In My Dreams
In my dreams. Get down to the truth. What are you waiting for. Hurt is the only way to get there. Where you’re trying to go. Where you’ll never get. Is she prettier than me? What makes the world so? It keeps going and going. I lose pieces of me in the scenery. Slacker wish list: an ice cream rainbow radiating out of a cornucopia of lost loves, forgotten dreams, abandoned jobs. Churning endlessly trying to get utopia to rise to the top. Writing a new poem every day only to lose oneself digging through dumpsters for scraps of old love letters trying to explain the meaning of …anything. Does he look like prince charming or just another alcoholic, spendthrift slob? Hey, even prince charming, when you find him, most likely has a day job and a substance abuse problem. The mind wanders and comes back to itself. What, did you forget milk and bread again? Why don’t you make a list? Oh, a lot of good it does folded up in that back jean pocket you use as a filing cabinet. Where are those obsessive-compulsive tendencies when you need them? Obliviousness will get you only so far, and once you get there, you won’t know where you are. To stave off anxiety, you do all sorts of things your mother and public service adds warn you against. Stocking up on band-aids and anti-aging creams. What will they think of next to fill wrinkles up with. Some stuff called “spackle.” Your face is your house. Paint it up so it will appeal to prospective buyers. Designed to sell. The Home and Garden channel. Cosmetic infomercials. We’re all about building equity here, ladies. And gender politics are so boring. Why don’t we just cut off all the penises, preserve them as dildos, and be done with it? It’s emotional neediness that keeps us hooked, keeps us hoping, keeps us trying. So maybe it’s good to long for an unrealizable ideal, a perfect object deserving of perfect love and unending devotion, while we’re munching down on a bowl of popcorn in front of the TV, eyes glued to the Lifetime channel. The jury’s still out. Maybe I’ll switch to Law and Order. Of course, it’s fascist, and yet strangely comforting. There’s always some kind of resolution even though there were false leads and dead ends along the way.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
"I Didn't Like Being in Love Anyway" read at Jaks 5-4-09
I Didn't Like Being in Love Anyway
It's alright. I didn't like being in love anyway.
The way I'd look at you with total devotion and admiration.
Getting excited and happy by every phone call, email,
conversation, kiss, touch. Telling you everything on my mind,
reading your poems, showing you mine. Who needs that kind of closeness,
intimacy, involvement with another person. It's bound to get messy. Hell,
it was scaring the shit out of me.
It's alright. I didn't want a baby anyway.
I'd have to find a place to put it. They cry and drool.
So noisy so messy so needy so happy about the simplest things.
I like being alone. Take-out Chinese and anything I want to watch on TV.
There's always new people to meet, to keep at a cordial distance,
to hide from while smiling.
It's alright. I didn't like being in love anyway.
The way I'd look at you with total devotion and admiration.
Getting excited and happy by every phone call, email,
conversation, kiss, touch. Telling you everything on my mind,
reading your poems, showing you mine. Who needs that kind of closeness,
intimacy, involvement with another person. It's bound to get messy. Hell,
it was scaring the shit out of me.
It's alright. I didn't want a baby anyway.
I'd have to find a place to put it. They cry and drool.
So noisy so messy so needy so happy about the simplest things.
I like being alone. Take-out Chinese and anything I want to watch on TV.
There's always new people to meet, to keep at a cordial distance,
to hide from while smiling.
Monday, April 27, 2009
"She's Not What She Appears to Be" because I had a request and also I just read "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde"
She’s Not What She Appears to Be
Jasmine knew that evil lurked in every pore of her being. She knew that everyone would be truly horrified if they knew how she felt, what she thought. The way she’d fantasize about torturing and killing the most helpless creatures—little white kittens and small children. She would do it slowly, savoring each and every moment, every cut of the knife and the patterns on their flesh that she would trace in blood. But Jasmine couldn’t help what she was. After all, one enjoys what one enjoys. One feels the way one feels, and there’s no way to change it. Reason told Jasmine that her deepest and truest desires were impervious to reason. But she knew that she would have to keep herself hidden, always. Some people were shy and introverted, but then they would gradually show themselves, let little parts of their personalities show, let themselves be seen, even, eventually known by someone. For Jasmine, this was not an option. She could never be known or seen. For if she was, she would be destroyed, just like a vampire in an old-fashioned horror movie hunted down by frenzied villagers. She knew she would never be loved for who she was.
So, in order to survive, Jasmine would have to keep herself hidden all the time, even from herself. At first she seemed introverted, not revealing very much of herself. But soon people would become suspicious. They would suspect that she had another life that she hid. They were suspicious of someone that would not reveal themselves even a little. So Jasmine had to reveal little bits of a personality, share little facts about her likes and dislikes, her habits and hobbies. But she had to be very careful that what she revealed in no way indicated what she truly was. She realized that she would have to construct an entirely new persona for herself, somebody totally unlike herself, somebody that she would always have to appear to be.
