something awful about slumber. something wonderful.
how I wake with sludge inbetween my eyelashes. stuck there. as if I never showered. as if my eyes are pie crusts, waiting to be eaten. or worse. tossed in the trash cuz no one wants that part. prefers the filling. as long as it’s not apple. I hate apple pie eyes.
how I dream terrible thoughts about his wife. about how he touches me with the authority of those muddy fingertips. and then he does. wakes me with it. turns me over and lifts me up. enters my dreams and leaves.
vulnerable in sleep. passive. receptive.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
the compulsion
the compulsion to pen poems. as in: illness. obsession.
wait.
for the path.train. three thirty a.m. loathsome like drunkards; count high heels and wonder. what happened. to herman. how he be.came. this way. how old his wife is. if she really curls her bangs like that. and what. kind of conclusions we jump at. when women wear wound hair.
or their husbands. who dis.play. mis.tresses.
where we each fail to perform. necessary duties or responsible personhood. how a fable of accountability could have earned a portrait instead. of this jumble. of words.
we smash together. careful enough to be named: poem.
and wonder. about freud. what he might have said. about any of it.
wait.
for the path.train. three thirty a.m. loathsome like drunkards; count high heels and wonder. what happened. to herman. how he be.came. this way. how old his wife is. if she really curls her bangs like that. and what. kind of conclusions we jump at. when women wear wound hair.
or their husbands. who dis.play. mis.tresses.
where we each fail to perform. necessary duties or responsible personhood. how a fable of accountability could have earned a portrait instead. of this jumble. of words.
we smash together. careful enough to be named: poem.
and wonder. about freud. what he might have said. about any of it.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Presentation is Everything
for Herman
He sits quiet. casual on my bed. I crawl about. nude. photograph the deception. we created while fucking. His shirt. plaid. buttons-down. The book. Baudelaire’s. Paris Spleen. a master. of form. without. extra. periods. Perhaps because men don’t menstruate. One leopard-print shoe. gifted from a woman I drove to a disgusting motel. after her man beat her. which unfolded into another untruth. I watched her suck. his lips. hours after. I saved her. Both high. on. tina. I never saw her. again. The orange tag. a condom wrapper. Claims to be special. “for her.” but leaves us with impression of plastic-coated cherries. on a sundae. special for her. or not. His cock. uncircumcised. Perhaps. the most virtuous part of his body. I’d rather ride. bareback. but he cheats. The wine. a blend. from the west. my favorite red. We looked when we heard. the glass crash. The light. a desk lamp. because the camera is actually a computer. sans flash. Positioned at the bottom. of the pile. his coat. He made an effort to hang it. but it fell. when our fucking tangled the web.
The only omission. is love. What we have. is destruction. the floor. his foot.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
It's us, too.
This letter is specifically (and lovingly) written to an activist friend of mine who is attempting to convince people that the economic-collapse is not affecting people “like us” who don’t have 401Ks or money invested in the stock market, but you can read it too.
My Dear Friends,
By now, we’ve all heard the rumors that America is leading the world in an economic collapse. How we got to this point, the meaning behind the numbers ticking across the bottom of the screen, and the tossing around of taxpayer money to folks in the automotive and banking industries only help to confuse the situation to those of us who aren’t economists. I’m writing today to address a very specific concern among so many of my peers who seem to think that this economic crisis is somehow not affecting folk who fit into the category of working poor families.
It’s true. We never had 401Ks to lose. We didn’t lose any money in the stock market because we didn’t have any to invest in the first place. But we did have jobs. We were able to go the grocery store and buy mozzarella cheese. This is not the case anymore.
For sure, prices at the grocery store have gone up. Easy example: standard mozzarella cheese blocks have gone from somewhere around five dollars to eight dollars. And yes, sometimes prices go up on particular items. It’s about more than cheese.
We can’t pay for rising prices because we don’t have any extra money. Thanks to the loss of revenue, we’re not getting a Christmas bonus this year. We’re not getting overtime pay. If we work for tips, (anyone in the service industry – your manicurist, waitress, pizza delivery guy, etc.) we are making less than half of what we made last year. Not to mention the layoffs.
