Portfolio Piece #5

IV.

Skin

Skin is a leather sack for organs.

It sags and cracks the more it holds,

grasping feelings in neurons and

touches, webbing time in pressure

and heat. Skin throbs with movement.

Pulsing over the quivered coughing

of a heart at risk of losing rhythm,

like losing to the morphing planes 

of your white-washed beauty. Beauty,

too, loses itself to the hollowed crow

of time, driving all youth under roots

and petaled shoots until all skin rots.

I stab you.

Playing murder in the kitchen, I lift

that jigsawed steak knife and slice

connections. The tip of its blade

denying veins, rejecting tendons,

forbidding skin. I watch blood

tornado out in protest against

my metallic invasion; its slurs stain

your rounded palm and the blade

becomes my marked poster against

the state of your skin. You are rushed

to the hospital, and I tremble toes

in the moments before your return.

 

I forced my knife on you, but some

women, wrinkled with experience protest

the squeeze of time. Willingly go under

knife to stretch their skin near breaking 

to remove the creaks and ragged moans

of another possibility, a probabilty they

can't avoid. Knowing when the bandages

are off, they will have captured the moment

they let go of too soon. That time will heal

their skin into another flawless effort

with another flawless smile.

 

And when you've come back to me, 

dazed and airborne 

like the swaying tops of Evergreens, 

I stare bewildered at the black 

stitches that weave in and out 

of your flushed skin. 

Dancing worms, their thin bodies

moving in tight formation. They pierce

your hand's heat with their dark heads

before looping their tails inward.

Little serpents doing harm and good.

And when the strings are gone, I marvel

at the fleshy crescent left behind, a scar--

the off-white smile still on your palm,

a mark, a crooked monument erected

against the healing hexes of time.

III.

Skin

Skin is a leather sack for organs

that sags and  cracks the more it holds.

It holds feelings in neurons and

touches, webbing time in pressure

and heat. Skin throbs with movement.

Pulsing over the quivered coughs 

of a heart at risk, it loses rhythm

to the morphing planes of your

white-washed beauty. Beauty

that loses to the hollowed crow

of time, driving youth under roots

and petaled shoots.

I stab you.

Playing murder in the kitchen, I lift

that jigsawed steak knife and slice

connections. The tip of its blade

denying veins, rejecting tendons,

forbidding skin. I watch blood

tornado out in protest against

my metallic invasion; its slurs stain

your rounded palm and the blade

becomes my marked poster against

the state of your skin. You are rushed

to the hospital, and I tremble toes

in the moments before your return. And when

you've come back to me, dazed and airborne

like the swaying tops of Evergreens,

I stare bewildered at the black stitches

that weave in and out of your flushed skin

like dancing worms, their thin bodies

moving in tight formation. They pierce

your hand's heat with their dark heads

before looping their tails in on themselves.

I watch them, every night, little serpents

caught somewhere between harm and good.

And when the strings are gone, I marvel

at the fleshy crecent left behind, a scar--

the off-white smile still on your palm,

a mark, a crooked monument erected

against the healing hexes of time.

II.

skin in a leather sack for organs

that sags the more it holds. It holds

its feelings in neurons and brief touches.

Skin throbs with movement, pulsing over

the quivered coughs of a heart at risk.

Risking its rhythm to the planes

of your white-washed beauty, beauty

that loses skin to the hollowed crow

of time, driving youth under.

I stab you.

Playing in the kitchen, I lift

that surly steak knife and slice

connections. The tip of its blade

denying veins, rejecting tendons,

forbidding skin, I watch blood

tornado out in a protest

against invasion and taint

your palm and you are rushed

to a doctor. When you return

I stare stony at the black stitches

that weave in and out of your skin

like dancing worms, their bodies

moving in formation, stabbing you hand's

heat with their dark heads before

looping in on itself.

And when the string is gone

I marvel  at the fleshed crescent,

the off-white smile still on your palm

a mark, like a crooked monument

against the healing charms of time.

I.

Skin is just a leather sack for organs, yes,

a sagging sack, that holds

more precious sentiments than feelings.

It throbs with movement, pulsing under

the thumping coughs of the heart, yes,

the heart is always at risk of

sacrificing the mystery of rhythm

to your broken beauty. Beauty

like the gait of aliens, becomes a path to mark the way 

out of this world. And beauty, under 

the hollowed crow of time expels all youth

until it is driven into ground, 

where new beauties rise in petaled shoots.

Until then, make the most of Saturday nights

so that the hangover may pay proper testament 

to the drunk shriveled up in church on Sunday.

His hips, once lifelike, breathe and moan like homemade saviors,

under the shade of richer fabrics than what he wore last night.

His eyes dart inward and watch the splay of his insides

intertwined like the root of all possible notion, leaving nothing settled

until the soul floods into his throat and the holy ghost spills out.

Portfolio Piece #4

IV.
Simply

We forget, they say, that
the simple things are all we need.
But they don't know simplicity
is all I've ever expected.
I want the paranormal.
I want to feel lifted, moving in
and out of mental walls and chambers.