Jasmine was selfish and cruel, so she would have to act as if she was the exact opposite. She practiced showing consideration for others, putting their needs and preferences before hers. She took up volunteer work: serving at soup kitchens, tutoring underprivileged children, visiting burn victims in hospitals. But of course, though she pretended to be motivated by sympathy and altruism, she secretly enjoyed witnessing the poverty, witless stupidity, and deformity of others—though she never let on to others or herself. She gave money to charities, but of course not all that she could have, because she had her secret selfish desires to feed, and that took money.
She dated, because she had insatiable sexual desires and a need to dominate and hurt people. But she didn’t let her dates know that. She pretended that she wanted marriage and a family and to be taken care of by a big, strong, capable man who would keep her in her place. In truth she had only contempt for all of that, but she went through the motions, asking to be fixed up by friends and placing wholesome, conventional personal ads in the local paper. The trick was to get rid of the hapless dupes whom she ruthlessly used for sex and the pleasure of humiliating them without letting them know what had really happened. She managed to do this in various ways: by giving elaborate versions of the “It’s not you, it’s me speech,” being busy with altruistic pursuits, causes, charities, pretend friends and invented family responsibilities, or seeming fucked-up in an irredeemable but adorable way, such as being emotionally wounded, or ambitious and driven, but for a noble goal.
Eventually she married. She manipulated her husband in order to have free reign with the credit cards for her extravagant shopping sprees, while keeping him convinced that she was the most wonderful, virtuous person in the world so that he would continue to worship her and she could continue to keep him at an emotional distance. She did this by continuing with her charities and being a generous gift giver, and also spending an inordinate amount of time on her appearance so he would always be in awe of her pulchritude. Eventually they had children, and she was a perfect mother and a model citizen. In actuality she hated her children and imagined torturing them in various ways including tearing them limb from limb while they screamed in pain and suffocating them under piles of writhing and venomous snakes. Her children knew nothing of this and adored her and believed that she adored them. They grew up into successful adults with a healthy amount of self-esteem and a sense of ethical responsibility. When she was on her death bed she was surrounded by her loving family. And as they held her hand and wept over her, she hated them as she always had. She died without anyone ever knowing who she truly was. In a way, she had succeeded in the use of her life strategy. In another way, maybe not.
Jasmine knew that evil lurked in every pore of her being. She knew that everyone would be truly horrified if they knew how she felt, what she thought. The way she’d fantasize about torturing and killing the most helpless creatures—little white kittens and small children. She would do it slowly, savoring each and every moment, every cut of the knife and the patterns on their flesh that she would trace in blood. But Jasmine couldn’t help what she was. After all, one enjoys what one enjoys. One feels the way one feels, and there’s no way to change it. Reason told Jasmine that her deepest and truest desires were impervious to reason. But she knew that she would have to keep herself hidden, always. Some people were shy and introverted, but then they would gradually show themselves, let little parts of their personalities show, let themselves be seen, even, eventually known by someone. For Jasmine, this was not an option. She could never be known or seen. For if she was, she would be destroyed, just like a vampire in an old-fashioned horror movie hunted down by frenzied villagers. She knew she would never be loved for who she was.
So, in order to survive, Jasmine would have to keep herself hidden all the time, even from herself. At first she seemed introverted, not revealing very much of herself. But soon people would become suspicious. They would suspect that she had another life that she hid. They were suspicious of someone that would not reveal themselves even a little. So Jasmine had to reveal little bits of a personality, share little facts about her likes and dislikes, her habits and hobbies. But she had to be very careful that what she revealed in no way indicated what she truly was. She realized that she would have to construct an entirely new persona for herself, somebody totally unlike herself, somebody that she would always have to appear to be.
Jasmine was selfish and cruel, so she would have to act as if she was the exact opposite. She practiced showing consideration for others, putting their needs and preferences before hers. She took up volunteer work: serving at soup kitchens, tutoring underprivileged children, visiting burn victims in hospitals. But of course, though she pretended to be motivated by sympathy and altruism, she secretly enjoyed witnessing the poverty, witless stupidity, and deformity of others—though she never let on to others or herself. She gave money to charities, but of course not all that she could have, because she had her secret selfish desires to feed, and that took money.
She dated, because she had insatiable sexual desires and a need to dominate and hurt people. But she didn’t let her dates know that. She pretended that she wanted marriage and a family and to be taken care of by a big, strong, capable man who would keep her in her place. In truth she had only contempt for all of that, but she went through the motions, asking to be fixed up by friends and placing wholesome, conventional personal ads in the local paper. The trick was to get rid of the hapless dupes whom she ruthlessly used for sex and the pleasure of humiliating them without letting them know what had really happened. She managed to do this in various ways: by giving elaborate versions of the “It’s not you, it’s me speech,” being busy with altruistic pursuits, causes, charities, pretend friends and invented family responsibilities, or seeming fucked-up in an irredeemable but adorable way, such as being emotionally wounded, or ambitious and driven, but for a noble goal.
