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?