I want to live like Death is my neighbor--
somber, dutiful, a good man who always
puts others before himself, but
like me, doesn't take a day off
for a good time--I want to live
 just enough to show him how I'd
complicate the ecstatic. I'd like
to live enough just to show him
how to not be what I used to be.
The simple I still am.

I have a hard job supporting
myself. My family. My habits.
My ass on couch cushions between
new episodes of reality TV, I forgot
what pampering means. I envy
the jersey clubs, the drunken fun,
long strands of fake, glitzed hair.
I try to be them. I try to wear
their pumps like badges, their talk--
the jargon of a new personality,
but my lips fall slack, the strength
of contractions defies me, and it
redfines awkward when I try
to do the damn thang. I'm dove fresh
out of ideas. Just listen--

This is me, telling you
that I could wake up a rockstar
tomorrow, but it would amount
to all the time I wasted taking
care of you in between the sheets
of bills and responsibility,
the only things I've known
since I could walk, the only
things you and every one else
has ever given. I spent more time
caressing your ego and filling
your belly more than I ever
received a moment of yours,
all this time, a bust
long before I ever sell a ticket.
I don't want to be a rockstar--

I want to be drunk.
I want to do gin tricks on
my 21st, master sucking
jellied guts of shots
in one vacuum pumping try.
I want to puke my insides
on the hotel floor the next day
because you won't take me to one.

I want to hang on mid-argument

so that when you tell me to
loosen up, to help myself, and live
a little, then I could bring up
still shots like some TiVo'd movie
of that time I got the DUI
or the time I punched
that old woman at blockbuster
for gripping my purse to break
her fall, though none of it ever
happened it would be better
than the time I sat in the corner
 of your friend's party, passing
shots to more worthy mouths,
 or the time I sat hovering in
dressing rooms, mucus trailing
down my face because I was too
fat for a dress I'd never wear
anyway. I would not show you
how I spend every night tangled
in the hot and anxious mess
of some celebrity behind my
TV screen--doing things
I'd never dream of anyway.

If time allowed it, there would be
someone else I'd rather be
but instead trapped in some scrap
of too surreal hocus pocus,
I am stuck with who I am.
Who that is, I'm not really sure
but I hope that you and I can wait
for the the party to finally start with me,
the one they'd talk about--that me, inside it.

 III.
We forget, they say, that
the simple things are all we need.
But simplicity is all I've ever
expected. I want the paranormal.
I want to feel lifted out of realms,
moving in and out of mental walls
I've built up around myself.

I want to live like Death is my
next door neighbor--somber,
dutiful, always puts others before
he puts himself--I want to live
enough just to show him how I'd
complicate a good time, fun
with all the consequences, living
just to show him how to not be
what I used to be.
The simple I still am.

I have a hard job supporting
myself. My sister. My habits.
My ass on couch cushions between
new episodes of reality TV. I envy
their clubs, their fun, their long
strands of fake, glitzed hair.
I try to be them. I try to wear
their pumps and talk their slang,
but my lips fall slack with the strength
of contractions, and it ain't nothing
but hillbilly awkward when I try
to do the damn thang. I'm dove fresh
out of ideas.

This is me, telling you
that I could wake up a rockstar
tomorrow, but it would amount
to all the time I wasted taking
care of you in between the sheets
of bills and responsibility,
the only things I've known
since I could walk, the only
things you and every one else
has ever given me since before
we ever said I do, all of it
long before I ever sell a ticket.
I don't want to be a rockstar--

I want to be drunk.
I want to do gin tricks on
my 21st, master sucking
jellied guts of shots
in one vacuum pumping try.
I want to puke my insides
on the hotel floor the next day.

I want to hang on mid-argument

so that when you tell me to
loosen up, to help myself, and live
a little, then I could bring up
still shots like some TiVo'd movie
of that time I got the DUI
or the time I punched
that old woman at blockbuster
for gripping my purse to break
her fall, not the time I sat
in the corner at the party, passing
shots to more worthy mouths,
not the time I sat hovering in
dressing rooms with mucus trailing
down my face because I was too
fat for a dress I'd never wear
anyway. Not how I spend every
night, tangled up in the hot mess
of some celebrity behind my
TV screen--for doing things
I'd never dream of anyway, for being

the someone I want to be but left trapped
in some scrap of surreal hocus pocus,
wondering who I really am or when
the party can finally start.


II.
They say we forget the simple
things. They say its all we need.
But simplicity is all I've ever
expected. I want the paranormal.
I want to feel lifted out of realms,
moving in and out of mental walls
I've built up around myself.

I want to live like death is my
next door neighbor--somber,
dutiful, always puts others before
he puts himself--I want to live
enough just to show him
how to complicate a good time,
just to show him how to not be
the old me.

I have a hard job supporting
myself. My sister. My habits.
My ass on couch cushions between
new episodes of reality TV. I envy
their clubs, their fun, their long
strands of fake, glitzed hair.
I try to be them. I try to wear
their pumps and talk their slang,
but my lips fall slack with the strength
of contractions, and it ain't nothing
but hillbilly awkward when I try
to do the damn thang. I'm dove fresh
out of ideas.