Eventually she married. She manipulated her husband in order to have free reign with the credit cards for her extravagant shopping sprees, while keeping him convinced that she was the most wonderful, virtuous person in the world so that he would continue to worship her and she could continue to keep him at an emotional distance. She did this by continuing with her charities and being a generous gift giver, and also spending an inordinate amount of time on her appearance so he would always be in awe of her pulchritude. Eventually they had children, and she was a perfect mother and a model citizen. In actuality she hated her children and imagined torturing them in various ways including tearing them limb from limb while they screamed in pain and suffocating them under piles of writhing and venomous snakes. Her children knew nothing of this and adored her and believed that she adored them. They grew up into successful adults with a healthy amount of self-esteem and a sense of ethical responsibility. When she was on her death bed she was surrounded by her loving family. And as they held her hand and wept over her, she hated them as she always had. She died without anyone ever knowing who she truly was. In a way, she had succeeded in the use of her life strategy. In another way, maybe not.
Friday, March 27, 2009
"Looking for a New Way to Break It" because I feel like it
Looking for a New Way to Break It
Rifling through old emotions,
thinking, this same old shit again,
isn’t there any way
to get out to get over to get away
come up with a new play
in this old game dressed up
like it’s something new.
You’ve been through this before.
It’s an old song and you know
the song is as sick of you
as you are of it. How many ways
can you say: I’m tired, I’m hurt,
I’m lonely, and I’m sad. I’m angry,
foaming at the mouth, looking for
a place for my fist to hit. And
I would wish for love but I know
I couldn’t take it, my heart
always looking for that someone
to come up with a new way to break it.
Rifling through old emotions,
thinking, this same old shit again,
isn’t there any way
to get out to get over to get away
come up with a new play
in this old game dressed up
like it’s something new.
You’ve been through this before.
It’s an old song and you know
the song is as sick of you
as you are of it. How many ways
can you say: I’m tired, I’m hurt,
I’m lonely, and I’m sad. I’m angry,
foaming at the mouth, looking for
a place for my fist to hit. And
I would wish for love but I know
I couldn’t take it, my heart
always looking for that someone
to come up with a new way to break it.
"Waiting for Spring" read at Trace 3-24-09
Waiting for Spring
Jumbo-legged anarchists, kindly giants, bitchy and bovine in their ways, make their way past storefronts overfilled with stereos and knickknacks, gewgaws of late capitalism, incense and condoms in all different colors, assorted flavors. I am your whipping boy, but it's all just pretend. My heart has been broken so many times it doesn't bother to mend. And when will you show me the way to Prince Charming. Am I forever to be slipping on banana peels, falling in the snow, in the freezing rain, in the mud, humiliated by the eye-scorching sun. You humble me. The coins fall through the hole in my pocket one by one. I am not a record player. Play your own accordion. Master scrabble and monopoly and staggering in the dark.
And all my non sequiturs fall on deaf ears and unsoiled panties. My only friend is the piano player playing all alone in the dark, cigarettes lighting burning ash, Jack Daniel's on the rocks. Where my thoughts meet the sharp glass edge of a flat world reflecting mirrors, synthetic plant life. Just as you called my name, I saw a giraffe, her long tongue reaching for a leaf, her eyes partially closed in enjoyment? Memorize anecdotes, long-winded and peppered with caricatures unwillingly coerced into making you look larger than life or science fiction concoctions bubbling over with narcotic side effects and new hairstyles. Left behind are incoherent memories, days you wished you had soup but there wasn't any, and the walls were too plain. Where were the posters of rock stars dripping sweat onto ecstatic but disconcerted audience members?
Foggy-headed super heroes flying over skyscrapers tall and lean, gleaming and mean, forget their lunches, lose their hunches about what could have and should have and might have been. I'm just another rock and roll addict, crazy lady in the attic, in the palace you can no longer call home. When you call me, don't forget how vulnerable I am. How I fall apart like a jigsaw puzzle, and the dog chews some pieces and hides some others under the couch. Play my game your way. Leave me in the cold on the sidewalk in the dark. Sex toys, brightly colored dildoes adorned with flashing Christmas lights, seek me out, put me on display, make me feel at home like the spaceship of aliens from my home planet coming for me at last.
I know there is no home, not for very long anyway. Things change too fast and where are you and who am I? Little mice are talking. They're taking trips to new places and changing colors. He said, "I wish I had penises in different colors, shooting semen in different colors. I could paint as I came."
Wherever you are, I'm someplace else, and there's the rub. The crowded pub, the substandard grub, the back aching to be rubbed. I'd be someone if I wasn't so self-absorbed. I never get used to "I don't care," no matter how true it is. Rent me a spaceship; lend me a lipstick. I'm ready to roll with the punches; do abdominal crunches; steal the lunches of school children. Mesmerized victims of sudden and inexplicable pangs of paranoia huddle and grapple with difficult and self-defeating philosophical concepts amongst themselves.
