{Waiting for My Hymen to Grow Back}
The Middle Eastern take-out on the corner might be
going out of business. The owner, shy as Sharif,
paces the sidewalk like, Oh, good brother,
here is another desert I am not built to cross.
Everything about him unfiltered—
his coffee, his cigarettes,
the unfiltered perfection of his mujadara.
I can remember when it first opened:
there were violets in the window boxes,
the door always wide for a
crepe de chine of prurient spices
to steam lithe pheromones
into the bustle of June/July.
There were many regulars,
many swore fidelity
to depths only consummated
by a rich filling meal.
Recently, the neighborhood became
trendy. Pert sophisticates pay homage
to their succulence at the new sushi joint
next door or the heart-happy Mexi-Cali
place across the street where tilapia
tans on a skewer white as jailbait
on a stripper pole.
Food is no longer love or art
or romance wrapped in grape leaves.
It is light fare, casual flings diet
and tasteless on a spoon of steamed rice.
The owner, losing patience, closes the
grates on his passion earlier each night.
On my way home to an empty apartment,
I often panic thinking,
That’s it. That door will never
open again.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
!Rachel 8 9 10 11!
April Eighth—A Haiku!
Gynocologist
Thy name is Popeye: cleanse me
With your spinach douche.
April Ninth
I can’t wait ‘til we
Get married!
We’ll get a bungalow
Down at the Shore
With our other
Married friends
You’ll play football
But you’re too competitive
You’ll throw your back
Out and wind up on
The table of some country
Chiropracter
Who doesn’t take our insurance
I’ll laugh at you because
You’re not
As young as you used
To be, and you’ll start to hate me.
You’ll start playing golf.
At night,
You boys wil go into town
For a beer.
You’ll flirt with a teenaged townie
But she was the one who rang you up
When you bought Pampers at the
Kwik-Mart on Thursday…
…Shit.
Don’t worry.
I forgive you!
I’m pregnant!
Bet you can’t
Wait til we get married
And have group sex—I mean
Awesome summers
With all our
Married friends
Down at the shore.
April Tenth—A Cinquain!
Crack Whore
Wild-eyed, haggard
Shooting, smoking, dancing
Despite the absence of music
Crack Whore.
April Eleventh—Advice No. 5
This is for all you housewives out there
Maybe you bake a cake for your
Loved one
For their birthday or something
And say the cake explodes in the oven
A good thing to do is
Start a fire in the kitchen!
(Remember to put it out!)
Make sure the
evidence of the cake is
Still there,
You’re a hero! You
Saved the day and
Had a horrible fright, poor thing.
Your grateful spouse will happily
Clean up the mess
It may be their birthday, but you could
Have been killed.
They’ll probably take you
Out for dinner and even pay!
Even though it’s their birthday!
Shit.
If fucking Sylvia Plath had had me
Around,
She’d probably be alive today.
Gynocologist
Thy name is Popeye: cleanse me
With your spinach douche.
April Ninth
I can’t wait ‘til we
Get married!
We’ll get a bungalow
Down at the Shore
With our other
Married friends
You’ll play football
But you’re too competitive
You’ll throw your back
Out and wind up on
The table of some country
Chiropracter
Who doesn’t take our insurance
I’ll laugh at you because
You’re not
As young as you used
To be, and you’ll start to hate me.
You’ll start playing golf.
At night,
You boys wil go into town
For a beer.
You’ll flirt with a teenaged townie
But she was the one who rang you up
When you bought Pampers at the
Kwik-Mart on Thursday…
…Shit.
Don’t worry.
I forgive you!
I’m pregnant!
Bet you can’t
Wait til we get married
And have group sex—I mean
Awesome summers
With all our
Married friends
Down at the shore.
April Tenth—A Cinquain!
Crack Whore
Wild-eyed, haggard
Shooting, smoking, dancing
Despite the absence of music
Crack Whore.
April Eleventh—Advice No. 5
This is for all you housewives out there
Maybe you bake a cake for your
Loved one
For their birthday or something
And say the cake explodes in the oven
A good thing to do is
Start a fire in the kitchen!
(Remember to put it out!)
Make sure the
evidence of the cake is
Still there,
You’re a hero! You
Saved the day and
Had a horrible fright, poor thing.
Your grateful spouse will happily
Clean up the mess
It may be their birthday, but you could
Have been killed.
