For Ginsberg

-Author's Note: This is not the original (or ideal) formatting for this poem, but it's the best I can figure out for now and should give you an idea of where the breaks and indentations are supposed to be.



Laundry room at night with its musty breaths
exhales your troubled, semi-Freudian pseudo-wisdom
....great soap-smelling draughts down my back.

So much in love with vanity that I want to stop reading
stop eating over-processed semi-political platforms
....though I can’t smoke like Kerouac or type like him either

And I don’t know anything about the East or West
USA, plus I’d be too scared to be high, but
....maybe I see what you meant (…or might’ve meant).

Drip closer, smear a phrase or two from your paper
to my finger like honey or ketchup or whatever condiment
....helps me choke you down and call it good.

Translator sits in my eyes, tries adjusting for
more years than you ever hoped for
....Some angel-haired boy somewhere is probably thinking of you too.

It spills effervescent, transcendent, maybe false and I think
maybe my high came built it, something you lacked
....I’m sorry for everything we don’t share

Because I might never be anthologized, canonized
enlightened beyond my own well-being and maybe
....I’m not the best mind of whatever generation I’ve decided to be this week.

Hard Lemonade

I went to the place
by the creek
where I thought
you could make me happy
even though I’d lost my faith in joy.

I was alone
and there were empty bottles
of Mike’s Hard Lemonade
in the sand.

More than likely
it was not your lips
that drained those bottles,

but it was your lips
that spoke one night,
draining me.

Insomnia

The placebo effect
of my play-acted independence
slips chilly
down my throat
and stops the shaking of my shoulder blades.

My toes curl in on themselves
and whisper to each other.
“It’s almost two AM.
She should be asleep.
Can you feel the sweat pooling?
Me too.
How disgusting.”

White noise in the background
persuades my eyelids open
and fists closed,
almost as disturbing
as the silence.

And you are so far,
so distant
from this pooled sweat and medicated-stillness.
How can I hope to explain
everything that happened
before you came?

On the wall
in my friend’s fragile-lettered hand
is taped a card shouting
“Maranatha!”
and, in my blasphemy
my ribs compress
and sigh
“Yes.
You.
Come quickly.”

A La Gregory Peck

Paleness over a black collar
hair pushed back and gelled
á la Gregory Peck
in Roman Holiday,
but I’m not Audrey Hepburn.
I can cut my hair,
walk ballet-like
and mumble French,
but I never learned
how to fill up a room.

For what it's worth

“The waitress looks at my face/ as if it were a small tip.” –Stephen Dunn


The dropped dishes
shatter across her nerves
like the jangle of loose change
in her overcoat pocket.

“What am I worth?
Whatever pennies
you haven’t found a use for?
Pocket lint?
Gum wrappers?

Someone once
left me chocolate coins
for a tip.
He thought it was cute.

Tell me this:
will the twelve cents
left over
from the purchase of a lottery ticket
pay for the poems
I didn’t have time to write
and all they might’ve done?

You’ll go home
to your empty house
your ambivalent wife
your old dog
…and you’ll think
about how I smiled
when I poured your coffee.

Then you’ll know
that was the best part of your day

just like I did
when I grinned,
thanked you,
and pocketed your arrogance.”

Headlines

My little sister won’t look me in the eye.
She knows
she’s wearing too much makeup
and I know
telling her won’t help.

My mother sits next to the stove,
shaking her newspaper out
over weary feet.
She sighs,
and my eyes avoid the headlines.

There’s a strange sound
behind me in the dining room.
I turn, just a little.
The cat sits on the table
choking on the lily petals
fallen from the centerpiece.

The sound makes me sick.
My throat tight,
I want to ask-
“Who’s responsible?”

My mother turns a page
and stares at me
above the smeared newsprint.

Young Girl Abducted

“What, hun?”

3 Teens Killed in Car Accident

I can’t quite speak.

54 Lives Claimed in South American Earthquake

My voice is quiet.
Definitely quieter than those headlines.

“Who’s responsible?”


The cat gags again
and my mother looks confused.

“For what, dear?”