And at the playground, there are used condoms and cigarette butts and empty beer bottles and fast food wrappers partially buried in the snow, awaiting a toddler treasure hunt. And the Easter Bunny can't help being an alcoholic.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Poem read at Weeds 3-9-09 "Messed Up on a Friday"
Messed Up on a Friday
Messed up. Took my night meds in the morning because I was tired and in a hurry and didn't know what the fuck I was doing and was trying to blend a protein shake into yesterday's cold coffee, but it wouldn't dissolve so I tried the electric hand mixer and then the Cuisinart. And then it worked but it took too long and then I was worried the night meds would make me sleepy or act high during the day and I had to stand up all day and be nice to people and act like I cared when I just wanted to be in bed masturbating and sleeping.
Messed up. Told him I liked him when I know I should play aloof, like I don't care and I'd be so much better off if I didn't care. How I hate being in love. It makes me crazy and sick, mesmerized by erotic daydreams. I have to pick and poke at it like I'm trying to pop a zit, like getting all the built up white pus out of there will make it better, but it just makes me feel wounded and ugly and then I have to wait for it to heal, washing it over and over again, covering it with makeup.
Messed up. Told my boss what I thought. How am I supposed to avoid expressing any opinion at all while at the same time appearing to have opinions and good ideas and insights to show that I'm a valuable team player, but not a real person with an actual point of view? Someone tell me, please. Maybe I'm just not a good actress. But it's just that saying things I don't believe makes me confused. I can hear people inside my head contradicting everything I say as I'm saying it. Sadistic stereo, demonic radio, rapist TV.
Messed up. Believed what I was told, because, really, constant skepticism and cynicism is exhausting, not to mention depressing and soul-destroying. On the other hand, being a sap, a dupe, a sucker isn't fun either, because when the sham is exposed or the gimmick doesn't work or you're worse off than before, you think somehow that you're responsible, that you should have know better, been smarter, shrewder, on the lookout for con artists. But you just wanted to believe that something good could happen.
Messed up. Took my night meds in the morning because I was tired and in a hurry and didn't know what the fuck I was doing and was trying to blend a protein shake into yesterday's cold coffee, but it wouldn't dissolve so I tried the electric hand mixer and then the Cuisinart. And then it worked but it took too long and then I was worried the night meds would make me sleepy or act high during the day and I had to stand up all day and be nice to people and act like I cared when I just wanted to be in bed masturbating and sleeping.
Messed up. Told him I liked him when I know I should play aloof, like I don't care and I'd be so much better off if I didn't care. How I hate being in love. It makes me crazy and sick, mesmerized by erotic daydreams. I have to pick and poke at it like I'm trying to pop a zit, like getting all the built up white pus out of there will make it better, but it just makes me feel wounded and ugly and then I have to wait for it to heal, washing it over and over again, covering it with makeup.
Messed up. Told my boss what I thought. How am I supposed to avoid expressing any opinion at all while at the same time appearing to have opinions and good ideas and insights to show that I'm a valuable team player, but not a real person with an actual point of view? Someone tell me, please. Maybe I'm just not a good actress. But it's just that saying things I don't believe makes me confused. I can hear people inside my head contradicting everything I say as I'm saying it. Sadistic stereo, demonic radio, rapist TV.
Messed up. Believed what I was told, because, really, constant skepticism and cynicism is exhausting, not to mention depressing and soul-destroying. On the other hand, being a sap, a dupe, a sucker isn't fun either, because when the sham is exposed or the gimmick doesn't work or you're worse off than before, you think somehow that you're responsible, that you should have know better, been smarter, shrewder, on the lookout for con artists. But you just wanted to believe that something good could happen.