They’ll probably take you
Out for dinner and even pay!
Even though it’s their birthday!
Shit.
If fucking Sylvia Plath had had me
Around,
She’d probably be alive today.
Ada Eleven!
New Issue Meeting
She looks like a shattered window,
her lips--the place the wound was made.
Dead girls on the covers of magazines
everywhere. Dress this dead girl in
a wedding frock and the de-frosted windows
of the office cloud over. Look at the
way she lingers under our brand name,
it will most certainly convice the elite masses
to aspire to be her and take dead girl classes.
She looks like a shattered window,
her lips--the place the wound was made.
Dead girls on the covers of magazines
everywhere. Dress this dead girl in
a wedding frock and the de-frosted windows
of the office cloud over. Look at the
way she lingers under our brand name,
it will most certainly convice the elite masses
to aspire to be her and take dead girl classes.
Shafer, um, Eleven?
A Short Discussion of the Shell-on-the-Beach Metaphor
My poets lately my poet friends
my friends have lately been saying
in their poetry that they are shells
on the beach. Two have said it
lately, two that they are shells,
two shells on the beach. And dip
the gesture with your hand to hear
the sound of the ocean on the shore,
the sound of water and sand colliding,
the gesture of one poet bent and picking
a shell out of the sand to better
hear the ocean, standing on the beach
or miles away at home. This nautical
coffee can and cosmic twine connecting
Cherry Hill to AC and points North.
My poets lately my poet friends
my friends have lately been saying
in their poetry that they are shells
on the beach. Two have said it
lately, two that they are shells,
two shells on the beach. And dip
the gesture with your hand to hear
the sound of the ocean on the shore,
the sound of water and sand colliding,
the gesture of one poet bent and picking
a shell out of the sand to better
hear the ocean, standing on the beach
or miles away at home. This nautical
coffee can and cosmic twine connecting
Cherry Hill to AC and points North.
Jaime Seven!
{St. Jaime of Boozy Moms}
Almost daily someone confesses to me
that their mother is in alcoholic.
Stranger still is the tone taken
as though their mothers have hangnails
or are chronically late.
Having an alcoholic mother is apparently
of little consequence or its tragedytoo devastating to give proper voice
like having a hangnail
or being chronically late.
My mother, thank God,
is not an alcoholic. She has two drinks
and wants to braid my hair.
If I wore my hair up
would I be confidant to
this same secret?
My hips wide as a confessional,
in these sweat pants and boa
I may look like the product of a lush—
but pious? Knowing?
Sober???
I wonder if other saints are as
confused by their stations—
is St. Francis afraid of goats?
Much to the chagrin of the Holy Ghost,
do St. Jude and St. Luke try to trade posts?
St. Fiacre, I’m certain,
spends many a cold monastic
after-life night
wondering how he came to be
the patron saint of VD.
But if it helps, I’ll keep listening,
providing what comfort I can,
a blanket tossed loosely around
a soused snoring mother.
If I ever am a mom, I will
decidedly curb my drinking.
The crusts will be cut, the recorder
recital applauded, my bumper
reduced to the achievements
of my children.
Still there should be time,
when children move out
and husbands take up golf,
for an old lady
to down a quart bottle of gin
closed in her closet,
waiting for the hand of God
in The Creation
to come forth from Anne Klein separates
silently,
regally,
pointing to her missing shoe
and the Cinderella life that went with it.
Almost daily someone confesses to me
that their mother is in alcoholic.
Stranger still is the tone taken
as though their mothers have hangnails
or are chronically late.
Having an alcoholic mother is apparently
of little consequence or its tragedytoo devastating to give proper voice
like having a hangnail
or being chronically late.
My mother, thank God,
is not an alcoholic. She has two drinks
and wants to braid my hair.
If I wore my hair up
would I be confidant to
this same secret?
My hips wide as a confessional,
in these sweat pants and boa
I may look like the product of a lush—
but pious? Knowing?
Sober???
I wonder if other saints are as
confused by their stations—
is St. Francis afraid of goats?
Much to the chagrin of the Holy Ghost,
do St. Jude and St. Luke try to trade posts?
St. Fiacre, I’m certain,
spends many a cold monastic
after-life night
wondering how he came to be
the patron saint of VD.
But if it helps, I’ll keep listening,
providing what comfort I can,
a blanket tossed loosely around
a soused snoring mother.
