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He Argues That He Cleans the House
I.
She stood over the sink
emptying bottles.
Matt woke. Could hear his feet
move across the house
and stop at the sink.
What are you doing?
Emptying bottles.
She thinks she counted eight already.
But those are still good.
I bought them.
She cant remember why.
You can just hide them from him.
Why? Im using them.
Youre emptying them!
Poor Matt just couldnt understand when she said
they were the weapons for
My revolution.
II.
Tripping over glassware
I cant see my reflection
so I convince myself its hidden in the highway.
He drove with a six pack of Mickeys
and stumbled in just in time
to pass out on the stairs.
I climb over him,
tripping over glassware,
at 3 a.m.
Tonight is daylight savings time
and I feel I have to do something
with this extra hour
so I drive around the block,
the city,
the state
in circles
so many times
that I feel as dizzy
as that bottle makes him.
III.
When she said she needed him
so much closer,
when she wrote it in a letter
she hoped he would understand
that it meant something
so much more
than holding her in her sleep.
His heavy breathing causes hangover
and she only wishes him
much further away.
IV.
He argues that he cleans the house
but wont listen to my rebuttal
that I clean so much more.
V.
She supposes she is lucky
that she can see her reflection
in all surfaces,
while he waits in hope
of finding it at the bottom
of a tall glass.
VI.
There are only two times
of the day for her:
The moment he leaves
and the moment he arrives.
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
And she doesnt know
how to set her alarm.
The Warranty Offers Upgrades
It came one day
in a dream
asleep in the early hours of the afternoon.
I could think of nothing else
without catalyst
no movie to spawn
no long sad song
And I, exhausted from a recollection
that may not even be mine
slept in the broken mattress
I shared with my love.
Awake to darkness
the stillness of the room
as loud as my slumber,
and knowing I would be forever awake
surfed the internet
for some semblance
of the truth.
Did you touch the small of my back
like all kind fathers do?
But then, my reaction:
the violent recoil.
Would I have done that
if you hadn't touched so much more?
I was using a printer program
on your Tandy, version 1.0.
The conglomerated characters
formed the shape of Mickey.
And I was so proud to have fixed something
you weren't able to.
Did you provide the inspiration
or harvest the fear?
Stored my memories
in incompatible computer programs
because I am a lover of all things new;
technology and your attempt at family
which I devoured,
the candy bars you fed me
when we'd walk to the corner convenient store
and I convinced myself
this family was not broken.
Were you why I got fat?
A diversion, a highly developed ploy,
these memories a buffet
that I turned away,
turned away.
With your strange religious order
a god that mandated my ignorance, my futility
the silence of this room.
And too weak to walk
in a hospital room on the fifth floor
I refused the treatment of talk
to repair Tandy's of that,
although dr. this and dr. that
promised the manuals were still in print.
My love arrived home
who could say whether his kiss
was laced with drink
to see me stone silent
and I never allowed him a word.
An attempt to touch my back,
the small of my back,
like all kind lovers do
and a flood of files printed,
my body laced with lacerations
the paper cuts
of an endless dream.
I left my love.
One can't function
in this real world
when their back aches as much as mine.
And soon found a new apartment.
I tore the carpet
and refurbished,
laying squares of printed characters
an ear,
two perfect circles,
wide gloves
and the smile of all children's fantasy.
I stomp on his delicate features,
my boot sopping chocolate
to make sense
of this internet website
that claims you were
no father at all.
Kerry Me
You may have said,
"Election night was the last straw"
to your friends
when they asked you
why you ran so far
from something you convinced them
was so beautiful.
"Drunk bitch",
but you wouldn't have called me that.
Your words are gentle
and with a soft sigh
you would return to your thesis,
your dissertation,
your long evening runs
to soon forget
that my anger
was what made me yours.
Cross-legged
Sitting in Husslers office
Ive decided I dont
want to become
a Sociology minor-
because a major-
I could sound the trumpets
and ring the bells
but then a minor-
as though the authorities
stormed in on
Sociology and I in
an awkward position
with a trail of social
deviance pressed between
my legs.
And were all here waiting
three women and one boy
and the girls chat politely
and cross their legs
so their feet may
tap lightly against the
hum of an
oversized radiator.
Us ladies, we look at one
another thickly-
arch our backs,
kick our feet,
each one silently asking
whos better than the other?
Then a boy
backed in the corner,
feet up on a vacant desk.
Filling our silence with
crap and bullshit
and every time he looks over
one of us are tempted
to slightly spread our legs.
