In 1978, I found a man crouched inside of my borrowed tv,
building an engine that resembled Dick Cavett.
I accused him of stealing my off-hours, asked him if he
was my father or my child and he said, "No, I am just here
to eat my way out of you from within."
I turned the channel knob and he appeared in tails,
then drag, then a Broadway production of "An American In Paris"
and finally in a ridiculous purple wig that kept sliding off.
I told him he had to leave before Easter, which was
expected presently, but he clung to his mechanical Cavett
and broke for commercial before my mother arrived, complaining.
"What have you done to my tv, it has a dent in it
and the Jesus is gone." Before she could stab me, I moved away
to a flat in Chelsea where Sappho knits booties for monsters
and I lie on the table like a place mat, serving six and howling.
_______
a second poem for the Corso word list.
Your talent is endless, has no boundaries, no beginning, no end. I have said this before: you deserve a world-wide stage / audience. Cheers for a Merry.
ReplyDeleteI have ALWAYS wondered why you are not internationally famous. I'm with Helen.
ReplyDeleteWhat a surreal manifesto, or call to arms, or howl, Shay! This beats Beat in a visionary kind of way, a look back at a soul's landscape in pain, in an effort to break free from handsome Dick Cavett in the plastic tv but finding "Sappho knitting booties for monsters." I love your poetry for its harshness and its truth against the petty vilifications of the morally blind and deaf.
ReplyDeletePax,
Dora
I second everything Helen, Sherry, and Dora said!! You got your own beat, your own drum, and a voice that should be heard by the world. Love this Shay!
ReplyDeleteThis one of those masterpieces you write where I don't know whether to laugh or scream or just hide in a closet. You waltz in lightly spouting punchlines, then hit us with the cold slap of that second stanza, then go on to fill in all the blanks of a heart that has to find its way out before its left to serve forever as a placemat. Whatever malaise prompted this, it has a life and a soar all its own. Eloquent and amazing work, Shay.
ReplyDeleteThank you, my BFF!
DeleteSuch a juicy narrative, Shay. You do effortlessly what I only attempt to, which is magical realism. It's just wonderful, honestly. I love the whole thing but especially the second stanza and that final line: "I lie on the table like a place mat, serving six and howling." It's so chilling but the reader cannot help but be drawn in. So good!!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Sunra. I was ill--and still am--when I wrote this, and didn't really think about except to edit it a bit when i had it down. It just sort of appeared out of the fog of my brain.
DeleteI'm not sure how to interpret all of the symbols (would love it if you did a debrief but I know it's not reasonable to expect you to do one) but it feels like objectification, brainwashing, and lack of safety in the home. "Sappho knits booties for monsters" has me intrigued. I love poetry that knows where it's going.
ReplyDeletethis is brilliant shay, always love your reinventive style, love how the story becomes more monstrous and absurd line by line, and reference to sappho is brilliant. enjoyed much
ReplyDeleteA spellbinding tale. You’re writing is punchy, and engaging, whilst kooky enough to keep any chance of personally knowing exactly what devilish things are being painted from your brain, the imagery is clear enough, to be able to savour the spectacle.
ReplyDeleteI don't even know what to say other than I wish I'd written that.
ReplyDeletePS, I came back to read this again. It’s even better at 5am, after ruminating through the early hours about some sort of something, ever intangible.
ReplyDelete