worldly as a tabby kitten.
Still, venomous lies thorned my pulse with the odd fist thrown in for punctuation.
Staying corner-quiet as the vacuum slammed the baseboards a room away,
I searched for a kind of touch on the bottom book shelves.
As soon as I could, I went feral, a lonesome library hider ghosting the book store, on my way to a gifting high of pages and substances,
a bad apple for a sick teacher.
Kerouac and other people's cars, coolers of beer,
paperbacks on the back seat, center lines snaking by,
these were my caduceus and my catechism.
I ate Vonnegut,
drank Brautigan,
shot up Burroughs,
fucked Ferlinghetti but not my road companions.
My boozy keepers kept me from a thousand mistakes.
Off all summer from their classrooms,
they had no wives to explain shit to,
just me in the hungover mornings, useless and funny as a three-legged cat.
I almost died.
Wrote some tripe in blood and got it published.
Joined a book club and the human race,
married wrong, raised a child,
kept my books like holy relics, poetry bones on which I learned to stand and stumble and survive.
I built a new heart out of sentences,
slept with other women,
changed my name, went too far but did it sober.
"Why do you keep these old books?"
Because they are life rafts,
holy texts,
soul food,
lovers who never leave.
They are me and I am them, a bad crowd lit with halos.
You can go if you want,
I am beyond injury anymore.
The nurses here make bedding from chapbooks,
whisper soft as pages turning,
are immortal,
and know my name.
4/18/2020
________________
for the Sunday Muse #104 where I am hosting.
This is another “your best poem” poem. I am totally floored over this.
ReplyDeleteI wish I could frame this and hang it at the library for all to see. I don't know how you do this Shay!! You mesmerize me with thoughts that are put together so intricately and brilliantly that I am in sheer awe!!! The relationships we have in life are complicated for sure, but you have made me see your love of literature as if I have peered into your dreams. You are absolutely amazing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
ReplyDeleteYes, this is something special and amazing indeed. It has a waxing and waning quality to it that feels very Beat to me, as well as some incredibly gorgeous lines, like "...on my way to a gifting high of pages and substances,/a bad apple for a sick teacher..." It's a personal story, but like Kerouac, a generational story as well, biographies in blood being what we know best. A stellar response to a challenging and complex prompt. (Reading about Kerouac for this, I also found out he was extremely wrapped up in Catholicism as well as Buddhism, which I didn't know, and which makes him jibe even more with this Catlick Girl on the Loose.)
ReplyDeleteWhat a story and what life, so well and truly lived. I love "funny as a three-legged cat". I can see you back then, hilarious, cracking everyone up. I love the books that are soul food, and the poetry that taught you to survive. "I built a new heart out of sentences." Wow. You are writing at the top of your game, my friend, and that is a soaring thing to witness.
ReplyDeleteI'm a storyteller, but you are a poet.
ReplyDelete'thorned my pulse'
ReplyDeletedamn. you drink from the same fount as that Dharma baby, yes? ~
I am so impressed by these:
ReplyDelete“with the odd fist thrown in for punctuation”
“Staying corner-quiet as the vacuum slammed the baseboards a room away”
“I searched for a kind of touch on the bottom book shelves.” I used to do this too, back when libraries and book stores were open. I’d sit on the floor cross-cross and let people bustle around me, totally lost in my own world. Sigh. I miss it so much.
“on my way to a gifting high of pages and substances”
“these were my caduceus and my catechism”
“I built a new heart out of sentences”
Wild woman, busy life then, I feel I know her kind of well. I ran some with her brother and remember smooching with her in the back seat the night before her wedding. Her husband to be was driving in up front with another woman beside. Four u there and four in back, cruising the streets.
ReplyDeleteI loved this, Shay. Thank you for hosting.
..
This bit and soothed at the same time. Loved the line about a "bad crowd lit with halos"--I could almost hear that crowd whispering around.
ReplyDeleteI want to ghost a book store, drown in every word you wrote. Amazing poetry.
ReplyDeleteSo, so much here. What we owe, (what they owe us in return?) cannot be measured or paid. A handhold and a way out and a way to something precious even to this day, but not a path. No, not a path. But still part of the path, yes? Because we can't unforget Howl, we can't un-read OTR, so they stay with us and their words are a background chant, shamans dancing around our fire.
ReplyDelete"I went feral, a lonesome library hider ghosting the book store, on my way to a gifting high of pages and substances" I love this image, that tabby cat developing a taste for blood on the stacks.
"kept my books like holy relics, poetry bones on which I learned to stand and stumble and survive" -- yes.
"life rafts,
holy texts,
soul food,
lovers who never leave.
They are me and I am them, a bad crowd lit with halos." -- yes.
Damn! This is one of those I wish I had written. "I built a new heart out of sentences" What a line!
ReplyDelete"Kerouac and other people's cars, coolers of beer,
ReplyDeletepaperbacks on the back seat, center lines snaking by,
these were my caduceus and my catechism."
Oh, yeah! How the Beat answered the wildness in this poetic voice. This poem is delightful to read as it doesn't let up, and by the end the voice seems to merge with Kerouac himself.
The image of "corner quiet" just floored me. I can see her there, huddling with books, trying not to be noticed. Stunning.
ReplyDelete