Poem read at Weeds 3-9-09 "A Change of Life Comes Suddenly and Without Warning"
A Change of Life Comes Suddenly and Without Warning
hot flash news flash cold cash in the pocket of my jeans you don't know what I mean you don't know what I've seen come clean I wish I could
doe ray me fat sow la-di-dah language in the freezer far to cold to hold to measure ice-cream suitcases melting away postponing travel for another day
come up and see me sometime come please me sometime anytime day or night make me feel right there's something I'm trying to learn only you can teach me
she's hiding in the doorway she hears him singing I did it my way she's wondering what part she has to play in a solipsistic song of love
she's listening for her cues looking for clues trying to discern different hues of meaning but what she's gleaning isn't gleaming merely convoluted scheming
will you stand tall through it all pondering what you're seeing and is it worth keeping is it worth knowing or would it be better to keep throwing it all away
jesus christ saved my ass tonight saved my life tonight though I am never believing it's just convenience what to go on without any evidence or anything else to hold onto
tatterdemalion ragamuffin foresight penchant for dynamite ask not don't tell there is a well of silence only the guileless are fearing or hearing
come all ye merry gentlemen may nothing you see dismay our whore was born before time went still and she's here to steal your mind away
light up the night embrace your plight as on your way to hell you go it's never too late to repent but you might as well be proud you put on one hell of a show
hot flash news flash cold cash in the pocket of my jeans you don't know what I mean you don't know what I've seen come clean I wish I could
doe ray me fat sow la-di-dah language in the freezer far to cold to hold to measure ice-cream suitcases melting away postponing travel for another day
come up and see me sometime come please me sometime anytime day or night make me feel right there's something I'm trying to learn only you can teach me
she's hiding in the doorway she hears him singing I did it my way she's wondering what part she has to play in a solipsistic song of love
she's listening for her cues looking for clues trying to discern different hues of meaning but what she's gleaning isn't gleaming merely convoluted scheming
will you stand tall through it all pondering what you're seeing and is it worth keeping is it worth knowing or would it be better to keep throwing it all away
jesus christ saved my ass tonight saved my life tonight though I am never believing it's just convenience what to go on without any evidence or anything else to hold onto
tatterdemalion ragamuffin foresight penchant for dynamite ask not don't tell there is a well of silence only the guileless are fearing or hearing
come all ye merry gentlemen may nothing you see dismay our whore was born before time went still and she's here to steal your mind away
light up the night embrace your plight as on your way to hell you go it's never too late to repent but you might as well be proud you put on one hell of a show
Poem read at Weeds 3-9-09 "I'm Coming Over to Your House to Play"
I'm Coming Over to Your House to Play
I'm chopping off the heads,
chopping off the arms and legs.
I've got the china and glass knickknacks
set up like bowling pins and I'm using
the severed heads as bowling balls
to knock them down to hear them
crash and shatter into little sharp bits.
I'm going to use the limbs like hockey sticks
to push the family pets around the room
and then to beat their skulls in.
I'm going to do this in every house I visit
until I'm tired and go home to sleep.
Murder is freedom
Politeness is pain
If you hurt me, if you get in my way,
I'll take what I want from you,
and after I fuck you up,
I'll beat in your brain.
You think I'm angry.
You don't know.
I'm filled with rage.
I'm putting on a show.
Madness is brilliance
Conformity is shame
I'm not following
the rules anymore.
Now everyone is going
to remember my name.
What's this about you ask?
You haven't got a clue.
Fear and stupidity keep you stuck
as if you were slathered with glue.
Have I made you gag yet?
Come on, what's taking so long?
I'll shove my strap-on dick
down your throat until you throw-up.
Spewing chunks makes such a
comforting sound.
Where's your Mommy, you ask?
Oh don't you know?
She never really existed.
Sister and brother left
as soon as they could.
Daddy was just a clown.
Family is folly
Death is relief
Torture will make me jolly
Complacency is a thief
Any final wishes?
You don't know what to choose.
What you want is so far from what's possible
you might as well take a permanent snooze.
I'm chopping off the heads,
chopping off the arms and legs.
I've got the china and glass knickknacks
set up like bowling pins and I'm using
the severed heads as bowling balls
to knock them down to hear them
crash and shatter into little sharp bits.
I'm going to use the limbs like hockey sticks
to push the family pets around the room
and then to beat their skulls in.
I'm going to do this in every house I visit
until I'm tired and go home to sleep.
Murder is freedom
Politeness is pain
If you hurt me, if you get in my way,
I'll take what I want from you,
and after I fuck you up,
I'll beat in your brain.
You think I'm angry.
You don't know.
I'm filled with rage.
I'm putting on a show.
Madness is brilliance
Conformity is shame
I'm not following
the rules anymore.
Now everyone is going
to remember my name.
What's this about you ask?
You haven't got a clue.
Fear and stupidity keep you stuck
as if you were slathered with glue.
Have I made you gag yet?
Come on, what's taking so long?
I'll shove my strap-on dick
down your throat until you throw-up.
Spewing chunks makes such a
comforting sound.
Where's your Mommy, you ask?
Oh don't you know?
She never really existed.
Sister and brother left
as soon as they could.
Daddy was just a clown.
Family is folly
Death is relief
Torture will make me jolly
Complacency is a thief
Any final wishes?
You don't know what to choose.
What you want is so far from what's possible
you might as well take a permanent snooze.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Poem I read for the slam at Green Mill 3-8-09
I’ve Got a Hard-On for Jesus
I’ve got a hard-on for Jesus.
Early, early on in my childhood
psychosexual development,
before Shaun Cassidy
and John Travolta,
even before Davy Jones and
wanting to be a live-in
housekeeper/ sex-slave
for all The Monkees,
there was Jesus.
He looked so cool in the pictures
with his long chestnut hair and beard.
And he was such a genuinely nice guy, too.
The first famous anarchist-feminist,
yet so misunderstood.