I can explain (revised)

It’s dark, quiet,
dusty warm
amid the ropes and curtains.
My bare feet are soothed
by the dirty boards beneath them.

Their voices echo
from the bright lights
filling the cavernous space before me
with clichés
and the old velvet surrounds me
holds me upright
as my vision blurs.

It is still, again
and I close my eyes against the dark, feeling
the shifting of your weight
on the boards beside me
through the bottoms of my toes.

I clear my throat
of stage-dust
and unspoken words.
My chest clenches
and my breath catches in a way
that has nothing to do
with the backstage heat
…and everything to do
with impending explanation.

“I know it; I know it all.
I won’t presume…
that is,
you should know
I’m grateful.

I mean,
what I’m trying to say
is that your laughter
brought back my hope for someday
and I know
you’ll never understand
how much this means
or why my lips tremble
during curtain call
…but I’m grateful.”

Your fingers extend,
brush past my arm:
the only explanation
I’m likely to get.

Things I'm saving for later

I remember

the special kind of cool

that you get in churches

in the summertime,

walking alone in the aisles

with my hair down

and feet bare.

I remember

lying under a bush

with strawberries and a book

with the cool moss

pressing designs

into the skin of my elbows.

I remember

the heat from the fire

on my shins

and the cold air

on my calves.

I would come inside,

face flushed,

smelling like wood smoke.

I remember

it’s beautiful,

and someday,

I’ll remember it for you.

Girl, Seventeen, American

Laying by the pool,

the hot cedar deck

floats heat waves

up through my beach towel

and I wonder

how long

until I’m medium-rare.

I know it’s silly

to see how long

I can lay still

before I get

that achy feeling in my stomach

that’s the human equivalent

of the turkey button popping up.

But I discovered something.

All the feminism

and self esteem in the world

never entirely erases

the images

of sleek, bronzed goddesses

slipping into crystal waters.

I may prefer to be intellectual,

but even intellectuals see Cosmo

in the grocery store checkout line.

Transition Period

Dirt roads,

windows down.

Hot air

blowing dust into

our teeth

our eyes

our hair.

We deserved

a summer of freedom,

or so everyone said.

We didn’t even

have to fight for it.

Unsupervised bonfires

movie nights

“Mom, I won’t be home ‘til late.”

I have no idea

how we got away with it

or how we got out of there alive.

Luminary

When I was in love with you

I was lit like Times Square.

If you brushed against me

the place glowed

for days,

making me look like a tramp

outside a cheap bar,

the dirty light

eaten by her polyester dress.

I wore your words around my wrist

like a cut-rate rosary bracelet,

all pale blue plastic

and tacky nylon cord.

I would lay in bed and wonder

if lightning bug are embarrassed

by how their butts light up

when they’re looking for a mate

…and if it’s at all like

how I’m embarrassed

that you can flick my smile

on and off

like a light switch.

Daphne

Spring.

Circa 2005.

I’m on the roof

like I know I shouldn’t be,

but who’s to know

that I’m not cleaning

like a good girl?

I could blame this itch

I get in the spring

on whoever bought me

D'aulaire's Book of Greek Myths.

.

Since I read it

when I was about six,

I haven’t been able

to convince myself

that I’m not a nymph.

Nostalgia & Necco candy hearts

I grew up romantic.

Second grade,

I was a Juliet

with an unwilling Romeo.

I wrote tortured letters

full of promises

and SWAK.

I cried during love songs

and wrote the first

of my bad love poetry.

Valentine’s Day

was a day

electric with hope

and high expectations.

I’m older now

and wiser

…and nothing’s changed at all.

Biology 103

In freshman biology

I learned how to find

the diaphragm

in a pickled fetal pig.

I’d like you to know

mine’s not working

and hasn’t been

since you left.

I may have made

the right decision

to forget you,

but my body doesn’t agree.

Some piece of me

still turns when I hear

someone whose sound

reminds me of you.

My nose

remembers scents

that I associate

with wanting you.

That strange bit

of irrationality

that feels memory

in my chest…

That’s working just fine, thanks.