This is me, telling you
that I could wake up a rockstar
tomorrow, but it would amount
to how much time I spent taking
care of you in between the sheets
of bills and responsibility,
the only things I've known
since diapers were the must-have
item for my age group, all of it
long before I ever sell a ticket.

I want to be drunk.
I want to do gin tricks on
my 21st, master sucking
wriggling guts of shots
in one vacuum pumping try.

I want to hang on mid-argument

so that when you tell me to
loosen up, to flex it out, and live
a little, then I could bring up
still shots of that time I got the
DUI, or the time I punched
that old woman at blockbuster
for gripping my purse to break
her fall, not the time I sat
in the corner at the party, passing
shots to more worthy mouths,
not the time I sat hovering in
dressing rooms with mucus trailing
down my face because I was too
fat for a dress I'd never wear
anyway. Not how I spend every
night, tangled up in the hot mess
of some celebrity behind my
computer screen--for doing things
I'd never dream of anyway, for being

the someone I want to be but is trapped
in some scrap of surreal hocus pocus,
wondering who I am really or when
the party can finally start.

I.
Why I Cheated On You


Nothing is more delicious than simplicity
in the realm of the paranormal.
A hard job supporting new episodes
of adoration on a couch cushion.

I'm out of ideas.

This is me, telling you
that sweet potatoes could multiply
in Buffalo in a few days,
but it'll amount to what you blame
me for when the tickets sell out.
I want a clean dog like that.
I want a pure trick on my 21st.

I want to hang-on mid-argument.

Discovering laziness beneath the drama
of a girl I know. Removed myself
that moment when I realized
I was stronger than a Spanish hen.

And I built my secret empire
on a scrap of corporal hocus pocus.

Portfolio Piece #3

 IV.
Wedding Invitations

Your sister's wedding picture is here.
I was not there but I liked the way
your sister looks in white, and you
dressed up in red beside her, faces
forging like posing figures against
the snowy drifts. Your half-smile
mocking faces off set, something
your eyes see, past the boundaries
stretched out, lined in white, settled
by the edges of a 4x6 wedding photo.

I recall your uncle, an anthropologist
in Africa. The one that likes his men
tall, slim, and dark-skinned, the one
I've never seen but you told me all
about one day, not with shame or
disgust, but as if he were a joke, as
if he were the punchline of some long
and tedious ramble, beginning with
your mother. He was just the man
your family mentions in brevity
at the dinner table, eyes rolling and
lips pressing into matching smirks. I
wonder if your uncle ever got his
invite to the wedding. The letter
you did not send to him. Your face,
never wondering without words how
this man could ever branch so far
from the roots of your family's tree--
your folks remind me of small-time
slave holders.

I say this, not because they're cruel
but because whites who could only

afford a few slaves knew what they had
was special property. They clothed them,
fed them, and allowed them the warmth
of their homes as if their slaves were part
of the family. Your mother could cradle
me for hours, tell me how much she loved
me. Your father saw me, his little project,
now bold and grown and black and slowly
becoming yours--

Your mother told me how, in high school,
her older brother picketed blacks from
entering their school. How her parents saw
this as acceptable. She knew it was wrong
but these things were so natural, so every
day and somehow she knew, seeing me,
kissing you, that maybe she wanted that
strangeness to be blocked out too. Your
dad, his entire family open racists skewing,
and though his feelings changed and grew
in biblical understanding, there are times
when things slip his lips that raise eyebrows.
Their bluntness harsh and sharpened
forms of misguided slander. They could
not help their fear, no matter how many
times they wanted me over for dinner, the
time spent teaching me to cross-stitch or
plant seedlings, nothing when they thought
their precious, blue-eyed, pale skin son
would date a little black girl.

They say the small slave holders
loved the individual, but it was the race,
the black masses, they feared and loathed,
something strange and below them--
an oddity, a stirring conversation
piece. Not a human being. Not any more
acceptable than uncles out in Africa
pursuing black men in the Serengeti.

Though I know I was not there, in that
photograph or at your sister's wedding, I
know you saw me, eyes glazed with some
prophetic power, eyeing me
 with that half-smirk, knowing that
I'd never get an invite even if you had
known me then. That I am another joke,
the kind that starts with something about
your mother, and how we'd never be
standing there together in the pulpit. All
the same, your uncle and I would sit
hovered up in the back corner, watching,
silently accepting you, loving you,
without ever needing your permission
or your invitation.

III.
Your sister's wedding picture is here.
I was not there but I liked the way
your sister looks in white, and you
dressed up in red beside her, faces
forging like posing figures against
the snowy drifts. Your half-smile
mocking faces off-set, something
your eyes see, gazing out past the
boundaries, like dimensions of us
stretched out, lined in white, settled
by the edges of a 4x6 wedding photo.