Hes reading a book
and I cant see the title
and would I want to?
if it is something so prized
so canonically thick- that
I couldnt grip it
in my tender hand.
Well roll our eyes in unison
at the white, white imprint
of where a clock used to stand.
And shell have missed
her aerobics appointment,
and she- her five p.m.
dinner date.
And he hums crap and
lifts another leg onto
the departments polished oak
desk.
I only have this reading
maybe an hour or so
from now-
and Id rather wait here hurried
hearing Husslers intoned praise.
If I could just sit still
legs crossed,
lips curved
maybe he could afford me some.
One
Mr. Sarcastic,
Fully armed and equipped,
As healthy as a 92 year-old chain smoker,
Was nearing an
end.
His polluted thoughts,
The scented stench of his soul,
That stirfry of emotions,
Fit comfortably
in his back pocket.
The absent reflection,
Of a sadistic mirror,
An assembly of conformity,
Sat empty
in his stomach.
Artificial cottage windows,
Of the elaborate fishing shack,
Became home to dented dreams,
With room for one.
In the Garden of Silk Stockings
for Sylvia Plath
I saw you last night
as I gaged the temperature
on the incubator of his roast,
dabbing the sharp crevices
of my unallowing mouth
with that shirt I'd wear
before I steadied the balance
and lifted the weights
so that I may
slip into the manikan modeled
silk teddy of his liking.
I used it as a washrag
counting the imperfections
of my newly made up face,
he'd trace the lines-
a pattern pre-drafted
with a smear of coral lipstick
and my nightly practiced chiseling
with a tool, shaped and sharp
no longer used
to keep my long legs smooth
and my arms abstract canvas.
In the large metallic plate
where he fell in love
with the tall silk flowers
that sat in idle anticipation
on the other side of my room
reflecting expectancy,
a long stem inverted
to masque a peeling petal
and where I fell
hard upon my knees
to escape silk flowers
and his focused eye.
And then you, versed and wounded
singing songs in perfect time
to my brittle conscience,
take his place as he leaves the room
rising as I rise
leaving nothing
to our imagination, but
to his, and the broken mirror pains
as he pries long narcicissus'
from your guided grip
and to weep over what he now sees.
Transformation
Remember those days
of school years past.
The tight pink leggings,
that highlighted your
mother's misfortune.
When girls in blue and gold
armed with tinsel wands,
hummed your needed envy
in defenseless
rallies, and
through Joe Camel's cool sneer.
Remember those days
of pub crawls stable.
The high black
boots,
that showcased Jenny's loss.
When men in leather and dye,
carrying the deeds of Franklin and Abe
whispered
their needed want
in four hour vacancies, and
through Dr. Brent's cold stare.
Contending Suburbia
Big wheel in pieces.
A tonka tool too dull
to mark time
on PTAs raised hand.
Daddy
left
on the sidewalk chalk track.
His polished helmet
two sizes too small
to fight the flames
of sisters
Catholic rebellion.
The filtered, dying embers
help make her Virginia Slim.
Shell pass the plate,
mamas meatloaf
inflamed
in lucid dreams.
Her quick rescue,
royalty and burgers
wrapped in wet brown sacks.
Wash their
genetic soiled hands
in a tub of kerosene.
Sinking into submission
father and daughter play
on the same team,
their hand knit jerseys
only mom can mend.
Hearts and mommy and cotton balls.
A colorful construction
of
bible school pleas
to nail on faulty foundations.
There is no Santa
and there is no God.
Mommys cast the first
stone,
shielded with department store fragrance.
A thick, uneven veil
to shroud a trimesters bloom.
Shell
pierce her ears
and pad his knees,
driving permanent nails
into their white picket minds.
Until mother loosens
the strap.
A Mona Lisa coordinated in sweats
to dictate hallucinations
on a used For Sale sign.
Real Estate
photographs
will doctor the leaks.
Big Man On Campus
You fitfully modeled S and T
Choking on U in place of D.
Sedative
A familiar watershed could now fill
Empty cartons that were once
Second nature by womb.
And
the receptive compensation
Of familiar voices
Is barred by the paralyzing fear
Of a simple mechanic device
And the adhesive which bears my name.
Either drink the water or kill the sentiment
Of the already weeping
concern
Perched upon the bedstand
A reminder
Of my constant fears
As mandated by pleasant dreams to be
Awoken by the scales of hell
I bid you, sleep well.
"Because everybody harbors a secret hatred for the prettiest girl in the room..."
Eulogy For the Ugly
Royalty was praised and called to rise,
pretty queens smiling side by side.
