There You Are, Little Sparkler

 

"You are everyone to me,"

said Caligula, and he gave me a scarf

to hide the hickeys--

when you split with a devil

it gets tricky

not to fall apart.

Spending Christmas at Joan of Arc's

with real saints, a faux fire

and presence under the tree--

I can't think exactly which to do

for truth or dare

except to keep my tail clear of the rocking chair.

Joan's guest room smells like

balsam and baguettes

and oh you crusty evergreen--

who's the fairest

of them all?

Who's so full of shyness

that she can't steal on down the hall?

That Frenchy firework, me

mais oui. 

____________

for Word Garden Word List--The Smiths. The middle section has been edited.

Music: The Smiths Ask 

Finishing School

Susie brought a pineapple
or perhaps a hand grenade--
Bernice barks and continually tries
to spit in the lemonade.

Linda likes to play 
with matches
and to sprinkle her gruel 
with sand and ashes.

It's not that we want to disappoint--
oh mother, teacher, lofty god;
but Susie is violent, Linda is mad,
and I am feral, mute, and odd.
_____

60 words on the nose for Mama Zen's Words Count at Real Toads. I avoided using "thou" and "ye". You're welcome.

 

Pussy Cats

Do you think crying will help?
All right, you're right, sometimes it really does.
I have wept, myself.
Often.

I have wept when I felt God in the solitude of an early morning trail.
I have stood there in my Reeboks crying like a girl,
like God--
that other Girl.

I have wept when someone hurt me
by their words,
by their fists,
by their absence.
I have wept when I have been angry and unable to change anything.

Peanut, there are idiots in this world;
people who leave the articles out of their poems--
people who chase money, abandon children, hit women--
people who enthusiastically murder themselves.

Let's forget them for an hour, babe.
Let's not cry this morning.
Let's never wear chiffon again unless it's for ourselves.
It's time to toughen up.

To help us, I have taken the liberty of making some changes.
I have added a few accents and grace notes;
things to keep us on our toes.

There is a leopard in the vestibule.
She's sneaky and quiet.
Don't come downstairs until you're really awake.

In the sun room is a pride of lions.
If we take a nap among them,
we will understand sisterhood better.
We will wake up with golden eyes and an instinct for survival.

Finally, there are cheetahs in the breakfast.
They are like us, they speak softly, almost like house cats,
but they catch everything.

Trust me on these things, sugar.
By lunch time we will know so much that was hidden before.
We will look the same, but we will have a new mantra:
Step softly.
Stick together.
Eat fast.

_______

 

Gator

In my alligator dream,
there was not enough Revlon to reverse
all the signs of aging
and fighting
and staying in the bath for far too long.

Nonetheless,
I found it easier to smile.
I went through dentists like tissue paper,
because I just couldn't resist the urge
to snap my jaws 
and send them shaking down my throat, whole.

In my alligator dream,
I was too large to flush down the toilet.
As a result, I was able to occupy
any apartment I wanted.
The heating bills, however, were enormous,
and the water kept shorting out the space heaters.

I lost interest in reading,
opera,
gardening,
and all the other stupid shit I used to love.
All the wasted time!
I could have been squabbling with other alligators
over the bloated, stinking carcass of some unlucky waterside creature,
and making off with my share, triumphant.

That is what I did in my dream.
I used no fork and spoon.
I declined to chew my food.
I relieved myself in the water and made no bones about it.
Ever the lady, I laid eggs like some batshit brood hen,
and when they hatched,
I allowed them to express themselves
and raise themselves
because alligator mothers do not helicopter.

I woke up grinning.
I grabbed the inattentive lover at my side and shook the shit out of her,
then rolled.
"What the fuck?!?" she screamed, stumbling to her feet.
She grabbed her clothes--and on impulse, some Aspercreme--
and was out of there, rubbing her arm and cursing.

I liked being an alligator.
It gave me a lot of permission,
and I didn't care if people liked me or even tasted good.
I miss my powerful tail
and my short ridiculous legs that never needed shaving.

So when you disturb my bath,
coming in without knocking and asking some retarded question,
realize that I am not the same anymore.
Channel the small mammal you are built around,
and read the reply in my eyes
as they look back at you
from just above the surface.
______

Author's note: In reality, I have no desire to be an alligator; I would have to be an Aveeno-gator, and I don't go near the water unless there is foaming bath soap in it. I would get kicked right out of Alligator Finishing School.

Bitch

I am not your bitch.
I am not the hottest looking bitch in this place
I am not one skank ass loose lip bitch
I am not here to take your shit
and I am not about to stand still for being called
bitch.

I will not dress to please you
smile to please you
go slack jawed stupid time airhead easy breeze to please you,
I will not deny my body
I will not deny my appetite
I will not deny my comfort
I will not deny anything except your entitlement you are so used to,
that you don't even know it's there
that you think is just normal business as usual
I will not play that
perpetuate that
suck up to that
just so your dumb ass won't think that I'm a
bitch.

Look at the crap that comes out of your mouth,
all the
bitch
nigger
fag
dyke
ho
that comes out of your cake hole,
all the
you are not the same
you are not worth respecting
you are not even human
crap that comes out of your face,
that allows you to not care
That allows you to beat and mistreat
that allows you to kill and brag and turn yourself to stone.
head heart skin fingers soul of stone.
I am not your bitch!