I recall your uncle, an anthropologist
in Africa. The one that likes his men
tall, slim, and dark-skinned, the one
I've never seen but you told me all
about one day, not with shame or
disgust, but as if he were a joke, as
if he were the punchline of some long
and tedious ramble, beginning with
your mother. He was just another
crazy family member. He was just
the man your family mentions briefly
at the dinner table, eyes rolling and
lips pressing into matching smirks. I
wonder if your crazy uncle ever got
an invite to the wedding. The letter
you did not send to him. Your face,
never wondering without words how
this man could ever branch so far
from the roots of your family's tree--
the same conservative, the same straight,
the same heterosexual, heavy tree
and for a black man no less--your folks
remind me of small-time slave holders.

I say this, not because they're cruel
but because whites who could only
afford a few slaves knew what they had
was special property. They clothed them,
fed them, and allowed them the warmth
of their homes as if their slaves were part
of the family. Your mother could cradle
me for hours, tell me how much she loved
me. Your father saw me, his little project
now bold and grown and black and slowly
becoming yours--and then I scared them.

They say that slaveholders intimate enough
loved the individual, the hard worker and
the family membr, but it was just the race--
the black masses they feared and loathed
altogether something strange and below
them, an oddity, a stirring conversation
piece, not a human being, not any more
acceptable than uncles out in Africa
pursuing black men in the Serengeti.
Though I know I was not there, in that
photograph or at your sister's wedding, I
know you saw me. I know you're watching,
eyes glazed with some prophecy, eyeing
me with that half-smirk and knowing that
I'd never get an invite even if you had
known me then.


II.
The pictures of your sister's wedding
are here, not because I was there
but because I like the way your sister looks
in white and you in red beside her,
posimg like forged figures against
the snowy drifts, half-smiling
whilke you look out at the boundaries
of our future, settled by the edges
of a __________ polaroid.

I remember your uncle doing antrhopology
in Africa, the one that likes his men tall, slim,
and dark-skinned, the one I've never
seen but you told me all about,
not with shame or disgust, but as if
he were a joke, as if he were the punchline
of some long and tedious ramble beginning
with your mother. He was just another
crazy family member and I wonder
if he ever got his invite
to the wedding.
I said nothing as you mentioned him,
watched your face wonderining without words
how he ever branched so far
from the same tree your parents leafed off--
the same conservative, the same
straight-laced, the same ______ tree.

Your parents remind me of slave owners
not for cruelty, not for owning others
but because I was told that whites
who could only afford a couple slaves
treated their property wellm, like family
and had come to see them fondly, and your mother
ccould cradle me and tell me she loved me
and your fathr saw me, the little orphan Annie
bold and grown and black and yours--
they say that slaveholders loved the individual
it was the race they feared, the black
mass they loathed that always left
their black auntie, their bronzed uncle, their me
a little below the bar.
I often wonder if you saw me
outside the edge of that picture frame.
I wonder if your family knew me then
if I would have gotten a wedding invitation too.


I.
Summer with Friends, 2010

I've found a place for last year's scrapbook.
Pressed between the dictionary and the history
book, complete with primary documents. I find
the way the scrapbook pages cry, as cellophane often does,
mocks each strained grin at birthday bonanzas and drunken
barbecues, each wail makes the album hard to open.

How long did the album sit on the coffee table?
Dust films the cover, mucking the black and white
lace pattern meant for wedding albums. I liked
the cover, not for matrimony, but for candid moments
of the time we dueled on the putt-putt course
with our golf clubs brandished like javelins.

Your sister's wedding picture is here.
I was not there, but I liked the way she looked
in white, and you in red. Your faces forge
each other in the snowy drifts. She smiles.
But you look off, not at the camera,
but into the fourth wall, staring down dimensions
into planes we promised we would never cross
or wring a ring, just lines that marked boundaries
implied by the edge of a polaroid.

I drag a finger into a thick line of dust
admiring the dull sheen of ignored plastic
before I slip it into place beside
the novel about our founding fathers.
Beside Merriam-Webster. In front

of a promise of another album that you and I

will not be in together. The perfect spot.

Tangible forget-me-nots, forgotten between
meaning and the pursuit of happiness--
what more can I, a young girl, want?

The Great Leap (Another Edit)

Some of these lines were pissing me off...

The Great Leap


You and I reach that daunting ledge,
teeter on tiptoe, sway and feel
breathless. I am wearing a sack, the sagging
blue nightgown, and the most I remember on you
is the brown jacket--with the long broken
zipper, the massive bleach stain, and the sweat 
of Gillette and dampness. We collect ourselves 
in a lopsided grapple between a beach 
ball and a lawnmower. We create
flight, safe inside, trapped in noise, our music--
the baby screaming, the gentle hush, the loud
chance of discovery--a drum beat so solid
its security is our level ground.
This is more physical than phone chats.
It transcends denim, Tuesday panties, and
finger fulls of follicles. While we try to complete
need, anticipation swims around us, moving in 
and out of me in waves. I hope that you devour 
the slippery pieces of my hesitation. I hope we
stroke in the atom juice of this basic joy. Smallest
particles of animalism and awkwardness
lined neatly out in front of us and defined.  


But right before we take that plunge
off the ledge we built ourselves
your darkness blocks my view again.