Their
cosmetic beauty, their manipulated size,
Can not hide the apathy of their lives.
Loosened collar and dirty
sleeves,
With thoughts not of their own.
Mother's models, teacher's pets,
Place the queens upon their thrones.
Adorn them with sick wants,
Crown them with terminal desire,
As an ugly princess sickens,
Handicapped
and fueling the fire.
They tramp over the mound of earth,
Reserved for princess of no-name.
She forfeits
her own life,
So queens may binge and purge on her remains.
Hail, hail all the pretty queens,
Forget
not your ugly slave,
Feast on her insecurities,
Kill the prince that saves her day.
The World According to Suzanne
And Suzanne said I wasn't a terrible person,
Just 'So terribley lost'.
I feel as though I'm being pulled
in every direction,
And I've grown accustom to silence.
But that's what college does,
You grow old and move
away.
I hate escaping.
I hate confrontation.
It's difficult to maintain anything any longer,
What
would a homongenous world be?
God I'm hungry right now.
A child of signs she abanndoned God,
Feasting
on omens.
Tired and lonely rest would be in my best interest,
But there is nothing genuine behind this
Forced
smile.
Sometimes I fear this deamon inside me
Will never disappear
And I don't want to die.
I
may be reverting back to my old self.
She died awhile ago
Without a proper funeral.
Tolerance instigates
boredom,
I just want to go home.
I thought our eyes met once,
hands cupped in beaded delight.
But
I was just his comic diversion.
Reserved for daytime dreams.
Nationwide
Clearance
We
perused the indoor garage sale
and
parked my car three blocks down.
It didnt help any
with
the sale stationed Snow Queen guards,
a
runway of weathered carpet
too
transparent to preserve
our
wayward tracks
(six
shoes without traction)
and
a need to move, move, move.
We
smoked filtered cigarettes
and
passed our trash to the back seat
exhaling
our good fortune
with
each escaping breath,
a
smoke ring through a selfish window crack,
my
hands warmed and my car a shine
I
set it to drive, drive, drive.
Our
diamond facade runway
reflected
the champagne toast of our hood
and
I had to squint my eyes.
A
little lady walking our same path;
no, trudging
and
that diamond gleam transforming
(a
witches brew of dirt and slush).
But
with my car so hot
I
felt the wet on the back of my ankles
as
I watched her sunken shoes sop
up
more, more, more.
My
ankle will not stop twitching.
Open 24 Hours
Considering the pain.
Born a natural coward:
never experiencing the sensation
of a roller coaster,
having doctors bring in
muscle bound reinforcement to administer
simple vaccinations.
Paralyzed at heights.
Petrified of depth.
She manipulated her mind.
Decisive Defeat.
And so
she assembled
an age old elixir.
To alleviate an ends mean:
without medical ailment,
or a
therapists Monday night cure
she'd willing withstand
meager, momentary, madness,
one of earned anticipation
that could be
instigated through a simple purchase
at the corner drug store.
When done correctly
the hurt might be
mistaken
for longed relief.
Common Cold
Im directed to say
Excuse me I sneezed
so that the transparent
watershed-
the showered terrain
of a torn kiddie pool
can be drained into
a sniffle,
a snort,
a sneeze.
Rachel will cup the receiver
ask if Im okay
but her words are a que
and the timed slant
of her manicured brow
directs ACTION!
and I have sneezed:
a painful, wet
ongoing sneeze.
She places the receiver,
(links the receiver)
along her plastic ear.
Im handed a Kleenex
and before her door closes
I can hear her
sigh, sigh, sorry about
that
Click.
And I only have this
Kleenex
that Ive been carrying
for damn near seven years.
I dont want to:
hear God Bless You,
close my eyes,
smell an orange.
Id take that citrus acid
and smear it in her brow.
But Dr. Goodman
tells me to wear another
layer
to anoint my allergies.
And being who I am
to plead, Excuse me.
Plasticity
Stretched like wax,
Play doh for pyro
artificial carnage twice removed;
In porcelin cathedrals
Rapunzels golden basin.
A throne nightly molded
of accurate and added adhesive.
Her supplementary tunnel,
illuminating each sickle cell
igniting the pace
of a melodic monitor.
Electric red shadows casting
white
hurried heels
in linoleum waltz.
Her quarantined canopy parted,
instruments to instruct
the left wing hunger
of her carbon ready
wax mausoleum.
Dollar Drafts
They say you can hear it in their voices,
the echo of a mermaid singing nursery rhymes
in Grandmothers pedestal tub.
