Miss Lonely

She asked me where I live.

I said, I live in the sewers, and come up at night.
I live in a shoe box that rides on top of a train car going through a tunnel. 
I live on the bottom of the ocean. Bluup, bluup, bluup.
I live on the sun, and the appliances keep blowing up.
Where do YOU live? 

She made a weird face and walked away down the block.

So, I answered for her:
You live in a graveyard, and lick the frost off the tombstones.
You live in a dog's mouth and bite mailmen with your own teeth.
You live in a jar of jam that got old and had to be thrown away.
You don't live anywhere because no one likes you!

Then the street was so quiet
that I bent down and scraped my knee bloody on the sidewalk
on purpose. 


for the "Home" challenge at Real Toads. My title is taken from a Bob Dylan lyric "Like A Rolling Stone." 

 Ahh you've gone to the finest schools, alright Miss Lonely
But you know you only used to get juiced in it
Nobody's ever taught you how to live out on the street
And now you're gonna have to get used to it


hedgewitch said…
yeah going to the finest schools and all only leads some to dipsomania--but poetry like this will cure anything. Every line is a slap to convention, and an illustration of how to inject life into static images and stereotypes(ie, the whole 'where do you live' conversation)Really gnaws on every homey trope with its sharp little teeth. I love the exploding appliances.
Anonymous said…
Do you know how easily your title jumps itself into "Missile Only"?

Most excellent work ...

"I live in a shoe box that rides on top of a train car going through a tunnel."

"She made a weird face and walked away down the block."

that whole next stanza

the one after that ... insanely good; scraping your own knee, why that image takes this poem up like a thousand notches

I think people who seem to live nowhere actually live everywhere, in places you might never think.
brudberg said…
Excellent depiction of the bottomless pit life can be... I got to think of Elinor Rigby reading your poem too...
angie said…
that mouth of yours...always had a tongue like a sword? you've more than likely learned to sheathe the thing every now and again since you had a blood price to pay. bluup, bluup, bluup. i'm glad you can speak loud and clear with poetry
Sherry Blue Sky said…
Argh. Your closing made my knees ache. That's damn good writing.
Sioux Roslawski said…
The image of scraping a knee bloody is just too perfect. (And anything inspired by Dylan is alright with me.)
Bekkie Sanchez said…
Loneliness is indeed like a knee bloodied on purpose. I used to think I was a loner, but now I know I'm just another lonely person.
Anonymous said…
This has bite. Words that slap us into a new consciousness.Fantastic.
Lynn said…
Girl! Your poetry always amazes me. I love the tie-in to the Dylan song.
Jennifer Wagner said…
This is so sharp, times two.
Anonymous said…
These two spirits are kin o' the night wind, kine of the moon, home where the art is, leaping.
Kerry O'Connor said…
I love the way you worked your lists (the anaphora used to good purpose) and the juxtaposition between the two points has the kind of cynical humour I have come to look for in your poetry.
Stellar stuff!
hyperCRYPTICal said…
Your 'graveyard' lady reminds me of a neighbour whose garden backs onto mine...
Love your close!
Kind regards
Anna :o]
Susie Clevenger said…
There seems to be a lot of people licking tombstones these days and want to conform your tongue and spirit to live with them.
Holy cow! And wow! I am incoherent with admiration of your utter lack of incoherence!

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