And I try to see where this leap will take us
but you become a wall. You reach around me
and smother my face into your chest.
You choke off what's left of the round puffs
of my breath without saying anything. 
So unlike you silence, 
like a fit too large for you. You live 
to yell. That time at school you yelled,
your brother was dating that pedophile. Christ, 
he was sixteen and she was eighteen
and I did not know you did not know
her age. I told you there's no need to scream
but you have a way, a loud and echoing way 
of yelling your fear into the face of others. 
He is your little brother and your severity 
is laced with all the trimmings of fear. Saddled,
hidden under your drive to protect. You hate to yell
at faces you have come to like, you just have to yell
it all, yell out every nerve because fear bursts out too
fast, too hard. It bangs up every door and moves in great
big, barking metaphors and vocal rollercoasters. I feel
your silent shaking, on this floor, another great 
yell fumbling out, crying out against our only trembling.

Our nerves, so unlike steel, but more like bending, cracking,
plastic and we fumble to hold each other, to never break. 
Perhaps what I see in you isn't darkness, perhaps a shadow
hiding light, perhaps a force field. I bet that crevice below us 
is filled with some unwitting knowledge, some creature
hiding in the jagged cracks, growling, waiting
to turn us against each other, to change us and move us
to some level far beyond the walkthrough. And it becomes
too loud, our music, that shadow or darkness or whatever it is
in you, we, wrapped and shivering, run from that prophetic
ledge, that long and sinking darkness to agree 
that romps on basement floors are best left
for nights not mid-November, not meant 
for freezing in the dark, not knowing 
what lies there in front or below us.

Portfolio Work Piece #2

Tired of my old font. Pleased with how different it became once I abandoned the format of the other three. First attempt at a real title:


The Great Leap


We had reached that daunting ledge
teetering on tiptoe, swaying, and feeling
breathless. I was wearing a sack, the sagging
blue nightgown and the most I remember
on you was the brown jacket with the broken
zipper, the bleach stain and the scent of Gillette
and dampness. We were collected in each other's arms 
between a beach ball and a lawnmower. We created
friction, safe inside, trapped in noise, our music became
the baby screaming, the gentle hush, the loud
possibility of discovery--a drum beat so solid
we built security on its foundation.
This was more physical than phone chats.
It transcended denim, Tuesday panties, and
finger fulls of nothing. While we tried to complete
need, anticipation swam around us, moving in 
and out of me in waves. I hoped that you'd devour 
every slippery piece of my hesitation. I hoped we'd
stroke in the atom juice of this basic joy, smallest
particles of animalism and awkwardness.  


But right before we took that plunge
off the ledge we had built ourselves
your darkness blocked my view.


And I tried to see where this leap would take us
but you became a wall, that reached around me
and smothered my face into your chest.
You choked off what was left of the round puffs
of my breath without saying anything. So unlike you
silence, a fit too large for you. You live to yell.
That time in the grand hallway you yelled about your
brother dating that pedophile. Christ, he was sixteen
and she was eighteen and I did not know you did not know
her age. I told you there was no need to scream but you
have a way, a loud and echoing way of yelling
your protection into the face of others. He was your 
brother, and your severity was laced with fear. Saddled
with your drive to protect. You did not truly mean to yell
at me but instead just yell it all, because fear bursts out 
fast and hard. It bangs up every door inside us on its way out. 
I can't help but feel your silent shaking, on this floor, a great 
yell fumbling out your body, crying out against our trembling.
Trapped in our arms or that fragile security we've made,
Our nerves, so unlike steel, but more like bending, cracking, plastic
sticks and we hold each other so that we never break. Perhaps 
what I see isn't darkness but the shadow hiding 
light. I bet anything that empty crevice below us is filled
with some knowledge I am not ready for. Some
creature, hiding in the jagged cracks, growling, waiting
to turn us against each other, to change us and move us
to some level for which I am not equipped. That's probably why
in your arms, all wrapped and shivering, we ran from that prophetic
ledge, that long and sinking darkness to agree 
that romps on basement floors are best left
for nights not the middle of November, not meant for freezing 
in  the dark, not knowing what lies there in front or below us.


II.
Basically (v. 2)


I remember the sagging blue nightgown
with nothing underneath.

Suggestive phone chats winking
ideas that transcended denim and Tuesday panties.
That electric connection through the speakers
circuited in a spider web of intermingled, intertwined, and satisfying--

I remember wanting to see everything
but your darkness blocked my view.

creeping on sacred slabs, sandwiched
between a lawn mower and a beach ball.
I let you in and you and I contemplate birth
marks on the planes where darkness sleeps.

I remember squirming against you
but you became a wall.

The ceiling trembles in a sigh into the floor
But the world outside is bored.
Who is snoring on top of us right before
the baby screams? The screams, the noise, God, my noise

I remembered your jacket used to be soggy
sweating scents of Gillette and mold.

hovers in frozen intensity. You finger
every scrap, every morsel, devoured slippery pieces
of my hesitation like a foaming dog in spring.
Then the pain becomes too clumsy to endure,

I remember the salt of unsanctioned prayers.
Christ had never tasted so seasoned.

our driving need for completion squashes
under knowledge that this moment isn't it.
That silent tears on basement floors
are best for days not mid-November.
Nights can't hurt this bad.

