Duality of Womb-man, October 18th, 2007

Part I

I'm a lesbian with one
abortion under my belt.

And you're just another 
Tim Nicholson, 

yelling out a scream
     at Timothy, 
confusing me.

The caress that is a pest.
     Now,
and seemingly forever.

All songs are you.

It's 52 Pick-Up,
     Uno &
     Jacks.

Was Megan the only person
who ever truly loved
     me?

I remember her like Tuesday.
     Polaroids, make-up
     & Karate. 

And this is how much you 
     mean to me.

I'm your Pocahontas
     golden ring

Hear, my purple heartbeat,
     Poe's feat,
solitary bird singing alone
on ceramic kitchen counters.

And my lower lip was in your mouth,
And your tongue was in my mouth,

so don't love me
     Dr. Pepper,

give me all my nickels
     back.

Because you have a high-school
    hallway knack
of exhibiting a pupil attack
     of my rack
and ass.

And your laugh...

I'm the kinda girl who shouldn't 
    own multiple razor blades
or raise children.

He's so brazen when he's hazing.
     Are you just another page in--
    --my---history---book--?

Look;
     I think you wanna do The
Dip, The Butterfly, The Spider,
     The Grind & Bump

~think you even wanna Swing~

All those arrows are stupid.

     Fuck Cupid,

backwards cowgirl in heels,

A real live jackass doing the
     Donkey Punch

Fuckin' Mexican.

Part II

We are both Sagittarians

& lipstick lesbians

     disliking stags

     when we have our rags

Girl, you know it's true,

I'd much rather play dress-up with

    you,

because boys are cruel.

.     They'll tell lies

to close your eyes

    & stick a worm on your tongue, than 

    run.

& they'll throw a fish at your back.
    Pat Kelly even once got whacked
with a dead rat.

     He's 
so eloquent when he's
    magniloquent. 

     She's
massaging a misogynist
   I'm massaging his ego
can't let go of this Eggo.
   Want a peak
of his mystic 
   physique
out-bound, in-bound, then repeat.

Ma-ma-may I please speak to ah, 
Mr. William Uno Animo Ahalee?--
     --with the long oh
     --& the salient E? 

I'll send you the letter,
send me the Bill,
for I am simply a fox
vox et praeterea nihil
sitting in the windowsill 
     with wanderlust,
Jamaica or bust.

& when my countenance
can become sunken,
    swollen & sullen,
I'll stick out my thumb
    & he'll come,
I'll stick out my leg
    & he'll beg
for a re-run of a panty-line
     or running nylon
a Plymouth python 
    can cause a maelstrom.
She's
    so nice & so sweet.
He's
    telling her to find her seat.
This year
    He
forgot his birthday
    & my new year's
Eve.
     Go ahead, check each sleeve
         you'll find 
         a bar none.  

I suppose I'll settle

for his bauble babble,

The stable & saddle 

if I can't get the steed.

Getting vicious when suspicious 

no matter how subtle--
    --I seethe.

And, yes.  I'll try

to beautify this butterfly

asterisks & ampersands 

it's all about
    
    men.

*Sigh*, so I hope you know what I mean,

it's a bowl with no screen,

SO, I'd much rather hang out with you

     'cause men are mean,
     boys are cruel.   

Breaking Up With Cleveland, August 2005

I wanted to call my mother to thank her for the mailed box of underwear,
but the kids killed the phone.

I wonder, who could stand, to have 5 kids with Hermanowski?
I'll tell you who--some 5'3" woman named 'Kim'
(she has an over active thyroid condition).

they stand in my kitchen and tell me I'm an artist,
that I could 'sell it.'
yeah, but, I could sell my body parts.
(I've been painting that painting for 4 years tots, but I thank ye lots)

the kitchen, it's got funny spots all in triangles and diamonds and in dots
"I ain't gots no diamonds," I say to Cory, "Glory girl, I've barely got the zirconias cubed."
Laura's got a silver of a real iceberg, a stencil of a real husband
whose dull remarks become quite cumbersome.
Kristi's asking me if I got a boyfriend tellin' me hers don't listen, insisting that she has gotten the diet bee dee that sucks you dry and makes you die.