Just because we don’t necessarily understand the green ticking numbers at the bottom of the screen doesn’t mean they’re arbitrary. They indicate a loss of profits for a company. Companies are not arbitrary either. We are companies. When companies lose money, that means people lose money. When people lose money, they make budget cuts. The budget cuts they make are us. They lose money, they fire us. When they fire us, we don’t do things like get haircuts or go out to eat. When we stop doing things like getting haircuts and going out to eat, the people who work at the salon and the restaurant don’t make tips. When they don’t make tips, they go home with nothing. There is no hourly wage.
When companies lose money, they stop doing things like building additions to their workplaces or repainting their living rooms. When they stop doing those things, construction workers spend the day staring at each other in meeting spots around the country, waiting for hours for someone to need something. When that doesn’t happen, they go home empty handed.
The economy is set up in such a way that if it falls, we all fall. Granted, some of us are better at living without money than others, however, the system we are familiar with assumes that we have places we can go if we are in severe financial hardship, like food banks, or emergency shelters. These places are not equipped to deal with the magnitude of jobless folk that the crisis is producing. Many of us have begun to supplement our joblessness with prostitution, drug sales, and theft.
And yes, sweet friend. These are not new ideas. Millions of Americans, generally people of color, generally women, generally in ghettoized neighborhoods have been privy to this kind of underground market for generations. We need not forget about these folk that capitalism already abandoned due to their inability to produce. People with mental illness. People who never learned how to read. People who were born into circumstances which breed more poverty. Life is harder for these folk now too, if that’s possible. Lines are long at free breakfast kitchens. Food supplies are dwindling at food pantries. Shelters are full. Ugly gets uglier.
My point, dear friend, is simply this: It’s not just them and their 401Ks. It’s us too.
My Dear Friends,
By now, we’ve all heard the rumors that America is leading the world in an economic collapse. How we got to this point, the meaning behind the numbers ticking across the bottom of the screen, and the tossing around of taxpayer money to folks in the automotive and banking industries only help to confuse the situation to those of us who aren’t economists. I’m writing today to address a very specific concern among so many of my peers who seem to think that this economic crisis is somehow not affecting folk who fit into the category of working poor families.
It’s true. We never had 401Ks to lose. We didn’t lose any money in the stock market because we didn’t have any to invest in the first place. But we did have jobs. We were able to go the grocery store and buy mozzarella cheese. This is not the case anymore.
For sure, prices at the grocery store have gone up. Easy example: standard mozzarella cheese blocks have gone from somewhere around five dollars to eight dollars. And yes, sometimes prices go up on particular items. It’s about more than cheese.
We can’t pay for rising prices because we don’t have any extra money. Thanks to the loss of revenue, we’re not getting a Christmas bonus this year. We’re not getting overtime pay. If we work for tips, (anyone in the service industry – your manicurist, waitress, pizza delivery guy, etc.) we are making less than half of what we made last year. Not to mention the layoffs.
Just because we don’t necessarily understand the green ticking numbers at the bottom of the screen doesn’t mean they’re arbitrary. They indicate a loss of profits for a company. Companies are not arbitrary either. We are companies. When companies lose money, that means people lose money. When people lose money, they make budget cuts. The budget cuts they make are us. They lose money, they fire us. When they fire us, we don’t do things like get haircuts or go out to eat. When we stop doing things like getting haircuts and going out to eat, the people who work at the salon and the restaurant don’t make tips. When they don’t make tips, they go home with nothing. There is no hourly wage.
When companies lose money, they stop doing things like building additions to their workplaces or repainting their living rooms. When they stop doing those things, construction workers spend the day staring at each other in meeting spots around the country, waiting for hours for someone to need something. When that doesn’t happen, they go home empty handed.
The economy is set up in such a way that if it falls, we all fall. Granted, some of us are better at living without money than others, however, the system we are familiar with assumes that we have places we can go if we are in severe financial hardship, like food banks, or emergency shelters. These places are not equipped to deal with the magnitude of jobless folk that the crisis is producing. Many of us have begun to supplement our joblessness with prostitution, drug sales, and theft.
And yes, sweet friend. These are not new ideas. Millions of Americans, generally people of color, generally women, generally in ghettoized neighborhoods have been privy to this kind of underground market for generations. We need not forget about these folk that capitalism already abandoned due to their inability to produce. People with mental illness. People who never learned how to read. People who were born into circumstances which breed more poverty. Life is harder for these folk now too, if that’s possible. Lines are long at free breakfast kitchens. Food supplies are dwindling at food pantries. Shelters are full. Ugly gets uglier.