And I remember the glorious return
of that sagging blue night gown
hiding everything underneath.

And instead of dancing, I remember we swam
in the atom juice of my basic joy.
And our bodies are knocked down
to the smallest levels of animalism and awkwardness.
I could have drowned in awkwardness.
And in asphyxiated dreams hover trophies
of our almost accomplishment.


III.
Basically (v 1.5)
I remember cotton shifts painted with sky.
I remember I wore nothing underneath.

Did phone chats become suggestive?
Wink ideas to transcend denim zippers? Tuesday panties?
What dared us to circuit our electric connection
of intermingled, intertwined, entered and oh so satisfying--

I remember my legs use to stretch much higher.
I remember you blocked my view sometimes.

creeping on sacred concrete, sandwiched between
a lawnmower and last year's beach balls.
I let you in and you and I contemplate birth
marks on the planes where darkness sleeps.
Everything trembles, like even the trees sigh,
and from where I am the ceiling wobbles into the floor.
Who is snoring on top of us right before the baby
screams? The ground is cold, the noise, Oh God, my noise--

I remember you sweating Gillette and sweet mold.
I remember tasting salt and unsanctioned prayers.

hovered over the edge of frozen intensity. You fingered
every scrap, every morsel, devoured slippery pieces
of my hesitation like a rabid dog in spring, panting and foaming
until the pain became too clumsy to endure.
And from our unbearable need for completion came
the heavy, squashing knowledge that this isn't it.
Tears on basement floors are best left 
for days that are not the middle of November--
Nights that don't hurt this bad.

I remember squeezing but never molding.
I remember how loud that door screeched
when you left.
I remember not getting caught. 
Do you remember that it felt right?

And instead of dancing, I remember we swam
in the atom juice of my joy, so basic.
Brought down to the smallest levels
of ecstatic animalism and awkwardness.
We drowned in comforting awkwardness.
Even as we crept in separate beds,
In our dreams hovered two trophies
of almost accomplishment.

There's a first time for everything.
I remember it never happened.
I remember I never cared.


IV.
Untitled

I remember thin skies on day-painted shifts.
I remember I wore nothing underneath.

What started these suggestions, the ideas
to transcend physical nuisances, denim zippers?
What dared me to circuit our connection
of intermingled, intertwined and oh so satisfying--

I remember my legs were thinner, pliable.
I remember broader shoulders marred by naked nails.

creeping on sacred concrete, sandwiched between
a lawnmower and last year's beach balls.
Who is snoring on top us right before the baby
screams? The ground is cold, the noise, God, my noise--

I remember you sweating Gillette and mold.
I remember tasting salt and unsanctioned prayers.

hovered over the edge of frozen intensity. You fingered
every scrap, every morsel, devoured slippery pieces
of my hesitation like a rabid dog in Spring, panting and foaming
until the pain became too clumsy to endure.

I remember how loud that door screeched.
I remember squeezing but never molding.
I remember not getting caught. 
Do you remember that it felt right?

And instead of dancing, I remember we swam
in the atom juice of my joy, so basic.
Brought down to the smallest levels
of ecstatic animalism and awkwardness.

There's a first time for everything.
I remember it never happened.

Portfolio Work Piece #1

Having a hard time messing with my word processor so I'm taking advantage of my blog. Pieces progress from newest to oldest. 


I.
The Other Side


Standard billboard. Wide, angled, pummeling 
propaganda: a round girl pouting to the right, 
squinting in her unflattering blue, sandwiched 
in the corner. The letters left no room for the two 
of them: Fat Sucks the Fun Out of Childhood. 


Drifting into health classes, teaching us the holes 
on ourselves that we don’t know yet. Stressing
school lunches—creamed corn in big scoops 
and sagging stacks of ranch in paper cups, 
sitting in melted ice. While we dreaded recess,
P. E. games, hoping we got the right team, 
not wanting to be the wrong one, the last one 
on the line for kickball, for Red Rover,
Hide and Seek grew long and impossible. 


Kids don’t need billboards to tell them of zits, 
of crooked teeth, swollen thighs, and that one day 
mirrors will scare them. That one June day 
they’ll pull that oversized sweatshirt right over
the sound of mirrors not meant for funhouses. 


The last time I spent an hour outside, I was eating 
on the patio at Monterrey’s, munching enchiladas. 
I don’t exercise anything more than rights.
I don’t believe in the highs you get off running. 
I do most of my running from catcalls, from jeers, 
from a complete lack of acceptance, and that’s just from myself.
I just can't let myself fit in


skinny jeans. Shopping is reserved for zeroes,
for size threes. Not size me’s. I can’t even fake sexy—all my panties 
are cotton diapers. When can we look at me 
without reminding ourselves what we had for lunch?  
I want to embody the ideal body, dress it up in whatever color
is the new black. I want in magazines—Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire, 
two-page spread for Cover Girl and three whole pages 


for my ass in Levi jeans. Every print should play the music 
I keep in my hips, the groove I work in my thighs. 
Queen knows what I’m talking about.
I funk so bad that I need a goddamned perfume ad.
I want XXX to abandon the L and go back to meaning
sex. To meaning explicit. I want to wear appeal 
like kids wear shoes. I want to feel all natural, 
not like the Big Boy, the Great White Whale. 
Not worried about pucker-faced girls on billboards 
telling us how miserable we really are.