Shh.. can you hear it?...
the rhythmic drum of the antelopes hooves,
the Louisville crack of a polished pistol,
your feet leading a solo two step
up the diagonal stairs to my locked bedroom
door.
Why cant you hear it?
Sharp shooting, the artillery round as
your
hands gently tap the can.
That carbon that never misfires
and in this shooting range I stay firmly
grounded.
It may be my low center of gravity.
Im not asking you to listen
To my silent sway in camoflague
but to the shattering of glass-
your German stein, cabernet goblets,
the champagne flutes your mother
thought would encourage marriage.
I dance alone, on the broken remains
crack, crack, crack! A piercing
wail
and the explosive burst of my plastic masque.
Theres a piece of it in your hair
that you shake off as dandruff.
Bake Sale
Don't wrap it in tinfoil and pretend that you care
like the other mothers down the road.
Neighbors
pay full admission to see what they want
with I, the curtain always closed.
Don't pass it along like the average
parade,
the perfect site to see.
The makeup I wear has long since faded
of this faux family.
Don't
conceal our moment in an old garden hose,
it's not only water released.
Trivial secrets absconded and sunlight denied
in your quaint little garden of peace.
Need For Want
Bilingual in sorority tongue
Blood patterns on her wrist.
Desperation, a want for need,
Rejection with an iron fist.
Occupation: 14 hour day,
Drugged, she likes to be.
Acceptance, a need
for want,
Follow the conformed lead.
My Shaky Professor
I
My shaky professor
resembles the
man I wish
my Father would
age to be.
II
My shaky professor
with his single
symphonic solo
has vocals that
waltz
through the grand
waxed halls
of his students
ears.
His fingers trace
mazes
on his flat air
composition
and well watch
his fisted fall
allowing the steadied
harmony
to make alliance
with his hands-
once, a 2-3-4
now a Foxtrot,
a Jitterbug
the music moves
us-
thrashing stagnant
in our seats
through abandoned
dance halls
to seat number
42, number 89
and soon the TAs
in accordance
noticing the pretty
blond
bopping to the
beat
when the attendance
sheet falls to the floor.
And I couldnt
give a fuck
about frame of
reference
or the Risky Ship
Phenomena
because now I
feel I am
the only one waltzing
in this hot stew
of
expressionless
movement.
If he would only
misplace the chalk
and sit tightly
on his hands
he may be able
to receive
a standing ovation.
III
But my Father
will
never lift a bow.
Hell turn the
dial
so fast his daughters
feet wont move.
Oh, and how!
and how he can
control his hands.
Enough to bruise
the open air,
and with them
planted
firmly at his
side
to slap the faces
of his
(untainted,
unrequited,
untouched)
students,
screaming, LOOK AT ME--
LISTEN TO ME.
I AM
WHO YOU ARE!.
And theyll survey
his shoes,
his built, burnt
body
and suddenly a
mob has assembled
to feed quarters
and select the
current hits
of my fathers
pre-programmed jukebox.
IV
But my Fathers
symphony is spoiled
and he will never
play alone.
Hell watch my
shaky professor
gracefully rest
his bow
(after the theatre
has long since retired
in hearing my
Fathers repeated rhythm),
and hear the thunderous
applause
emanating from
my shaky professors
wild fingertips
as
he takes his bow.
Laughter's Vaccination
Laugh your last, you carefree spirit
Allow your stomach to expand,
As you waltz on
your grandfather's feet,
As you hold your father's hand.
Laugh your last, oh beautiful one
Wear your pink
lace dress.
Forget your mother's scolding words,
For ruining your Sunday best.
Laugh your last, daddy's little
girl
Extend your final farewell,
To a womb that's stolen each pleasant night,
To awake to the depths of hell.
Laugh your last, you envied student
Receive more expected praise.
Absorb the attention, relish the fame,
For these are your final days.
Ceremony
It never happened.
There was a dance- a slow moved utopia
where I was princess
in a white dress.
Burying my soiled hands
into his Warren Beaty tux
we circled and spun through
all the misfit pretenders.
Knighted accepted with each passing hand,
I was a scrapbook memory.
His voice was crude and certain
the tell-tale whiskey loud and clear.
I whispered no - and smoothed my dress
the white satin fading crimson
in the light
where we were made invisible.
The spotlight of that
night.
He staggered out upon his name.
A steady dance mastered
on wrestling room mats and
forest pavilions.
Rolling shoulders in masculine code
reaching out with eager anxiety
for a crown
he'd already bear
perfect white and crimson roses
pulled from my garden.
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