29 January 2012
Hunger pangs
Have you ever been really hungry but had nothing in your house to eat, so you just periodically check you cabinets, knowing that they're bare? That's basically the story of my love life.
24 January 2012
the nest the heart the home
An octogenarian, a psychic, she'd met at Starbucks came to Thanksgiving dinner.
He told me that his favorite ex-wife threw a grandfather clock at him. It was an antique, an heirloom, and she hurled it at him as punishment for waking her from a nap.
He told me that he knew all about lesbians. He'd come upon sobbing bull dyke, and they'd danced until dawn. He said that he was the first man she'd kissed with tongue.
He told me that a woman named Cassie was writing a book about him. He wanted to fall in love with her because he had a soft spot for mean women who spent his money.
He read my cards (all queens and swords) and told me to keep doing what I've always done. It'll work out eventually.
He told me that my eyes are windows and I must resist the urge to look away.
He said he'd teach me to use my energy to read people. He said I had that power, my windows told him all about me.
He asked me to take his picture.
He told me that I am an artist and a teacher and that I have a scar on my right knee (I do).
And that's about when he set the carpet on fire with his napkin. The hostess's boyfriend put out the fire, and we waited outside for the smoke to clear before coming back in for pumpkin pie.
He told me that his favorite ex-wife threw a grandfather clock at him. It was an antique, an heirloom, and she hurled it at him as punishment for waking her from a nap.
He told me that he knew all about lesbians. He'd come upon sobbing bull dyke, and they'd danced until dawn. He said that he was the first man she'd kissed with tongue.
He told me that a woman named Cassie was writing a book about him. He wanted to fall in love with her because he had a soft spot for mean women who spent his money.
He read my cards (all queens and swords) and told me to keep doing what I've always done. It'll work out eventually.
He told me that my eyes are windows and I must resist the urge to look away.
He said he'd teach me to use my energy to read people. He said I had that power, my windows told him all about me.
He asked me to take his picture.
He told me that I am an artist and a teacher and that I have a scar on my right knee (I do).
And that's about when he set the carpet on fire with his napkin. The hostess's boyfriend put out the fire, and we waited outside for the smoke to clear before coming back in for pumpkin pie.
23 January 2012
Gewehr
If love is war, this love is World War II. Her heart is a Nazi officer, stationed in this relationship to guard mine, to be sure that it does not escape. Her heart kills mine slowly, brutally, relishing in its suffering, nearly starving it to death, feeding it only enough to subsist on. A scrap of caring every few weeks, a morsel of attention here and there. My heart is frail. His ribs are showing. His entire spine is visible. He is shrinking. He curls up alone and shivers himself to sleep. Her heart threatens mine into submission, beats him bloody, laughs in his face. Her heart takes away every comfort, makes mine forget what life outside of this was like, makes mine believe that good days could exist in this place, makes him forget that there is something outside of this. But most importantly, her heart keeps mine alive, doles out crumbs of hope to keep him going, makes sure he doesn't die before someone gives the command.
What I've learned in school
1. Philosophy isn't so hard. Anyone who's seen a dysfunctional relationship can understand Hegel's master/slave dialectic.
2. I am an emotional whore. I love too much too easily and give it out to the most undeserving customers.
3. If I were a well-adjusted adult, I would just develop a drinking problem and get over it.
2. I am an emotional whore. I love too much too easily and give it out to the most undeserving customers.
3. If I were a well-adjusted adult, I would just develop a drinking problem and get over it.
09 January 2012
A bouquet of lavender between friends
I buried my mind
in her body and left
it there to rot or
maybe to blossom
She sunk her broken
heart in my warm waters
and never asked for it back
never spoke of it at all
We went on breathing
in each other's vanilla
and being mistaken
for sisters like always
A girl washed up onto the shore
It was not until then that I realized that nothing she'd ever said was to be taken at face value. She wasn't killing herself, she wanted to drown the part of herself that I knew, the part that loved me.
I'd been reading her like a book, when all along she'd been begging to be read like a poem. I'd mistaken metaphors for sloppy desperation, subpar theatrics.
And not only did I fail to save her, I'd unknowingly given a nod to her suicide. She was dead, far beyond reviving, and I'd once considered my attempt successful. I thought that I'd done it; I'd thought that it was possible for me to save her, never once wondering why it had been so easy.
