poems - i didn't say they had to be good ones

so keep at it old girl.

has to be hott

" the water has to be hott
to make bubbles rise
the water has to be hott"

mocking instructions on the
pink plastic bottle in his soapy grip
slips and crashes to the cold tiles
where his pride dangles between his strewn
belt buckle and jeans.

tom jones'a barratone like air raid syrens
"reeeeeeeeeeeeeeetreat!"
the steady beat of the drums perfect for
extinguishing candles littered around her apartment.

his fingers delve into the empty bath,
the lapping water echos against the porcelan
against the empty bathroom
against the empty apartment.


the water is luke warm
and won't get hott
his woman is late
and he won't rise.

we dance in the kitchen

the thought crossed my mind
once or twice
oh, the thoughts run 'round upstairs
while i'm pouring my tea,
driving my car
sleeping alone.

thoughts of the her mahogony eyes
round and rough
oh, her eyes run 'round my body
when she sits close to me
gives me back rubs
kisses another man.


thoughts of her funky laugh
the inhalin and ex
oh, her laugh catches fire
when she giggles in my ear
cooks me dinner
lays on his bed


thoughs of dancing in the kitchen
one step two time
oh, her body dances all the time
oh, her body dances all the time
while i'm pouring my tea,
driving my car
dancing alone.

Broken Borometer

the memory comes back to her
at the art opening
in the closet sized frame store
where the art is hung too close together
where the people are bunched too close together
where the three peice band is playing too close together
behind the register

the memory floods down her body
at the art opening
in the closet sized frame store
when she lets a woman passing touch her shoulder
when she feels a bead of sweat run down the middle of her back
when she smells Hazel's perfume
in the humid july air

she wants the memory in a painting
at the art opening
in the closet sized frame store
of hazel's timid first touch
of hazel's jovial climax
of hazel's graceful rejections
when she asked to dance

she leaves the memory
at the art opening
in the closet sized frame store
where Chris's oils didn't sell
where Chris's friends asked
"where's chris's wife hazel?"
in whispers over their wine.

The Sometimes Ex

Is he sleeping?
Well, good because we need to talk.
And i know that this comes as a shock because
the last time you tried to comminicate i threatend castration.

he's such a sound sleeper
and so quiet.
i miss your snoring.
once when he went away for a weekend
i put the big pot we boiled lobsters in
on our second anniversary of breaking up
and a big metal spoon
i placed both on my radiator and kicked up the heat.
i never slept so soundly.

and look at these!
his hands have no character
yours were filled with crevases and cracks
callouses and chapped knuckles that made noise on my arms.
if i wanted soft hands like his, i'd touch myself.

this is what single people do, isn't it?
well single in the sense that i'm seeing someone singularly
single in the way that i whisper your name when i burn myself on the stove
which you never fixed properly
single as in no longer part of the plual: like jack and jill, ben and jerry.
i'm just jerry looking for a better ben
but biding time with tom

all the while, the time with tom ticking on
he is like sushi, i can see all of him raw and exposed wond up tight
in bite size accountability.
no pang of a boney disapointment.

i miss the slippery way we crash and burn.
i miss the irredecence of your personality.

and your snoring.

11 - 11 It Begins

the poem a day challenege for the rest of the year.

the reason for this crazy idea?

well in July I did NaNoWriMo and i completed it my frist shot - 50,000 word novel in a month. And i have been developing and editing that first draft for a while. It was something i didn't know I had in me, the drive to finnish the story that I had been tossing around in my head for a long while.

I want to complete at the very min - 365 poems by this time next year. There will be days when I won't feel creative, when I don't want to write, when I feel like I have nothing left to produce an ounce. But i will write at least a hiaku or a joyful one word poem. I will write something every day.

And if i dont - i am open to the mockery of the blogosphere. I will diserve it.

but i'm betting that in the face of humiliation - I will write!

And anything that I actually handwrite - instead of posting - I will scan in.
I think seeing the fresh words on the page (or napkin or palm of my hand) will be so much more authentic.

maybe i'll even post my chapbook on Lulu.com or something.