And who wouldn’t go for a guy
helpless and pinned on a cross.
S & M, here I come.
Hey Jesus, I’ll wash your feet,
and suck your cock, too!
Jesus Christ Superstar and Godspell
are my porn. I could come watching
a 20-something Victor Garber
dancing around and singing
in a Superman t-shirt.
I would get up early
to go to Sunday school,
even in the coldest Chicago winters,
and my daddy would take me,
so I could learn about Jesus and
read the bible and write poems and
do projects in papier-mâché.
I’d fantasize about meeting Jesus
in real life on the street.
I’d invite him in to have hot chocolate and
John’s frozen cheese pizzas.
I really thought this could happen
since Jesus looked a lot like the guys on Clark street
my dad would point out to me as heroin addicts.
But this worried me, too.
What if my folks wouldn’t let Jesus come over
because they thought he was a long-haired, hippie,
freaked-out heroin addict?
I was really worried that I would come across Jesus
and that he would be turned away.
Especially since I knew that we were soul mates
and that I really understood Jesus and
we were destined to be together forever and
just the thought of him made me feel all tingly
in my special place in my underpants.
This was probably the beginning of my realization
that adults were hypocritical liars
with reputations and property to protect.
They didn’t really want me fucking Jesus,
even if, in a way, they said they did.
Jesus loves me!
The bible tells me so!
He loves all the little children!
I love Jesus!
The bible tells me to!
I want him inside me!
So I’ll never be alone!
I’ve got a hard-on for Jesus.
Early, early on in my childhood
psychosexual development,
before Shaun Cassidy
and John Travolta,
even before Davy Jones and
wanting to be a live-in
housekeeper/ sex-slave
for all The Monkees,
there was Jesus.
He looked so cool in the pictures
with his long chestnut hair and beard.
And he was such a genuinely nice guy, too.
The first famous anarchist-feminist,
yet so misunderstood.
And who wouldn’t go for a guy
helpless and pinned on a cross.
S & M, here I come.
Hey Jesus, I’ll wash your feet,
and suck your cock, too!
Jesus Christ Superstar and Godspell
are my porn. I could come watching
a 20-something Victor Garber
dancing around and singing
in a Superman t-shirt.
I would get up early
to go to Sunday school,
even in the coldest Chicago winters,
and my daddy would take me,
so I could learn about Jesus and
read the bible and write poems and
do projects in papier-mâché.
I’d fantasize about meeting Jesus
in real life on the street.
I’d invite him in to have hot chocolate and
John’s frozen cheese pizzas.
I really thought this could happen
since Jesus looked a lot like the guys on Clark street
my dad would point out to me as heroin addicts.
But this worried me, too.
What if my folks wouldn’t let Jesus come over
because they thought he was a long-haired, hippie,
freaked-out heroin addict?
I was really worried that I would come across Jesus
and that he would be turned away.
Especially since I knew that we were soul mates
and that I really understood Jesus and
we were destined to be together forever and
just the thought of him made me feel all tingly
in my special place in my underpants.
This was probably the beginning of my realization
that adults were hypocritical liars
with reputations and property to protect.
They didn’t really want me fucking Jesus,
even if, in a way, they said they did.
Jesus loves me!
The bible tells me so!
He loves all the little children!
I love Jesus!
The bible tells me to!
I want him inside me!
So I’ll never be alone!
Poem I read at the Green Mill open mic 3-8-09
Porno Movie
We’re gonna make a porno movie,
me and all my friends.
Gonna make a porno movie
‘cause we’ve got credit card debts
we’ve got to pay.
Why should we work
when we can get paid for getting laid?
Better than working shit jobs:
telemarketer, waitress, maid.
We’re all feeling so hot.
It doesn’t have to have a plot,
just the right lighting and decor.
Johnny’s got the props:
some whips, some cutlery,
some mayonnaise.
Julie’s renting the hotel suite.
There’s a pool and room service,
a game room and a soda machine.
Lily’s doing a handstand.
Billy’s got her by the ankles.
Jody’s wearing the dildo.
Cindy’s in shackles.
Ben’s got the paddle.
Margaret’s going to get a spanking.
We’re all having such fun.
We’re not even acting.
Ours will be the best porno movie ever
because we like each other so much.
We’re all so sexy, witty, and clever.
We swoon at every touch
and melt in each other’s mouths.
We’re gonna make a porno movie,
me and all my friends.
Gonna make a porno movie.
‘cause we’ve got credit card debts
we’ve got to pay.
We’re gonna make a porno movie,
me and all my friends.
Gonna make a porno movie
‘cause we’ve got credit card debts
we’ve got to pay.
Why should we work
when we can get paid for getting laid?
Better than working shit jobs:
telemarketer, waitress, maid.
We’re all feeling so hot.
It doesn’t have to have a plot,
just the right lighting and decor.
Johnny’s got the props:
some whips, some cutlery,
some mayonnaise.