If not for the ring on what's left of her finger, the ring she'd sworn she'd cast into the river, I may not have believed her at all. The flesh of the girl I'd known has rotted away. Some has been eaten by whatever creatures she encountered in the river's muddy water. She doesn't look like herself anymore, she doesn't look like anyone.
I gather her bones for burial and slide the ring onto my finger.
I'd been reading her like a book, when all along she'd been begging to be read like a poem. I'd mistaken metaphors for sloppy desperation, subpar theatrics.
And not only did I fail to save her, I'd unknowingly given a nod to her suicide. She was dead, far beyond reviving, and I'd once considered my attempt successful. I thought that I'd done it; I'd thought that it was possible for me to save her, never once wondering why it had been so easy.
If not for the ring on what's left of her finger, the ring she'd sworn she'd cast into the river, I may not have believed her at all. The flesh of the girl I'd known has rotted away. Some has been eaten by whatever creatures she encountered in the river's muddy water. She doesn't look like herself anymore, she doesn't look like anyone.
I gather her bones for burial and slide the ring onto my finger.
25 December 2011
Tivoli (i lov iT)
In my dreams you work
at a movie theater, an old one,
and I go to see movies by myself,
hoping that you'll be the one
standing in the back of the
theater, while I sit in the last
row and pretend not to notice
that we are alone.
at a movie theater, an old one,
and I go to see movies by myself,
hoping that you'll be the one
standing in the back of the
theater, while I sit in the last
row and pretend not to notice
that we are alone.
12 December 2011
frictrice
My Babydoll used to be a rogue
she's singing slizzer slurring calling
it devotion, fool for fatuous love
mixing up mania and admiration
she taught herself to stand upright
and look her infanta in the eye
called herself a gunslinger
called herself Queen Androgyne
she's died dyed dark dead
all lipstuck up and rouge
pronounced the French way
learned to mock talk walk like a lady
learned to laugh like something's funny
My Babydoll used to be a rake
called herself a skirt-chaser
called herself gentler than a man
her toes bruised black and
she likes it, loves it, will do it again
for the way that it grows her
gazellian limbs and kneads her
ass into something fine
My Babydoll the neuromancer
now calls herself the romantic
now calls herself whole, soulmated, full
she's singing slizzer slurring calling
it devotion, fool for fatuous love
mixing up mania and admiration
she taught herself to stand upright
and look her infanta in the eye
My Babydoll wrapped in slacks, slick top hat
taped her tits to her chest and passed
today she wears a different mask
she smiles with tiny pearls
gloss glided, plucked, primped
bones wrapped in a new soft, plump
knowing her infanta wouldn't sleep
with my hand-me-down playthings
velvet, powder, silk, cream, lace,
she made herself a brand new face
mortar, plaster, tar, rust, lime
mortar, plaster, tar, rust, lime
pretty things decay with time
06 December 2011
The Wife (Kate Chopin Pastiche)
Alberta
having looked not very long into life, had not looked very far. She put out her
hands to touch things that pleased her and her lips to kiss them. Her eyes were
deep brown wells that were drinking, drinking impressions and treasuring them
in her soul. They were mysterious eyes and love looked out of them.
The
first person to take Alberta by the hand was her mama, who was not really her
mama. Alberta’s mama often collected stray creatures and brought them home to
keep her company while her husband was away. When he was gone, the thought of
him alone dwelt in her mind, and his name and none other was on her lips.
04 December 2011
A picture for your lover
"I'm drawing you a picture," he told me.
I thought it might be a peace offering.
He was no artist. He refused to try to be.
"When can I see it, baby?"
"I don't know. I don't know if I want you to."
But of course he wanted me to.
He wanted me to want to.
And I did.
But it wasn't exactly a picture.
It was really more of a chart, he said. A chart of his mind.
He drew it out with bubbles, arrows, lines.
And I was at the center.
And at the edges were terrible things.
It was labelled "A small portion of negative thoughts related to you;
Or, why I don't have a chemical imbalance."
But it wasn't exactly a chart.
It was really more of an excuse. An excuse for his mood swings.
A justification for grabbing me.
(You needed to get a grip on yourself.)
A justification for not caring when it hurts.
(You've hurt yourself before, so why can't I?)
A justification for putting his hands over my mouth.
(You've used that mouth for things I don't want to think about.)
A justification for pushing me onto his bed.
(You've been in enough beds, it shouldn't be new to you.)
A justification for the line, "I'll let you up when you shut up."
(Your crying too loud. Do you want everyone to hear you?)