Look at all the poisoned puke from the pulpit
all the vile, excluding, tiny-minded, pseudo-holy
god in the image of man 
that's spewed out by smiling
clean cut
barbie blonde
well dressed
tenth tithing
bigots cherry picking their bibles
for something to justify 
their fear
their hate
their spiritual laziness
and all the righteous boil drain that says
you are not the same
you are not worth respecting
you are not even human.
I am not your bitch!

I will not change myself to please you, because
I am not your bitch.
I will not dumb it down, because
I am not your bitch.
I will love whomever I feel love for, because
I am not your bitch.
I will say "vagina" in a public place
on tv
in front of Congress
in front of God
I will say it
scream it
whisper it
and I will not be shy, because
I am not your bitch.

I will not be silent
I will not be obedient
I will not watch your gone-stupid summer blockbuster
unless there are two women, with names, who talk to each other in it
about something besides a man.*
I will not send my son to be fodder in your war
I will not sacrifice my child's life in order to spread testosterone around the world,
because I am a mother,
and I am definitely not your bitch.
I am a lesbian, 
and I am so not your bitch.
I am a Catholic woman and will call down the saints
to drag pedophiles out into the streets,
and to put a woman in the Vatican,
the White House,
the coffee house,
the whore house,
the big house,
every house,
BECAUSE WE ARE NOT YOUR BITCH!

We are flesh and blood,
heart and soul,
the keepers of the next generation--
they will not be your bitch.
With time, they will change the whole vocabulary of the world,
and you will join them,
or be left behind, irrelevant, cursing unheard against the wind.
_______

* the Bechdel movie test

A Howl for the Real Toads mini challenge.

 
 

 

 

Finishing School

Like a waitress holding the house specialty high,
I presented my heart,
sheathed in propriety,
nestled on a thorn bush bed.

Sleep, little angel, you could have said.
Sleep like the dead.

Instead, you put me on a chain
and suspended it above my head in one of your extra rooms.
Soon, I was snapping at everything,
pacing a groove in the floor,
and my coat grew shiny and thick, begging touch and praise.

Hungry teeth bite bigger than a lazy tongue,
that's what you told me, and it was the last thing you said to me for a month.
Step right, 
step left,
now down on one knee;
back up, head high-- 
I was taut and ready enough to make the rain come,
before you were satisfied with me.

By the time I had my heart back,
I was as jealous as the Moon, 
and as dangerous as a deferred desire.
When you jerk the lead, I sit at your feet like a perfect lady,
but lately, I forget my manners
when I'm with anybody but you.
_________

feelin' a little wild for the mini challenge at Real Toads.

The Submarine Edvard Grosk

The submarine Edvard Grosk is a tiny pocket of air and humanity,
folded around itself--
an oblong envelope of warm life,
a kind of metal pita making extreme depth and enormous pressure survivable.

Aboard this vessel is Blonde Katy, the sailor's friend.

There is no official roster on which her name is recorded,
and yet, she is there,
gloriously naked beneath a rough green blanket,
on a bunk mid-way between the sun and the Earth's fiery core.

There are things she will do--
things not just anyone can do, 
things that make the windowless months less nightmarish.
There are islands,
stars,
beautiful prayers offered from blameless lips,
but do any of them exceed Blonde Katy's soft skin in life-saving magnificence?

Like the submarine Edvard Grosk, she was born in Gothenburg,
or was it Oslo?
Whatever the case, she was a rider beneath her mother's ribs,
a miniature ship in dry dock,
until she came down the greased skids as a water baby,
meeting her natural element and taking to it thereafter;
Blonde Katy, swimmer in the clear pure sweetness of a maritime calling.

Is there any priest, any beautiful figurehead,
who could claim hearts the way that Blonde Katy can?
Why, the captain himself relies upon her.
Her long fingernail trailing along his absurd hairy stomach is more telling,
more revelatory, than any computerized graphic or sophisticated sonar available.

If God were to pluck a burning star from the Pleiades or the Southern Cross,
and hold it in the darkness of His palm,
it would uncannily resemble
Blonde Katy aboard the submarine Edvard Grosk,
164 fathoms beneath the surface of the sea.

Finding yourself there,
one Divine whim away from being flung into oblivion,
would you kiss her?
Would you sleep with her,
though you be male, female, or companionway rivet?
Would you quibble over trifles, or bleat about nonsense like fidelity
or the future?
You would not.

Blonde Katy would be your reaping angel,
and the submarine Edvard Grosk your glorious flaming chariot
bound for Home,
Heaven,
or some other as yet uncharted destination that you would know by feel
as if you were a nautilus ecstatically discovering its ideal shell. 
________

Texas 9 To Utopia

On the road to Utopia that night,
You pulled ice house ambrosia wrapped in a napkin out of your clasp purse,
And a plastic flask of nectar from the air
Like a master magician.

"That's quaint," I said through a smile, and gave myself the indulgence of
Straddling you and sucking on your ear.

I wish I had a photograph--
I could have used our thick buzz for film.
I miss your slant look
And your penchant for burning down whatever begged for a match.

These days, I dress for work, keep a schedule;
I menace truants and make inquiry over matters of no consequence at all.

You were the field botanist in boots and boho.
Your herbarium could have gotten us five to ten--
I'd have had no reluctance to do the stretch and ask for nothing more than your kiss-this laugh,
A little taste,
And one more hour on the road to Utopia.
______

for Flipside's word list #7: penchant, reluctance, slant, menace, clasp, master, indulgence, distraction, utopia, inquiry, quaint, photograph, herbarium

jargon note to non-Texas speakers: an ice house is a party store.

confidential to STWIASD: I used the picture I found for you. I cannot be trusted!