1.
Her feelings around my chest.
She lies beside me, too deep to reach.
I touch her face.
Nice to be home.
She smiles. No where to go.
That wild hair in this horrible marriage.
She asks me to cry. I’m already stuck
hanging around all eternity with her.
2.
Beside me
she lies sharp
scarred joys.
3.
Trust this impermanence
where there is no eternity.
4.
To her,
the wild moment
sober shoulders
my hair already
embracing her cheeks
love stuck to arms I haven’t had
quiet love
four days
that want
to watch and reach
marriage
raised
for calm.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
poem for Obama and for us
“Come with me,” he says, “to the edge of this bridge. We will all hold hands and jump off.”
“Come with me,” to the queers with the lip rings and the slippery breasts.
“Come with me,” to the brown man in the wheel chair who fired guns in Vietnam.
“Come with me,” he says, as if an angel or a doctor sent him, “We will stand out in the rain together, learn a lesson about humility.” We wear jeans and black t-shirts even though some of us have much warmer clothing but we want to understand each other so we dress alike.
“Come with me,” to the high school dropouts who recently lost their jobs when they were caught stealing milk from the local Wal-Marts.
“Let us drink from the river and eat ears of corn, extra butter, extra salt,” as if we’ve never eaten anything else together, because we haven’t.
We step steady onto this shaky rainbow as an unlikely group and hope we wind up in a pot of sanity but no one can be sure because we’ve never followed anyone before, much less all as one. We stare at each other, watch the bizarre ways we dance or don’t, wonder how the other learned to move like that or stand so tidy still in spite of the fire energy pervading the crowd.
“Come with me,” he said when all I wanted was to stay stuck in my easy-chair and watch television, but he started to cry, so I cried too. I missed my grandmother but “Lucky you,” he said to me, I could bring her along if I like, so I do.
“She will be difficult to support,” I say, “She is white and not well.”
He smiles and summons four young imperfect strangers to accompany us. Eighty-four years old and Gramma walks or we take turns lifting her. She closes her eyes and makes new memories about this man, these men, this surprising and somehow surreal experience.
“Come with me,” he says, and we scoop people along the way who don’t know or can’t imagine they can move this fast or this far without the comfort of leather shoes and familiar faces.
“Come with me,” he says, and we do.
“Come with me,” to the queers with the lip rings and the slippery breasts.
“Come with me,” to the brown man in the wheel chair who fired guns in Vietnam.
“Come with me,” he says, as if an angel or a doctor sent him, “We will stand out in the rain together, learn a lesson about humility.” We wear jeans and black t-shirts even though some of us have much warmer clothing but we want to understand each other so we dress alike.
“Come with me,” to the high school dropouts who recently lost their jobs when they were caught stealing milk from the local Wal-Marts.
“Let us drink from the river and eat ears of corn, extra butter, extra salt,” as if we’ve never eaten anything else together, because we haven’t.
We step steady onto this shaky rainbow as an unlikely group and hope we wind up in a pot of sanity but no one can be sure because we’ve never followed anyone before, much less all as one. We stare at each other, watch the bizarre ways we dance or don’t, wonder how the other learned to move like that or stand so tidy still in spite of the fire energy pervading the crowd.
“Come with me,” he said when all I wanted was to stay stuck in my easy-chair and watch television, but he started to cry, so I cried too. I missed my grandmother but “Lucky you,” he said to me, I could bring her along if I like, so I do.
“She will be difficult to support,” I say, “She is white and not well.”
He smiles and summons four young imperfect strangers to accompany us. Eighty-four years old and Gramma walks or we take turns lifting her. She closes her eyes and makes new memories about this man, these men, this surprising and somehow surreal experience.
“Come with me,” he says, and we scoop people along the way who don’t know or can’t imagine they can move this fast or this far without the comfort of leather shoes and familiar faces.
“Come with me,” he says, and we do.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Alter, Edit, or Move
He wants us to hug strangers.
I don’t hug anything.
I hear the omnipotent voice.
He tells us to go toward the center.
We hold our arms out,
dance to the field
exhilarated and communal.
We begin to stretch and the music changes.
We take out our umbrellas.
I am unsure how many of us are participating in this experiment.
He wants us to hug inanimate objects.
We get stuck on the word inanimate,
wonder if trees count.
He’s trying to relax us.
He wants our excitement contained.
We make sure that no one has stumbled or vomited.
He tells us it’s a disguise that won’t hurt anyone.
I give a high five to no one,
thumb war with no one.
We all stand up – except that so many of us are already standing.
