The first six of these poems were written for English 493:Advanced Poetry Writing. The introductory essay to my portfolio, if you're really bored, can be read here.
Argument for Recycling
My hands shake in panic
Insidious beast, it's laughing
Yet another blank piece of paper
My stomach turns and knots in disgust
A humiliated tree with a rotten disposition
There is nothing more nauseating than white
Maybe if I scratch out its eyes
With the pricking point of my pen
My words might make it bleed and weep
Now reduced to whimpering, I look away
Its vacant stare makes me want to scream
This damned piece of paper sneers in defiance
Tomorrow morning, I know
The poetry police will appear
Whacking on my door with batons
Charging me with impersonating a poet
Slapping me repeatedly for disgracing the art
And this white sheet of paper will snigger and snort
I must confess my emptyness
And so I kneel before the word god
And I beg for mercy on my tired eyes
I openly admit my unworthiness and pray
Should he only say the word, I shall be healed
And in the pew behind me, this paper starts to quiver
But it recovers, and spits
"Your poetry still reeks of Sophomore English"
Without rock or scissors, here, the paper always wins.
It Says,"You Are Not a Winner" on my Bottle Cap
So I’m walking down the street
And every time I see a yellow leaf
Rotting in sidewalk puddles
I think of the time when I was twelve
And my father told me
That if I didn’t dress like a girl
No one would like me
But then when I was seventeen
He said if I entertained
“Unpopular” people
No one would like me
And then when I was eighteen
He said if I didn’t go to college
No one would like me.
I don’t dress like a girl
All my friends are "unpopular"
I went to college
I didn’t like it
Sometimes I see video games
Superimposed over the television
The dinner table
The window of the bus—
Tetris, Solitaire
Super Mario Brothers
Play havoc with my daily life.
I duck to avoid a falling brick
Or a ball of fire
And the bus people
Look over their tabloids
And personal ads
And they laugh
The leaves in the puddles
Cling to the mud lined
Slime pools in front of sewer grates
Waiting for that inevitable
Gully washer
That will take them to the ocean
Won’t even ask for a transfer
Twenty-one Minutes from Forest Park Station
You have gorgeous eyes, sugar
Next stop, you...me?
I ain’t gon’ hurtcha none.
I like a girl with big hips
Siddown, siddown, baby doll.
You wanna sit on my lap, sugar?
Maybe later, nobody gots to know
I ain’t gon hurtcha none.
You’re shy, wanna see my feet?
Siddown, siddown, sister.
Women are sluts, whores
‘Cept my dear, sainted mother
But I ain’t gon’ hurcha none.
Here’s your stop, ain’t it?
Just crawl over me, there. Go on.
For a Jewel with no Facets
(A Sestina)
Adoring fans melt in tears and drool,
Could mainstream music be so cruel?
Her blue eyes form two crystal pools.
A crying jag, a wailing fool,
Bare feet, blonde hair, guitar and stool,
Feel my pain, my name is Jewel.
Let’s pick a reason to dislike Jewel,
Her sweet lyrics cling like honey-dipped drool
Her melodies brain stain like pigeon stool.
My imagination entertains plot twists, cruel.
She leaves her van, the gas tank full
To attempt suicide in her swimming pool.
But when her groupies fish her from the pool,
And towel off their stringy blonde-haired Jewel,
She’ll whine breathlessly, a simpering fool.
Don’t just stare at my tits and drool
Like my ex boyfriend, so complex and cruel
Get off your asses and fetch my stool!
And once again, she perches on her stool
Impromptu whispered lyrics echo off the pool.
A concert of love, lost friends, and cruel
Boys who dulled the precious Jewel,
All in her folky, vague, Alaskan drawl.
She tries too hard, so hard to fool
Herself into believing she’s not a fool
As she sits upon her worn-out stool
And looks out at her fans’ tears and drool
My heart is not an empty pop-star pool,
I’m sensitive, and I’d like to stay that way, I’m Jewel!
But the dark voice of her conscience is cold and cruel,
I say my critics are unenlightened and cruel
But they’re right, I’m a melodramatic, fraudulent fool
I’m not soulful, sensuous, loveable Jewel,
I’m stringy blonde hair, crooked teeth, but still
I’m nothing but a bare-foot drop in the pool
Of girls with guitars, cliches and warm drool.
But no “goodbye, cruel world,” she’s keeping her stool
She’ll fool you all, you’ll give in to her pull
And when you’re a Jewel fan, you too, will drool.
Study in Ineffectual Idolatry
A concrete statue of the Virgin Mary
Is forbidden to stand in the front yard
Without a grotto to protect her
As though half a porcelain bathtub
Planted upright behind her
Stops the wind and rain
From erasing her face
Prevents the cheap paint
Of her blue robe
From peeling
Down around her snow-covered ankles
Christmas Morning, 1983
I’m planted firmly on the floor
In Tuesday underwear
And a blue Holly Hobby nightgown
Sticky with static cling
Olive green shag carpet
Littered with crinkled wrappers
Boxes, ribbons and bows
Discount tree, tinsel wrapped
The bare spots hide in the corner
A beer burp from the sofa
Bare-chested Dad wears his new jacket
It wants to be leather
Light brown and shiny
Like the seats in his Datsun
He says, “Hey you” and waves me over
He’s got a box of raisins in his hand
He pretends to shove one up his nose
Then laughs and tries to push it past my lips
My jaw aches, tongue swells, goosebumps
Cheerios, candy canes and kool-aid
Splash on boxer shorts and upholstery
He stops laughing
Says shit twice
I think she did that on purpose
Mother’s Day
I.
“Always spit out your gum before bed
Or it could fall out of your mouth
While you sleep
And stick in your hair.”
My mother never thought
To speak of the hazards of choking.