I drove past the billboard the other day 
and, despite myself, looked back, 
felt the muscles in my face pull and twitch
into a half smile. On the other side,
a gigantic stack of pancakes teetering goodbye, 
offering in giant letters All-You-Can-Eat.
Someone, somewhere, must be thinking this, 
must be looking at the other side.  

II.

The Other Side

Standard billboard. Long, square, pummeling
propaganda: a round girl pouting to the right,
squinting in her unflattering blue, sandwiched
in the corner. The letters left no room for the two
of them: Fat Sucks the Fun Out of Childhood.

Pan to health classes teaching us the holes
on themselves they don’t know yet, stressing
school lunches—creamed corn in big scoops
and meticulous stacks of ranch in plastic cups,
sitting in melted ice. While we dreaded recess,
P. E. games, hoping we got the right team,
not wanting to be the wrong one, the last one
on the line for kickball, for Red Rover.

Kids don’t need billboards to tell them of zits,
of crooked teeth, swollen thighs, that one day
mirrors will scare them, that one June day
they’ll pull that oversized sweatshirt right over

The last time I spent an hour outside, I was eating
on the patio at Monterrey’s, munching enchiladas.
I don’t exercise anything more than rights.
I don’t believe in the highs you get off running.
I do most of my running from catcalls, from jeers,
From a complete lack of acceptance, and that’s just from myself.

Shopping is reserved for zeroes, for size threes,
Not size me’s. I can’t even fake sexy—all my panties
are cotton diapers. When can we look at me
without reminding ourselves what we had for lunch?
I want to embody the ideal body, dress it up in the new black.
I want in magazines—Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire,
two-page spread for Cover Girl and three whole pages

for my ass in Levi jeans. Every print should play the music
I keep in my hips, the groove I work in my thighs.
Queen knows what I’m talking about.
I funk so bad that I need a goddamned perfume ad.
I want XXX to abandon the L and go back to meaning
sex. To meaning explicit. I want to wear appeal
like kids wear shoes. I want to feel all natural,
not the Big Boy, the Great White Whale.
Not worried about pucker-faced girls on billboards
telling them how miserable they really are.

I drove past the other day and, despite myself,
looked back, felt the muscles in my face pull
and twitch into a half smile. On the other side,
a gigantic stack of pancakes teetering goodbye,
offering in giant letters All-You-Can-Eat.
Someone, somewhere, must be thinking this,
must be looking at the other side.


III.
Straight on Through to the Other Side


It was your standard billboard. Long, square,
pummeling propoganda. A round girl pouting
on its right, squinted in her unflattering blue,
lips puckered and pursed like Prada bags.
She was sandwiched in the corner, the letters
left no room for the two of them, before it said
Fat Sucks the Fun Out of Childhood. Perhaps,
but I did not know our obsession with pounds
had progressed to such large-scale proportions.


Did not know that when we left the British in 
the Treaty of Paris, there was a clause to keep 
our adult minds on their European currency. Do
you know what kids keep in mind? Health classes,
teaching them the holes on themselves they don’t know
yet. They stress school lunches, creamed corn in big 
scoops and  bottles of ranch sitting in melted ice too long.
They dread recess-line ups,P.E. games, hoping they get
the right team, not wanting to be the wrong one. The last one 
on the line for kickball.


For Red Rover. Kids don’t need billboards 
to tell them childhood sucks. The teens suck. Adults suck.
Kids need time to consider themselves
before they’re forced to pick them over. They need time
forget their acne and zits before they start. Their crooked 
teeth. Their swollen thighs. While they’re running a game 
tag, kids don’t need massive reminders that one day 
mirrors will scare them. That one June day they’ll pull
that oversized  sweatshirt, right over their bulges, 


right over their curves. You know, they say that kids 
should spend 60 minutes outside daily. Most adults
Have not acquainted sunshine that long. Who are they
To tell kids they need more UV rays, less weight. The last
time I spent an hour outside I was dining on the patio 
at Monterrey’s, muching on heaping piles of cheesy
enchiladas. I don’t exercise anything more than rights,
and I don’t believe in the highs you get off
running. Don’t chastise me for not chasing
your silly runner’s high.  Until I can see my feet
I won’t be chasing any other lifestyle. I am physically


handicapped--coordination-impaired, big. You would not ask
a man in a silver wheelchair to run a 5k marathon. Like kids,
I do most of my running from catcalls, from jeers, from
a complete lack of acceptance, and that’s just from myself.
The added burden of your negativity swells heavier than every
ounce of fat. Heavier than breathing your nonsense in, breathing
your calories out. Harder than trying to find something to wear 
outside of Wal-Mart. I strive to be a food conniseur, sampling
snacks for anti-stress because retail therapy is not the option.