Julie’s renting the hotel suite.
There’s a pool and room service,
a game room and a soda machine.
Lily’s doing a handstand.
Billy’s got her by the ankles.
Jody’s wearing the dildo.
Cindy’s in shackles.
Ben’s got the paddle.
Margaret’s going to get a spanking.
We’re all having such fun.
We’re not even acting.
Ours will be the best porno movie ever
because we like each other so much.
We’re all so sexy, witty, and clever.
We swoon at every touch
and melt in each other’s mouths.
We’re gonna make a porno movie,
me and all my friends.
Gonna make a porno movie.
‘cause we’ve got credit card debts
we’ve got to pay.
Poem from LSfP I read at Trace 3-3-09
I Like to See Men Kiss
I like to see men kiss:
mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue,
comradely, yet personal,
tenderly like lesbian lovers.
It makes me feel good—
vicariously I suppose:
a big sigh of relief,
as if everything could be
all right with the world,
instead of feeling the inevitable doom
I feel when a woman,
telling me how
her husband hit her
on the head with a pistol
and the blood spurted out
and she had to have fourteen stitches
and she’s never been the same
and she can’t remember
sometimes, can’t think clearly,
has migraines and cries
for no reason,
when she says,
“And then I thought
to myself, ‘This is
what I get for being
so nice to you
and staying married to you
for nine years
and giving you two children?’”
You see, he had been sent
to Vietnam,
and after that he was never the same.
And in July he shot his girlfriend,
and then he shot himself.
I like to see men kiss:
mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue,
comradely, yet personal,
tenderly like lesbian lovers.
It makes me feel good—
vicariously I suppose:
a big sigh of relief,
as if everything could be
all right with the world,
instead of feeling the inevitable doom
I feel when a woman,
telling me how
her husband hit her
on the head with a pistol
and the blood spurted out
and she had to have fourteen stitches
and she’s never been the same
and she can’t remember
sometimes, can’t think clearly,
has migraines and cries
for no reason,
when she says,
“And then I thought
to myself, ‘This is
what I get for being
so nice to you
and staying married to you
for nine years
and giving you two children?’”
You see, he had been sent
to Vietnam,
and after that he was never the same.
And in July he shot his girlfriend,
and then he shot himself.
The new poem I read at Trace 3-3-09
I Fall in Love with Difficult People
I fall in love with difficult people.
I can't help it. Anyone who is easily
angered, easily bothered, quick to fight,
quick to hold a grudge, I find
utterly fascinating, charming.
Maybe it's because they're mysterious
to me. I wonder, why get so riled up,
why pick a fight, when you could just
as easily let it go, be at peace with the world.
It must be because they can't, and I know
their anger, their frustration is righteous,
that their difficult personality is a symptom
of their intelligence and sensitivity. And
somehow I must think it's my job to love
these people, who cringe at every
imperfection, mistake, faux pas, falsehood,
injustice and rail against all the general
ugliness and stupidity of the world,
domineering and emotionally needy at the same time.
I fall in love with difficult people.
I can't help it. Anyone who is easily
angered, easily bothered, quick to fight,
quick to hold a grudge, I find
utterly fascinating, charming.
Maybe it's because they're mysterious
to me. I wonder, why get so riled up,
why pick a fight, when you could just
as easily let it go, be at peace with the world.
It must be because they can't, and I know
their anger, their frustration is righteous,
that their difficult personality is a symptom
of their intelligence and sensitivity. And
somehow I must think it's my job to love
these people, who cringe at every
imperfection, mistake, faux pas, falsehood,
injustice and rail against all the general
ugliness and stupidity of the world,
domineering and emotionally needy at the same time.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
I Talk to You in My Head
I Talk to You in My Head
I talk to you in my head.
In my head you understand everything I said.
We share the same political views.
You know the words “propaganda” and “ideology.”
You’ve read my anarchist critique of minimal state libertarianism,
my defense of eliminative materialism,
my papers on French feminism and Lesbian ethics.
You understand why I hate my mother.
You know the revolution is not imminent,
and the horrid compromises that ensue.
When I’m riding the red line on my way to see your show,
the other passengers see that I’m engaged in passionate conversation
with the voice in my head—the voice that is you.
But when I see you,
I don’t want to talk.
I just want you
to fuck my brains out.
I talk to you in my head.
In my head you understand everything I said.
We share the same political views.
You know the words “propaganda” and “ideology.”
You’ve read my anarchist critique of minimal state libertarianism,
my defense of eliminative materialism,
my papers on French feminism and Lesbian ethics.
You understand why I hate my mother.
You know the revolution is not imminent,
and the horrid compromises that ensue.
When I’m riding the red line on my way to see your show,
the other passengers see that I’m engaged in passionate conversation
with the voice in my head—the voice that is you.
But when I see you,
I don’t want to talk.
I just want you
to fuck my brains out.