If I ever am a mom, I will
decidedly curb my drinking.
The crusts will be cut, the recorder
recital applauded, my bumper
reduced to the achievements
of my children.
Still there should be time,
when children move out
and husbands take up golf,
for an old lady
to down a quart bottle of gin
closed in her closet,
waiting for the hand of God
in The Creation
to come forth from Anne Klein separates
silently,
regally,
pointing to her missing shoe
and the Cinderella life that went with it.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Ada 10!
Out the Window of a 747
They mull and peck about the luggage carts
and one flicks his fingers on the other's
forearm to tease or to hurt or both.
One leans against the side of a plane
and the sun makes the whole world white.
The orange guides elongate their hands
like feathers and form tracers down the runway
until this loopy man-made flying machine is
drawn right toward them, a big bird
doing the seemingly inevitable--
coming back to earth.
They mull and peck about the luggage carts
and one flicks his fingers on the other's
forearm to tease or to hurt or both.
One leans against the side of a plane
and the sun makes the whole world white.
The orange guides elongate their hands
like feathers and form tracers down the runway
until this loopy man-made flying machine is
drawn right toward them, a big bird
doing the seemingly inevitable--
coming back to earth.
Jen 12!
Least I'm Not
a donkey
hauling heavy sacks
around a Bolivian tin mine.
Even boiling water's hard
in the Andes. Everything's hard
for a donkey--men know few
colors outside the red
of their own pain--my gut
says they'll beat me to death,
first blind me with a whip
but in the black mine shaft,
the joke (and there's a joke)
will be on them after my body's
carried off by five giant parrots,
each sewn of such vivid hues, to set eyes
in the light on them might save a man
from drowning--in silver
dust or some dumb animal's blood.
a donkey
hauling heavy sacks
around a Bolivian tin mine.
Even boiling water's hard
in the Andes. Everything's hard
for a donkey--men know few
colors outside the red
of their own pain--my gut
says they'll beat me to death,
first blind me with a whip
but in the black mine shaft,
the joke (and there's a joke)
will be on them after my body's
carried off by five giant parrots,
each sewn of such vivid hues, to set eyes
in the light on them might save a man
from drowning--in silver
dust or some dumb animal's blood.
Shafer Ten!
Some Bad PR Haunts the Members of Crazy Horse
Awake at night
Crazy Horse
is haunted
by Canadian
nightmares, ghosts
of some beneficent
sprawling bureaucracy
thickening over their
teeth like hard candy.
It's hard for Crazy Horse,
to have to live up
to the legends about
the nice Canadians.
Awake at night
Crazy Horse
is haunted
by Canadian
nightmares, ghosts
of some beneficent
sprawling bureaucracy
thickening over their
teeth like hard candy.
It's hard for Crazy Horse,
to have to live up
to the legends about
the nice Canadians.
John IX!
Feckless Bastard
and someone's always quitting smoking
out of the restaurant in the cold, redfaced,
and the silver line is running nowhere
I want to go, no location to drift on
"In the morning, that smoke like a lazy dream,"
no, I won't give you any, but let's do keep
talking about your fucked up friend
for another half hour-- well, it's dull until
I start talking about him--feckless bastard,
yeah, some people just aren't in touch
with themselves I guess... I turn out not
to be a night bloom. All these corners
are stories I'm tamping down to keep it
from being ALL about me. Quiet, through
the mesh of drunk college kids. You hug me
goodbye. Okay, maybe one more. This place
isn't great but it's close. Is it surprise me time?
and someone's always quitting smoking
out of the restaurant in the cold, redfaced,
and the silver line is running nowhere
I want to go, no location to drift on
"In the morning, that smoke like a lazy dream,"
no, I won't give you any, but let's do keep
talking about your fucked up friend
for another half hour-- well, it's dull until
I start talking about him--feckless bastard,
yeah, some people just aren't in touch
with themselves I guess... I turn out not
to be a night bloom. All these corners
are stories I'm tamping down to keep it
from being ALL about me. Quiet, through
the mesh of drunk college kids. You hug me
goodbye. Okay, maybe one more. This place
isn't great but it's close. Is it surprise me time?
Ada Nine!
The Train
Walking into Tacubaya, a train trains by and
they linger in the sound of big air rolling.
He says it always reminds him of his friend, Michigan--
the last true-to-life hobo who drank when
he wanted to be less than true-to-life, more ether.