A sudden change
I look
it seems as
if we’re all
don’t think
at this point
He wants to know where I live.
He praises our
We’re supposed to
begin to breathe
We make our way there with our fingers
pose. Touch your nose he says.
people are going to look at us funny.
He obviously doesn’t realize
where everyone else
I don’t hug anything.
I hear the omnipotent voice.
He tells us to go toward the center.
We hold our arms out,
dance to the field
exhilarated and communal.
We begin to stretch and the music changes.
We take out our umbrellas.
I am unsure how many of us are participating in this experiment.
He wants us to hug inanimate objects.
We get stuck on the word inanimate,
wonder if trees count.
He’s trying to relax us.
He wants our excitement contained.
We make sure that no one has stumbled or vomited.
He tells us it’s a disguise that won’t hurt anyone.
I give a high five to no one,
thumb war with no one.
We all stand up – except that so many of us are already standing.
A sudden change
I look
it seems as
if we’re all
don’t think
at this point
He wants to know where I live.
He praises our
We’re supposed to
begin to breathe
We make our way there with our fingers
pose. Touch your nose he says.
people are going to look at us funny.
He obviously doesn’t realize
where everyone else
Saturday, September 27, 2008
suddenly forced forward as poetry
poetry as an eruption. how it comes up like yesterday’s vodka. no sleep tonight, or not yet. puke it into a toilet. pressed cheek against a sewage seat that hasn’t been cleaned for at least a month. curious how it can be so vile. erupts like a tupperware party ulcer. a long narrow band of sarcasm and unhappy women who couldn’t possibly care about plastic boxes when they could be kissing on each other. erupts like water and mucus shoots out the orifice of a whale. or hairballs on the rug. wait till it dries, it’ll be easier to pick up. eruption as a forced exit of something soft from something hard. really hot or really gross. erupts from a pore in earth. or a nostril. erupts because it does. as it is.
Monday, September 22, 2008
a response
monday (k)night butch
of course i noticed
how your sentences mirror mine
"you've reached melissa kozakiewicz/
please leave a message"
as if you read it
all ready
said it to me as if
you meant it as if
your terror might be
invisible inside parentheses as if
our names aren't hidden
couched inbetween letters
not obvious but not
secret or at least
not to me
but i know you
of course i noticed
how your sentences mirror mine
"you've reached melissa kozakiewicz/
please leave a message"
as if you read it
all ready
said it to me as if
you meant it as if
your terror might be
invisible inside parentheses as if
our names aren't hidden
couched inbetween letters
not obvious but not
secret or at least
not to me
but i know you
Friday, September 19, 2008
Red Giant Phase: A Collaboration
for elizabethhis toes reach almost the wind or else they direct the eye toward the woman he loves. she wears green when she feels radiant and wants him to know. his tag is exposed but he doesn’t concern himself with matters like shirts or money or trauma or death when she is the distance of one arm out. their toes mingle, tingle into after noon, flirt with the sand because he is in the most shocking love that one can find on a beach. later he uses a stick to carve her initials in the sand and she sends out light because she has waited for him for 4.57 billion years. this kind of far away love that directs climate even when naysayers think it won’t. this kind of love that supports almost all life below the toes and electrifies the body in a way that seems dangerous to the weak. to the smarmy. she tosses her hair and flares when he insists on capturing the picture but he does it anyway. he sets it as background on her phone to prioritize the moment. to discover that as long as their feet are touching then nothing else matters. and she glimmers because that’s what she does around him.
photo: Bob Nardi
text: mel kozakiewicz
Friday, September 5, 2008
better a butch than a man
she and me
we drunk stumble to the rental room.
i pass out dizzy one foot anchor the floor.
she mounts me and grinds,
dirty t-shirt uncovered thighs.
butch emulating a masculinity better left behind.
how often women wake with squirm on limp bodies.
better a butch than a man. no
poke poke puuussssshhh.
familiar fluids flip with women.
on top and inside.
disgust disguised
smirking fiesty.
HORNY because she came
WHILE I SLEPT so
she don't need a wake pussy.
we drunk stumble to the rental room.
i pass out dizzy one foot anchor the floor.
she mounts me and grinds,
dirty t-shirt uncovered thighs.
butch emulating a masculinity better left behind.
how often women wake with squirm on limp bodies.
better a butch than a man. no
poke poke puuussssshhh.
familiar fluids flip with women.
on top and inside.
disgust disguised
smirking fiesty.
HORNY because she came
WHILE I SLEPT so
she don't need a wake pussy.
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