All I can do is try to commit it to memory
Before he tears it up so no one else can see it,
So no one else will believe that it ever existed.
So that he can convince me that it never existed.
I thought it might be a peace offering.
He was no artist. He refused to try to be.
"When can I see it, baby?"
"I don't know. I don't know if I want you to."
But of course he wanted me to.
He wanted me to want to.
And I did.
But it wasn't exactly a picture.
It was really more of a chart, he said. A chart of his mind.
He drew it out with bubbles, arrows, lines.
And I was at the center.
And at the edges were terrible things.
It was labelled "A small portion of negative thoughts related to you;
Or, why I don't have a chemical imbalance."
But it wasn't exactly a chart.
It was really more of an excuse. An excuse for his mood swings.
A justification for grabbing me.
(You needed to get a grip on yourself.)
A justification for not caring when it hurts.
(You've hurt yourself before, so why can't I?)
A justification for putting his hands over my mouth.
(You've used that mouth for things I don't want to think about.)
A justification for pushing me onto his bed.
(You've been in enough beds, it shouldn't be new to you.)
A justification for the line, "I'll let you up when you shut up."
(Your crying too loud. Do you want everyone to hear you?)
A justification for treating me like a whore.
(You've allowed strangers to see your tits.)
A justification for his sporadic snapping.
(Your tattoos are a visible reminder that I'm not the only one who's seen them.)
A justification for his lack of affection.
(You make it so hard to love you.)
A justification for his absence of remorse.
(Your past is not my fault.)
Using myself against me, using me as an excuse.All I can do is try to commit it to memory
Before he tears it up so no one else can see it,
So no one else will believe that it ever existed.
So that he can convince me that it never existed.
01 December 2011
singles/ad
Unwilling/inevitable participant in Hegel's master/slave dialectic seeks same.
Join me for candlelit dinner, and after we can head to my place for a bit of emotional blackmail.
We could take long, moonlit strolls together in the park as I regale you with my sexual history, and you pretend not to be revolted.
We could vacation together in Montauk, where you could verbally abuse me, and I could pretend not to notice and then quietly mutilate myself while locked in the hotel bathroom.
We could grow old together, grow bitter toward each other together.
Strong, capable, outspoken (read: bitchy) emotionally unstable female seeks soulmate to spend cold nights with, engaged in fiery hurling of insults (and occasional inanimate objects).
Seeking male or female, preferably with some sort of mental imbalance.
Seeking male or female with self-esteem just low enough not to leave me.
Seeking male or female capable of unfavorably distorting my self-image and persuading me to contemplate homocide and/or suicide.
(Roles flexible.)
Join me for candlelit dinner, and after we can head to my place for a bit of emotional blackmail.
We could take long, moonlit strolls together in the park as I regale you with my sexual history, and you pretend not to be revolted.
We could vacation together in Montauk, where you could verbally abuse me, and I could pretend not to notice and then quietly mutilate myself while locked in the hotel bathroom.
We could grow old together, grow bitter toward each other together.
Strong, capable, outspoken (read: bitchy) emotionally unstable female seeks soulmate to spend cold nights with, engaged in fiery hurling of insults (and occasional inanimate objects).
Seeking male or female, preferably with some sort of mental imbalance.
Seeking male or female with self-esteem just low enough not to leave me.
Seeking male or female capable of unfavorably distorting my self-image and persuading me to contemplate homocide and/or suicide.
(Roles flexible.)
thirst
(the way the alcoholic's lover pours his gin on the floor,
only to watch horrified as he laps it up from the puddle at her feet)
all my profound is poured out, licked up, drying,
gone gone, squandered on loving lesser beings, boys
with scratchy skin, hungry eyes, ungrateful grins, boys
burned black by sick sick, sorry attempts to keep warm.
I have no more to give, nothing nothing nothing left.
only to watch horrified as he laps it up from the puddle at her feet)
all my profound is poured out, licked up, drying,
gone gone, squandered on loving lesser beings, boys
with scratchy skin, hungry eyes, ungrateful grins, boys
burned black by sick sick, sorry attempts to keep warm.