They have come to know experiences jointly;
the same bed, the same children, the same train
of unusual circumstances. Seventeen years now
and they have stood in millions of parking lots,
waiting for some gray noise to pass, and still
they stand watching it, as if this time it might
surprise them and de-rail, or take flight,
or even go on forever.
Walking into Tacubaya, a train trains by and
they linger in the sound of big air rolling.
He says it always reminds him of his friend, Michigan--
the last true-to-life hobo who drank when
he wanted to be less than true-to-life, more ether.
They have come to know experiences jointly;
the same bed, the same children, the same train
of unusual circumstances. Seventeen years now
and they have stood in millions of parking lots,
waiting for some gray noise to pass, and still
they stand watching it, as if this time it might
surprise them and de-rail, or take flight,
or even go on forever.
Jaime Six!
{Three Short Poems on Tequila for Jen Knox}
I. In with the In Crowd
Tequila and chocolate
are the popular girls in high school
you always wanted to hang out with.
Then, when you did,
you realized they were just a bunch
of backstabbing bitches.
II. SATs
Squirrel is to rat as margarita is to tequila.
III. One Stop Drinking
Human sweat contains a small
percentage of sodium
so when doing a body shot of tequila
in a warm bar
you may decide to pass on the salt.
When doing it off of
that tart on the stool next to you,
you may also decide to forgo the lemon.
I. In with the In Crowd
Tequila and chocolate
are the popular girls in high school
you always wanted to hang out with.
Then, when you did,
you realized they were just a bunch
of backstabbing bitches.
II. SATs
Squirrel is to rat as margarita is to tequila.
III. One Stop Drinking
Human sweat contains a small
percentage of sodium
so when doing a body shot of tequila
in a warm bar
you may decide to pass on the salt.
When doing it off of
that tart on the stool next to you,
you may also decide to forgo the lemon.
Costello!
leave me, i'm sleeping
it's much to reasonable an hour
to be awake
5 AM is better
for kisses and makeouts
but, 4 AM is best
it's much to reasonable an hour
to be awake
5 AM is better
for kisses and makeouts
but, 4 AM is best
Shafer 9!
Nine
On this, the ninth day of Weird April,
We find a hole in our apartment.
It leads down to the naked basement,
Where between sneaks rodents
For the cat to eat.
We have to hang on to each other
In this time of supernatural passage
Through fear or indifference
Come science fiction
Hell or ham sandwich.
On this, the ninth day of Weird April,
We find a hole in our apartment.
It leads down to the naked basement,
Where between sneaks rodents
For the cat to eat.
We have to hang on to each other
In this time of supernatural passage
Through fear or indifference
Come science fiction
Hell or ham sandwich.
Jen 11!
Some of My Best Friends
are shot through like Swiss cheese with diseases.
I've written them all letters of recommenbortion,
leaving the pay to the order of blank blank for
convenience's sake. Whatever's easier for you,
I tell them, and I'm sincere. When it rains, we
get gray, and we sing the gray song ("Gray is
a color between black and white/when it's right,
babe, you know it/oh gray") in fey, gray voices
and graying hair--but hey! This is supposed to be
a fun poem that's fun--full of sunshine and tenniss
hoes and Michael J. Foxes! Will any ingratiating
Canadian do? Here they come now, crawling in
on their bellies, clenching icy northern knives
in their teeth. Such haircuts! My God! And how
they love scallops! Why, some of my best friends
are scallops (the rest, as you see by my shoulder,
are parrots)!
are shot through like Swiss cheese with diseases.
I've written them all letters of recommenbortion,
leaving the pay to the order of blank blank for
convenience's sake. Whatever's easier for you,
I tell them, and I'm sincere. When it rains, we
get gray, and we sing the gray song ("Gray is
a color between black and white/when it's right,
babe, you know it/oh gray") in fey, gray voices
and graying hair--but hey! This is supposed to be
a fun poem that's fun--full of sunshine and tenniss
hoes and Michael J. Foxes! Will any ingratiating
Canadian do? Here they come now, crawling in
on their bellies, clenching icy northern knives
in their teeth. Such haircuts! My God! And how
they love scallops! Why, some of my best friends
are scallops (the rest, as you see by my shoulder,
are parrots)!
Friday, April 15, 2005
Curious Souls
can live/re-live the mighty Daniel Nester's introduction to my reading at the New York Public Library here.