The hard, nasty pebble,
No longer sweet,
Stayed hours under my tongue
My giddy rebellion slipped into sleep.
In the morning,
The first breath of awake
Was tainted with the scent
Of gray, wasted spearmint.
II.
We thought we should be
In a shampoo commercial together
My sister and I with our long, silky hair
Carefully plaited into pigtails
The hour of tears and screaming,
Her thick comb’s yank
Through our sleep snarls and dream knots,
Were quickly obscured
By the beam of approval
From our daddy.
III.
One night the gum slipped from my lips,
Slid down my chin and into my hair.
A night’s tossing in the warm sheets,
Woke to find hair matted to my cheek.
I can still smell the peanut butter
My mom and grandma fingering
The greasy lump, trying to work it loose.
I cried the first time I looked in the mirror
My long hair in a pile under my chair.
IV.
I wasn’t disfigured
A shattered shell
Of my former self
But I felt a loss
Of something important:
The other six inches
That separated me
From my brother
In my father’s mind.
The following poems are taken from my portfolio from ENG 393:Beginning Poetry Writing
Station Identification
57 inches and 24 hours
Of painless, precise mind
Extraction--flipping channels
Like exchanging insults
And when I can't relax
There are infomercials.
Memory retention aids,
Buckwheat pillows,
Battery operated drink stirrers
$19.95 Supplies Are Limited--
ACT NOW!
"My Lesbian Room Mother
Is Having an Affair
With the School Nurse"
SO just watch the NEWS
Depression, insomnia
Itchy, watery eyes--
Ask your doctor
If Viagra is right for YOU.
And it all fits so nicely
Into half hour increments
With a finale of string solos
And serious faces, a hug and
Goodnight.
And Gramma says
Turn off that idiot box!
And she snaps on the radio
To the all day all night
All Catholic radio station
And the homosexual hating
Family Man continues his tirade
And sends us all to Hell
10/25/99
La Salle de Bains
(The Bathroom)
Before the doors part
The familiar fragrance
--parfum de merde--
Thrusts up the nose
As fingers in a bowling ball
Another forceful rush
Of cool blue water
Swirls counter clockwise
And mutes the meditative hum
Of the anonymous feet people
You are l’invitée d’honneur
In the palace of porcelain gods
And the shimmering hand dryer
Plays with the white ribbons
Which stick to the moist, tiled floor
Lyrical musings of literary genius—
“He who writes on walls of stalls
Rolls his shit in little balls.
He who reads these words of wit
Eat these little balls of shit.”
And everyone politely
Pretends not to notice
Excusez-moi, madame
That, again, the lunch lady
Has forgotten to wash her hands.
10/15/99
Why Roberta Millington Hates "Leave it to Beaver"
The stretched, lace doily only enhances the ugly.
Scarlet, blue, purple, black, the sofa is repulsive
Her mother bought it at the Goodwill for seven dollars
It smelled of tobacco, dog, and something salty
November, but Roberta Millington wears her favorite dress
Springtime flowered, faded, too tight in the chest
And her underpants (Wednesday's)
Are slightly visible as she skips into the room
She spent a half an hour piling her silky hair on her head
The bobby pins stick out from her pincushion skull
"Do you like my hair, Uncle George?"
She whirls around, her bare feet warmed by the friction from the carpet
She plops down on the sofa next to Uncle George,
Sets in for a snuggle. While Wally whines about the Beav,
Old Uncle George sighs, his breath wet on the back of her neck
His clothes smell of gasoline, sweat, and something salty,
A greasy hand slides up Roberta Millington's favorite dress
A limp body pretendss to be asleep as Lumpy Rutherford's mother says
"Wait until your father gets home!"
And in her mind she dries her eyes on June Cleaver's Apron
Old Stuff
You Bug Me
I watch in helpless fascination
As your tiny industrious letters
Latch together in order and cooperation
To form interesting little creatures
In an ant farm, under glass
Plodding along on their hairy word feet
Diligently performing their responsiblilties
And I stare in silent contemplation
As they yank out fear, passion,
Pain, loneliness, guilt, love
Where before there was nothing
But the spaces where the words belonged
In a land where these furry, funny,
Nothing creatures mean everything
And actions are only icing---
I watch your quiet penetration
And thank God for the glass.
LIMA BEANS AND GRAPE JELLY
I've grown weary of tired existentialism
To B or not to B is immaterial
In this crazy world
self-service, full service
Unimportant
What is real, what is true?
Is A B C what I mean?
Letters, words, phrases
Conjunctions, interjections
STOP THAT!!!!!!
It's the meaning, the denotation
Stapled to your life
Here you go....fish
Can you feel it?
MARTIN JAMISON QUAD AT NIGHT
And the street light winks out
Leaving me alone
In the darkness
I had sensed there all along
An itch between
My fourth and final toe
Deep within my shoe
And it's too crowded
To scratch it, so I suffer
And the street light winks out
Goosebumps crawl up my legs
In a freeze I can't control
And I slap myself across the face
Totally missing the mosquito
Singing in my ear
These voices
And the street light winks out.
THIS SOUND
Mint green, summer spring
A lonely woman reads her meal
Of wild grasses, steamy nights
Gravy stained baby bibs
And bitter salty rain
And I never tire of breathing
Well, once, when I looked into your eyes
I let a tired sigh escape
But it was gone before I could deny it
A solitary seashell nightmare
Awoke in a pool of regret
With a wet paint image pasted to my forehead
An octogenarian, I in a rocking chair
Squeaking slats of splintered wood
A once white, now deaf poodle in my lap
Gnawing a gnarled finger with toothless gums
Soggy, urine soaked undergarment
Clinging to a wrinkled ass
Looking out across burned grass
To a street scene that hadn't changed
In eighty years.
H O M E
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