Shopping is reserved for zeroes, reserved maybe even for 
size threes. Not size me’s. I can’t even fake 
sexy--all my panties are cotton diapers, and lace thongs
are high-priced ass floss--dental care for my biggest 
cavity, splitting me in two. When can fat be sexy? 
When can we look at me without reminding ourselves 
of what we had for lunch today?  I want to embody
the ideal body, dress it up in the new black. I want to see
me in magazines-- Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire. I want
a two-page spread for Cover Girl and I want three whole


pages to see my ass strutting in Levi jeans. Every print
should play the music I keep in my hips, the groove
I work in my thighs. I move to Fat Bottomed Girls,
Queen knows what I’m talking about.
I funk so bad that I need a goddamned perfume ad.
I want X-X-X- to abandon the L and go back to meaning
sex. To meaning explicit. And I want to wear appeal 
like kids should wear smiles. I want it to feel all natural. 
Naturally, kids should worry about what games to play,


whether they should be a Princess or the President, not
whether another bowl of cheerios is too much, not
whether its ok to be the Big Boy. The Great White Whale. Not
worried about pucker-faced girls on billboards telling 
them how miserable they really are.  I drove past
that billboard again the other day, and despite myself
looked back as we went by and felt the muscles
in my face pull and twitch into a heedy smile. I liked 
the other side. IHOP, a gigantic stack of pancakes teetering


goodbye, wishing you in giant letters All-You-Can-Eat
Pancakes, four ninety-nine, and my stomach did flips, watching
as the waving stacks disappeared into a speck,
Into a chuckle, another media memorandum 
I knew someone somewhere must be thinking, must be
looking at the other side like me.  

IV.
Ho-Hos and Ding Dongs

Ronald McDonald, you pedophile, 

with your wide red lips and empty lap.

You defiler of childish ease. You clown.

Why is your food so good?

Your Big Macs so stacked,

Your french fries so golden?

And what about the Arch nemesis,

with his flame-broiled slabs

of quarter-pound goodness,

sandwiched between two sesame buns.

I’d have my buns my way--

Like garbage bags I'd have them Hefty.

Like a QuikTrip slush I want me large.

When did we become so obsessed 

with pounds?

I thought we left the British in 1776.

Skinny bitch, eat a twinkie.  Anna Mae,

eat the cake.

I wanna indulge the Cheerio, 

I don’t want to wear it. Hula Hoop

it. And don’t tell me you don’t mind

the weight, that its all about personality.

Next time I’ll wear personality

to the grocery store and we’ll see 

how much you like that.

Ronald, I thought you loved kids.

There’s a billboard on Hwy 5,

telling plump kids that fat

sucks the fun out of childhood.

You know what sucks the fun 

out of childhood? School desks,

pressed as pumpernickel

in a chair attached to the plastic top.

Cafeteria lunches. Recess line up

to pick tag football teams.

Kids should spend 60 minutes outside daily.

The last time I spent an hour outside

I was dining on the patio 

at Tony’s Mexican Grill.

Ronald, why do you keep telling me

to exercise? I don’t get high 

on running. I can’t see my feet. 

I’m handicapped.

Would you ask Tiny Tim 

to run a 5k marathon? 

I do enough running from teen years, mirrors

and I never liked Ms. Piggy. I am

no athlete.  I’m a food connoisseur.  

I sample snacks since shopping

is reserved for zeroes and maybe size threes.

I wear my clothes Wal-Mart sharp. 

My style assistant is a man named Lane. Mr. Bryant

gives me push-up bras in the hopes

I get a man longing for some cushion pushing.

We hate thongs. Do you know what those are?

Ass floss. Dental care for my biggest cavity.

That doesn’t mean I can’t be fashionable.

I’ve got role models to give me pointers:

Roseanne and Oprah in her purple days.

Weight Watchers, you killed Jennifer Hudson’s

underside. Where did you hide all that evidence?

I remember her before she’d been dismembered.

and now I see her on magazine covers.

I wanna see me in Marie Claire, Cosmopolitan.

I want a two-page spread in Cover Girl.

I wanna strut my ass in Levi jeans.

My hips hear music, my thighs groove.

I want a goddammned perfume ad.

I sweat. I stink. I spend half an hour

scrubbing hard deodorant stains

out of worn white tees.

Don’t tell me men find my phero-funk sexy.

I won’t accept that jive. I wanna rock

to the melodies for Fat Bottomed Girls.

Ronald, when did X-X-X stop meaning sex,

appealing and explicit. When did it need the “L”?

Women with curves used to be Renaissance.

In my bed I’m Venus of Urbino.

My hips are semi-sweet Snocaps.

I am a continuous plane.

I'm 1.4 million pounds of 

Jared's nightmare. I'm Ben and Jerry's dream.

Ronald,  I have a need to self-satisfy.

Ronald, I get hungry sometimes.

Ronald, do children climb into your lap

and if they sit for a while and cut off

the rush of life to your toes,

make your knees buckle under pressure,

Ronald, what do you do? Push them?

Do you grimace? Laugh?

Ronald do you diet them?

Or do you pat their heads, hand them a McChicken,

and wide-mouth, red lip, ear-to-ear smile?