It was a tough introduction to follow. But follow it I did. Tom and Joanie have accused me of selling out to the establishment. To which I say "Where do I sign?!"
It was a tough introduction to follow. But follow it I did. Tom and Joanie have accused me of selling out to the establishment. To which I say "Where do I sign?!"
Ada April Eight!
Flight of Fancy
It's the walk of the wall-eyed--
the dead gaze of an airport
morning and I'm not really
an adult today. There is no
itinerary for those of us willing
to go nowhere.
Boarding the plane,
I find I'm behind the
Connetquot Kick and Drum line
and when I take my seat, I fit
oddly between these high school
girls and the first class screen.
Girls, I say, let's all go
together! Fan kick to the end
of this impossible machine,
Let me be the captain
of this mile-high team!
It's the walk of the wall-eyed--
the dead gaze of an airport
morning and I'm not really
an adult today. There is no
itinerary for those of us willing
to go nowhere.
Boarding the plane,
I find I'm behind the
Connetquot Kick and Drum line
and when I take my seat, I fit
oddly between these high school
girls and the first class screen.
Girls, I say, let's all go
together! Fan kick to the end
of this impossible machine,
Let me be the captain
of this mile-high team!
Marion Wrenn 04/09/05!
Hand-dipped—
Not ice cream, but a koan:
What’s the proper response
to random kindness?
Consider a lost cell phone,
the utter panic of lost numbers,
a reminder you’ve given
the capacity to remember
your connections to a machine.
And then: reprieve:
it’s found quickly, with ease, delivered
gracefully by a calm, steady fellow.
So: what then? A handshake?
Or blow job?
O this continuum of gratitude.
I’m often lost
midway on that spectrum.
I extend a hand, this hand
toward you, expectant
ready for you turn away
or take me up on it.
Cup your hand: it’s the sign
for the idea of a cell phone.
Put it to your ear, think seashell.
My love is in the middle there
infinite as the ocean,
the dipping gesture of loss and thanks.
Not ice cream, but a koan:
What’s the proper response
to random kindness?
Consider a lost cell phone,
the utter panic of lost numbers,
a reminder you’ve given
the capacity to remember
your connections to a machine.
And then: reprieve:
it’s found quickly, with ease, delivered
gracefully by a calm, steady fellow.
So: what then? A handshake?
Or blow job?
O this continuum of gratitude.
I’m often lost
midway on that spectrum.
I extend a hand, this hand
toward you, expectant
ready for you turn away
or take me up on it.
Cup your hand: it’s the sign
for the idea of a cell phone.
Put it to your ear, think seashell.
My love is in the middle there
infinite as the ocean,
the dipping gesture of loss and thanks.
Shafer 04/09/05.
April, Red Bank NJ
this raftered afterthought
after life up North
catches up to me easily
the drafty Atlantic
x-rays exposed white
city bodies
my bone-
marrow dogs
are barking
this raftered afterthought
after life up North
catches up to me easily
the drafty Atlantic
x-rays exposed white
city bodies
my bone-
marrow dogs
are barking
Get Freqy
Hey folks the mighty Jordan Davis and his evil nemesis Richard Fein will be duking it out on Sunday for the honor of my hand in marriage.
Sunday April 17th at 2:30 PM at Four-Faced Liar 165 W. 4th and 6th Ave.
Sunday April 17th at 2:30 PM at Four-Faced Liar 165 W. 4th and 6th Ave.
John Eight!
Mohegan Park, May
I thought,
I'LL RUN AWAY FROM YOU!
and thinking was already past the sandbar stretching
past the baseball fence, into the downhill weeds
where the city's visable just past another hill,
its glass smothes out the air's blue, makes it unreal,
but when I turned that corner, the one you told me
never to, the blue flat of it vanished, a spun coin,
and your warm hands caught underneath my arms,
and you said,
THERE'S NOTHING MORE I CAN DO FOR YOU!
I thought,
I'LL RUN AWAY FROM YOU!
and thinking was already past the sandbar stretching
past the baseball fence, into the downhill weeds
where the city's visable just past another hill,
its glass smothes out the air's blue, makes it unreal,
but when I turned that corner, the one you told me
never to, the blue flat of it vanished, a spun coin,
and your warm hands caught underneath my arms,
and you said,
THERE'S NOTHING MORE I CAN DO FOR YOU!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