My point, dear friend, is simply this: It’s not just them and their 401Ks. It’s us too.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Happy Like That
for emily
and she is as happy. as s.pool.s of red ribbon. dusky gold trim. clean. tidy. gift wrap like Christmas. like new lipstick. greysmoky eyes. aren’t really hers, but nonetheless fabulous happy.
like. a swan.ky rug. or a private train-car. making stops. only in Milan and Belize. happy. enough to give back, even though she hates this part, but loves the way he smells so she fancies it happy. like dimples shine. on the long walk home. happy. like the television is. always off. so happy she’s not sure. if she’s sober. sing car songs happy. notice license plates. happy like boun.ci.n.g.
happy like waking. realizing. she hasn’t died. in her sleep. or jumped. off that old barn. in Brockport. or encouraged her sister. to buy. a handgun. she doesn’t want or can’t control. happy. like finally. finish the den. sit. in the new. easy. chair.
like tuna-melts. kisses behind the knees. hot tubs and bikinis. that look terrific. like big. California. blends. or Troop Beverly Hills. happy. like finally. meet the man. she loved her whole life. without. knowing. him. like obedient children. raise their hands to ask curious questions. about science. and Barack Obama.
happy like kicking. crispy leaves. on our way. to the bookstore. happy like hot. pancakes. like watching. the game. and they win. happy. like Emily happy. happy like that.
and she is as happy. as s.pool.s of red ribbon. dusky gold trim. clean. tidy. gift wrap like Christmas. like new lipstick. greysmoky eyes. aren’t really hers, but nonetheless fabulous happy.
like. a swan.ky rug. or a private train-car. making stops. only in Milan and Belize. happy. enough to give back, even though she hates this part, but loves the way he smells so she fancies it happy. like dimples shine. on the long walk home. happy. like the television is. always off. so happy she’s not sure. if she’s sober. sing car songs happy. notice license plates. happy like boun.ci.n.g.
happy like waking. realizing. she hasn’t died. in her sleep. or jumped. off that old barn. in Brockport. or encouraged her sister. to buy. a handgun. she doesn’t want or can’t control. happy. like finally. finish the den. sit. in the new. easy. chair.
like tuna-melts. kisses behind the knees. hot tubs and bikinis. that look terrific. like big. California. blends. or Troop Beverly Hills. happy. like finally. meet the man. she loved her whole life. without. knowing. him. like obedient children. raise their hands to ask curious questions. about science. and Barack Obama.
happy like kicking. crispy leaves. on our way. to the bookstore. happy like hot. pancakes. like watching. the game. and they win. happy. like Emily happy. happy like that.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
No Mas de Problemas
No mas de problemas.
Turn the words like a tiny gameshow host.
“Be Better Than You Are.”
And I will do everything to answer or cry
when you make jokes when I ask questions.
And when you want to lose condoms inside me
I will answer and open my legs because
babies are catastrophes I create in my sleep,
& love is as useful as a helmet
when I dive from the side
of a mountainslide
on a motorbike
until I find
another butch
to cling to,
and wonder why
I’m stuck
in this truss
all the time.
Call whenever you want.
Your skillfun working
prickly dick has
solved more problems
of machismo and hopefully,
her name won’t provide
additional concerns ‘cuz
we can’t have any more,
remember?
No mas de problemas, Papi.
Turn the words like a tiny gameshow host.
“Be Better Than You Are.”
And I will do everything to answer or cry
when you make jokes when I ask questions.
And when you want to lose condoms inside me
I will answer and open my legs because
babies are catastrophes I create in my sleep,
& love is as useful as a helmet
when I dive from the side
of a mountainslide
on a motorbike
until I find
another butch
to cling to,
and wonder why
I’m stuck
in this truss
all the time.
Call whenever you want.
Your skillfun working
prickly dick has
solved more problems
of machismo and hopefully,
her name won’t provide
additional concerns ‘cuz
we can’t have any more,
remember?
No mas de problemas, Papi.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
The Details
This piece was modeled after Stacy Walsh’s The Kitchen
appearing in Monkey Puzzle, Fall 2008.
