Television Isn't Life

They say, no more sadness.
We want happy happy.
If you want happy happy, go watch ‘Emeril Live' reruns.
If you want truth, listen

My Name is Sylvia

I know why she did it, why she put her head in the oven.
She was looking for the key
to unlock the door
of the shambles.
Only the key wasn't there, way in the back by the pilot light.
It was hanging there, on the wall, like always.
She just didn't see it.

Tonight's Sonnet is a Dish Best Served Cold

He has plans, detailed plans.
When he gets home, he can see it in his mind.
Unlocking the door, climbing the stairs.
Muffled by the thwack of ceiling fans,
movement, scent of orange rinds
being grated into tea. Pulls out a chair
and sits, drinking. She asks, can you reach those pans?
After he kisses her, how did I find
this treasure? It's all so clear
to him. He has plans, detailed plans.
He wants tonight to be all kinds
of celebration in the apartment up there.
Only-it's quiet. He looks around. Nothing. No one. Gone.
Drinks a six-pack, then another. When she returns, she, she too, is alone.

Billy Collins Redeux

Behavior doesn't exist in a vacuum.
It's all situational.
Guess what?
I don't give a rat's ass about why
I'm still going to shoot your mother fucking cujo next time I see it.


dedicated to Billy Collins, Another Reason Why I Don't Keep a Gun
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/another-reason-why-i-don-t-keep-a-gun-in-the-hou/

And You Will Know Them by Their Shadows

Harken to me, the Eternal.
Lift up thine eyes, for this, this, is the land I have given unto you.
You shall beget children here, and your children will beget children in their time,
And this is the woman whom I have chosen for you who will bear them all.
This woman, lovely as a statue, as a graven image,
who you will worship on your knees as you did the golden galf.
You will woo her with betel juice and almonds and honey, sweet, aromatic, sticky,
and sing songs which are pleasing to her for she is the fated one.
You will sacrifice the fatted calf to her, to this woman, in her whore shoes,
the angle of her foot, her leg and the broad hips you will bury your face in
and pray, hands clasped around her thighs.
You will adore her as you have adored no other before, nay, not even me,
the Eternal, your God. You will put her before me, to be the mother of your people.
You will cup her breasts, weigh them, and when they are heavy with milk,
you will have suck of them.
Arise, turn now, and follow her.
Lay down your trivial amusements for she is the anointed one.


NB: this is what happens when i'm given a random bible verse to read

A Bowl of Cherries

She holds the bowl, scant amount of cereal and milk inside,
holds the bowl with two hands, laps at it, laps at the dregs.
Then turns it over into a hat, so proud, as a few drops of milk crawl past her eyelashes.

"Oh baby, why'd you have to go and do that for? Look at this mess!"
Hush, I say, hush.
Look at her, not the floor or the counter or the shirt.
They'll wash, they'll be fine.
Look at her.
Look at her before you crumple her face.
The shadows of those creases will always be there, haunting us.
Hush, now. Give her another bowl to wear. Let her have a layered hat, a confection hat
And another to be a different drum to beat with her forgotten spoon.

Egg

When I was ever so much younger than I am now,
a classmate cracked an egg
and let it drip through his fingers.
The assignment was to draw a hand holding an egg.
It didn't specify.
So he cracked that egg and let the white slide down past his knuckles,
while the yolk remained cradled in his palm.
I've never forgotten that sketch
or the hand which held the egg
or the hand that drew it.
If I was a palmist, able to read hands, I would have read his.
I wanted to read his hand, trace the lines, see what his future was
where he would go, learn, achieve and who he would become.
I wanted so to read myself into his future.
I wanted so to be the yolk cupped in his palm
while everything else slipped away

Totem Mask

He's waiting. Churning. Trembling, watching the clock numbers change,
I know everything that will happen when we put our public faces on the wall for the night.

Polly Wanna Cracker

I should be used to it by now, to death walking through the door and sitting on my shoulder, squawking, "Polly wanna cracker, Pretty Boy, Polly wanna cracker."
I'm not.
I've done this for years, long enough to see babies conceived, born and walking in on their own, asking if they could please have some milk and cookies while they wait.
But I'm not.
Used to it, that is.
"I'll be doing this as executrix for the estate, filing on his behalf."
"I found your name in her papers. What do I do now?"
"Do you need to see the death certificate?"
"Can you help me?"
I'll never get used to it.
Especially when it knocks on the door from the inside, when it's here and now, sitting on my sofa, not on someone else's shoulder, but hovering over the dinner table, salting the food with bitterroot.
She doesn't know.
I know, but she doesn't and ignorance is bliss, sweet bliss, chocolate covered pretzels, whipped cream with slivered almonds, a fig tree, comfort with apples, letting her function, smile and concentrate on important things, whether the black and turquoise top goes better with the white jeans or the khaki shorts.
Priorities.
Don't snatch this from her, Polly, don't.
Eat my crackers. I don't need them any more. I am fat. I am a feast.
Eat my crackers, Polly. I'm ready. I've been ready for years.
Give her a chance. Let her stack crackers, crumble them, enjoy them with dabs of jelly.

Leave her alone, Polly.

Bright Light Blind

What tragic mistake did I make, at some point in my prehistory?
What led me to this?
Staring up at the guillotine, sunglint blinds me.
If I press a little harder...
It doesn't matter, does it? Press or don't press. See or don't see.
All lines converge on the horizon,
No matter how they skew out.
All lines converge and disappear,
Whether I run, hide, stare it down in an attempt at stoicism.
All lines converge into smoke.

With a Candle and a Feather, Seeking an Honest Man

They asked her: Are you a ???
She made the big mistake of being honest
when she answered.
Used to hyperbole, no one can read truth any longer.

Anti-Wonderland

Lost in anti-Wonderland, that dark place which is my refuge,
where everything is wrong, negative images bombard me.
Demands, pleas, they strike me, beat me, break my bones.
Where is the White Rabbit to lead me out of here?
Jaws of Life trepane my skull, looking for Hope,
her aiglet caught in a fissure.
They free her and leave me in the dark, alone, again

Uh huh. Tell me another.

Given options, choose.
Make it better, with a smile.
Accept or move on.

"Ask. If you don't ask,
the answer is always no.
Ask Improve the odds
to fifty-fifty.
Take a chance on you."

No, Daddy, you're wrong.
I asked. The answer is still no.
I don't ask anymore.

4/1/2010

Morning, y'all. It's
April Fools Day, another
Big Ole Fuck You, World!