I don't dare tell her about cataracts and my glaucoma.

Brooklyn has bumped her head and is crying in the bathroom.

I don't want to share my food anymore

I don't want to pick up another baby

I don't want another meaningful conversation

I don't want visitation

And no, I don't want to go.

Standing in the parking lot, talking a lot about nothing.
Yeah, man, it was something standing in the sun, charming everyone who crossed my path that that
was the good stuff that was the flip side of manic-depression, I care not what you could delegate.
Elaborate the staircase of silliness that spins and spins in a whirlwind of ups and downs...

I fully realized today that you left me

And finally understood,

That it was for good.

*~>whiskey<~*

-- "Babe," he told me,
    "this won't work, this 'we'...
          and...I don't think you need me.
               See, you like wine & weed,
                    I prefer beer & coke."

-- "But hun, we both was drinking whiskey right before you spoke?!"   

I Write To Know You're Wrong

I write to know you’re wrong. 

I write like John Wayne Gacy was a marauding clown.  I write like how John Curtis Holmes masturbates.   I write like how Billie Eleanora Harris Holiday sings “Strange Fruit”.  I write exactly how Henry Charles Bukowski got whiskey dick.  I write like how Lizzie Andrew Borden swung her axe.  I write like the one whispering voice in the back pew of the Sanctuary not having to compete with the loudspeaker voice from the pulpit.   I am the one true Poet laureate.  Richard Wagner foretold my arrival in 1849.   I am the avatar a Sundancer attempted to awaken. 

My words will haunt you in your slumber and be engraved on plagues, buildings, statues, and headstones.  My quotes will be tattoos.  I will be immortal.  My love poems will be read at weddings and funerals.  Mathematicians suffering from ennui will find my codes.  Muriel Rukeyser assures that I shall split the world wide open.  My time is nigh-hand.      

Be prepared. 

A Child of God

When I was a child I wish they hadn’t encouraged my greatest aspirations:

-being the first female president

-being a renowned science fiction author

-being an elemental poetess

-a recipient of the Pulitzer Prize

-being the next Picasso or Van Gogh

I wish they had told me to save my hands for manual labor,

I wish they had warned me I was prematurely wearing them out and wearing them down every time I picked up a Prismacolor or Sharpie, or a pen or a pencil to scrawl out the useless bowels of my soul.

I wish they had told me to save my hands for doing dishes and data entry.

And to stop making so many faces

Or else my forehead would wrinkle before thirty. 

Because nobody likes contending with an intelligent unhappy woman.  Ever.

I wish they had warned me that I was never going to know what ‘family’really meant.

Musicians, they had tried to warn me, about centerfold angels and not being able to drive 55 or vacationing down in the The Gulf of Mexico.

The Musicians, they had attempted to caution me about pink houses and Jane’s addiction. 

The Musicians, they sing chords & chorus of the Godhead, they warn all of us of the world we have trapped them in.  Their siren bellows lamenting all of humanity, knowing, that deep down inside, we’re all like lit matchsticks, crumbling down to ash and smoke.  Endeavoring to grasp the ungraspable.

When I was a child,

I made up rituals and songs.  I sang about Dodo birds without knowing that once, indeed, there had been an actual Dodo bird.  In my song, its plumage was that of a rainbow…

But there is much that as a child that I wasn’t told.  And much of what I was told as a child, was wrong.

Truth is a splinter that can’t be removed.  Truth is gin to the alcoholic.  Truth is an impacted tooth.  Truth, hurts.

The grand deception can be as simple as the bedtime story you heard as

a child.

Perhaps we never grow up, we just age.