I. The Scene
The apartment was ours as soon as we saw it. So far, we only looked at this one, but I knew we had to get out of New Brunswick. It was suffocating me. Killing us. A new apartment would hold fresh energy. Get us away from him too. And this place had beautiful hardwood floors. I wouldn’t have to vacuum.
II. The Reality
It’s cold outside so I blow my cigarette smoke at her sweaters instead of opening a window. I don’t care how many times she complains; if she can cheat, I can smoke in the house. Someone left a bottle of Southern Comfort at the party we had for her 30th and I swig from it. I drink myself into the telephone, calling every friend who might still answer this late. Everyone is tired of my tears by now. Everyone but me, apparently.
III. The Unravelling
I doubt this conversation would be going better if I was sober. I am full of imagined memories of how her love looked when we met. Somehow I am incredulous to learn she has no plans for New Year’s Eve. She wants us to stay home and watch television. Because of my immediate and violent need for her attention, I strip myself of physical protection and throw my nakedness into the radiator. It sizzles me. She stands, reaches. I shriek and grab at her cock on the nightstand. I threaten to cut it up with a steak knife. She smirks when I fall exhausted into a pile of desperation by the laundry. She tells me she can still fuck other women with or without that cock.
IV. The Aftermath
She is driving too fast for an entrance ramp. She always drives too fast. The only thing I don’t despise about our car rides is her captivity. We shout at each other because I found an earring that isn’t mine in the backseat. I know whose it is and I put it in my pocket. She shouts “But I’m not seeing her!” at me. When she smashes into the guardrail, the airbags explode in our faces and splatter white dust in our eyes. Neither of us are surprised. We crash cars all the time.
V. The Final Gesture
Finally I rent a truck so as to escape properly. I decide that now is the right time to call a new girl. Tell her I really like her. Flirt. See if maybe she’ll fall in love with me for the sake of moving into a new relationship. A simple one that I can trust. The new girl hesitates for only a second before telling me that just like Jay-Z, she has 99 problems. I sing along, fake laugh with her until it’s time to sob, and then hang up.
appearing in Monkey Puzzle, Fall 2008.
I. The Scene
The apartment was ours as soon as we saw it. So far, we only looked at this one, but I knew we had to get out of New Brunswick. It was suffocating me. Killing us. A new apartment would hold fresh energy. Get us away from him too. And this place had beautiful hardwood floors. I wouldn’t have to vacuum.
II. The Reality
It’s cold outside so I blow my cigarette smoke at her sweaters instead of opening a window. I don’t care how many times she complains; if she can cheat, I can smoke in the house. Someone left a bottle of Southern Comfort at the party we had for her 30th and I swig from it. I drink myself into the telephone, calling every friend who might still answer this late. Everyone is tired of my tears by now. Everyone but me, apparently.
III. The Unravelling
I doubt this conversation would be going better if I was sober. I am full of imagined memories of how her love looked when we met. Somehow I am incredulous to learn she has no plans for New Year’s Eve. She wants us to stay home and watch television. Because of my immediate and violent need for her attention, I strip myself of physical protection and throw my nakedness into the radiator. It sizzles me. She stands, reaches. I shriek and grab at her cock on the nightstand. I threaten to cut it up with a steak knife. She smirks when I fall exhausted into a pile of desperation by the laundry. She tells me she can still fuck other women with or without that cock.
IV. The Aftermath
She is driving too fast for an entrance ramp. She always drives too fast. The only thing I don’t despise about our car rides is her captivity. We shout at each other because I found an earring that isn’t mine in the backseat. I know whose it is and I put it in my pocket. She shouts “But I’m not seeing her!” at me. When she smashes into the guardrail, the airbags explode in our faces and splatter white dust in our eyes. Neither of us are surprised. We crash cars all the time.
V. The Final Gesture
Finally I rent a truck so as to escape properly. I decide that now is the right time to call a new girl. Tell her I really like her. Flirt. See if maybe she’ll fall in love with me for the sake of moving into a new relationship. A simple one that I can trust. The new girl hesitates for only a second before telling me that just like Jay-Z, she has 99 problems. I sing along, fake laugh with her until it’s time to sob, and then hang up.
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