I have no more to give, nothing nothing nothing left.
control this world
out of the corner of my eye,
there are serial killers/rapists
(possibly a combination)
lurking, tapping on my window
ready to grab snatch or stab
but looking straight ahead
there's nothing but trees
with dead leaves What is it
about the night that makes
a sane person so stupid? Maybe
it's a hologram trick with the
streetlights and the stars to
make us feel just a little bit
luckier to be alive
there are serial killers/rapists
(possibly a combination)
lurking, tapping on my window
ready to grab snatch or stab
but looking straight ahead
there's nothing but trees
with dead leaves What is it
about the night that makes
a sane person so stupid? Maybe
it's a hologram trick with the
streetlights and the stars to
make us feel just a little bit
luckier to be alive
30 November 2011
Upon seeing the 17 hits on my page from your hometown on Thanksgiving
What are you doing here, you sadist?
What's wrong with you?
Get back to your donut hole goddess and stop checking in for any hint of you in my thoughts.
Get back to your any-soft-body-will-do redemption,
get back to your pathological lies,
get back to telling yourself that you're shy and introverted,
get back to never ever shutting the fuck up,
get back to never being able to be alone,
get back to shameless flirting with a sex you're not interested in,
get back to art for the sake of getting unsuspecting girls naked,
get back to the pornography that you try to pass off as poetic,
get back to transparent attempts to get girls' attention,
get back to objectifying and degrading attractive women,
get back to pretending to have read or watched or played or heard anything that you think will make you in some way desirable,
get back to your pseudo-intellectualism,
get back to trying to impress her with your borrowed opinions,
get back to revising your personality according to your new love interests' preferences,
get back to custom-tailoring your likes and dislikes to what you think she wants in a soul mate,
get back to passing off old songs and drawings as special,
get back to telling her she's the only one and she's amazing,
get back to your lazy, fragile devotion,
get back to forgetting who your friends were,
get back to guilting your roommate into buying you food,
get back to spending all your money on shoes,
get back to tricking old lovers into doing your laundry,
get back to relying on your parents and telling yourself you're grown up,
get back to your hypocrisy,
get back to self-consciousness about your homemade scars,
get back to blaming them on anything that sounds plausible yet pitiable,
get back to threatening to kill yourself when things don't work out the way you planned,
get back to thinking you're justified in all of your actions,
get back to selfish obsession,
get back to slandering old flames because they've realized that you're psychotic,
get back to pretending to be drunk so that you can have an excuse to act like a psychopath,
get back to pretending like you'd thought of proposing to me,
get back to pretending like you had a ring for me,
get back to trying to make our story all the more pathetic,
get back to telling yourself that I'm awful because I couldn't love you the way you wanted,
get back to villainizing me because I will smash any pedestal I'm placed on,
get back to pretending to be happy for me,
get out, get out, get out.
What's wrong with you?
Get back to your donut hole goddess and stop checking in for any hint of you in my thoughts.
Get back to your any-soft-body-will-do redemption,
get back to your pathological lies,
get back to telling yourself that you're shy and introverted,
get back to never ever shutting the fuck up,
get back to never being able to be alone,
get back to shameless flirting with a sex you're not interested in,
get back to art for the sake of getting unsuspecting girls naked,
get back to the pornography that you try to pass off as poetic,
get back to transparent attempts to get girls' attention,
get back to objectifying and degrading attractive women,
get back to pretending to have read or watched or played or heard anything that you think will make you in some way desirable,
get back to your pseudo-intellectualism,
get back to trying to impress her with your borrowed opinions,
get back to revising your personality according to your new love interests' preferences,
get back to custom-tailoring your likes and dislikes to what you think she wants in a soul mate,
get back to passing off old songs and drawings as special,
get back to telling her she's the only one and she's amazing,
get back to your lazy, fragile devotion,
get back to forgetting who your friends were,
get back to guilting your roommate into buying you food,
get back to spending all your money on shoes,
get back to tricking old lovers into doing your laundry,
get back to relying on your parents and telling yourself you're grown up,
get back to your hypocrisy,
get back to self-consciousness about your homemade scars,
get back to blaming them on anything that sounds plausible yet pitiable,
get back to threatening to kill yourself when things don't work out the way you planned,
get back to thinking you're justified in all of your actions,
get back to selfish obsession,
get back to slandering old flames because they've realized that you're psychotic,
get back to pretending to be drunk so that you can have an excuse to act like a psychopath,
get back to pretending like you'd thought of proposing to me,
get back to pretending like you had a ring for me,
get back to trying to make our story all the more pathetic,
get back to telling yourself that I'm awful because I couldn't love you the way you wanted,
get back to villainizing me because I will smash any pedestal I'm placed on,
get back to pretending to be happy for me,
get out, get out, get out.
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