I Love You for Sentimental Reasons
I Love You for Sentimental Reasons
I love you for obvious reasons.
Your cock up my ass for one.
Your tongue in my mouth for another.
The way you look at me.
Your eyelashes.
Your fingertips.
What are you doing tomorrow?
What are you doing
for the rest of your life?
I’ve got my legs spread.
I’ve got my mouth wide open
like a kid in a candy store.
You can play me all your records.
Show me your yearbook pictures.
I don’t care if you were a geek
or a nerd. To me
you’re my hero
come to save the day.
I love you for obvious reasons.
Your cock up my ass for one.
Your tongue in my mouth for another.
The way you look at me.
Your eyelashes.
Your fingertips.
What are you doing tomorrow?
What are you doing
for the rest of your life?
I’ve got my legs spread.
I’ve got my mouth wide open
like a kid in a candy store.
You can play me all your records.
Show me your yearbook pictures.
I don’t care if you were a geek
or a nerd. To me
you’re my hero
come to save the day.
Covering Up Tattoos
Covering Up Tattoos
Lots of people nowadays have tattoos.
Lots of people nowadays
feel they have to hold onto jobs
for various reasons, such as money,
health insurance, mortgages or rent,
parental approval, debt
(student loan and credit card),
social status, child support,
sense of purpose,
contributing to society,
impressing sexual conquests, etc..
Lots of jobs have dress codes
in which it is explicitly stated
that employees should not have
visible tattoos. Somehow,
it is considered unprofessional,
even though lots of people have them,
including people with money
and pop stars with major record label deals.
And in our jobs they want us to “have fun,”
“be part of a team,” which means
identifying with the corporate culture,
which means not doing anything
to freak out the straight white people.
For some people getting tattoos
is the alternative to buying jewelry
from Tiffany’s. Hear me out.
Instead of commemorating
momentous life events
by purchasing jewelry,
they get tattoos.
Instead of buying something
to wear, they mark a life’s
accomplishment, trial and tribulation,
torturous and arduous lesson learned,
brain- and earth-shaking love,
by marking their skin permanently
with a tattoo.
But tattoos they are not allowed
to show at the workplace.
Despite all the policies and parties
and retreats and meetings where
the purpose is to make you feel
like you’re part of the team,
part of a beneficial gift
to society, in truth,
they don’t want to see who
you really are. They don’t want
you to show who you really are.
They want you to cover up
your tattoos. The symbols
of you that you felt so strongly
about that you had to have them
tattooed into your skin forever,
or until you revise them
with more tattoo art,
you have to hide.
Some cover them up with
band-aids or long-sleeved
shirts. But it’s a physical
metaphor. Even though
I don’t have tattoos,
I know I have to keep
myself covered up,
behind wraps, never to be
revealed, despite jovial coaxing.
I can’t show the mile-posts of my lives,
the accomplished goals, the life-changing loves.
They don’t really want to see me.
They don’t want to see my tattoos.
They don’t want to see the events
and work and sorrow and love
and striving and heartbreak
that made me who I am.
They want to see the me
who can be marketed,
who can be sold,
and that me doesn’t
have a history, a personality,
a unique identity. That me
doesn’t have tattoos.
Lots of people nowadays have tattoos.
Lots of people nowadays
feel they have to hold onto jobs
for various reasons, such as money,
health insurance, mortgages or rent,
parental approval, debt
(student loan and credit card),
social status, child support,
sense of purpose,
contributing to society,
impressing sexual conquests, etc..
Lots of jobs have dress codes
in which it is explicitly stated
that employees should not have
visible tattoos. Somehow,
it is considered unprofessional,
even though lots of people have them,
including people with money
and pop stars with major record label deals.
And in our jobs they want us to “have fun,”
“be part of a team,” which means
identifying with the corporate culture,
which means not doing anything
to freak out the straight white people.
For some people getting tattoos
is the alternative to buying jewelry
from Tiffany’s. Hear me out.
Instead of commemorating
momentous life events
by purchasing jewelry,
they get tattoos.
Instead of buying something
to wear, they mark a life’s
accomplishment, trial and tribulation,
torturous and arduous lesson learned,
brain- and earth-shaking love,
by marking their skin permanently
with a tattoo.
But tattoos they are not allowed
to show at the workplace.
Despite all the policies and parties
and retreats and meetings where
the purpose is to make you feel
like you’re part of the team,
part of a beneficial gift
to society, in truth,
they don’t want to see who
you really are. They don’t want
you to show who you really are.
They want you to cover up
your tattoos. The symbols
of you that you felt so strongly
about that you had to have them
tattooed into your skin forever,
or until you revise them
with more tattoo art,
you have to hide.
Some cover them up with
band-aids or long-sleeved
shirts. But it’s a physical
metaphor. Even though
I don’t have tattoos,
I know I have to keep
myself covered up,
behind wraps, never to be
revealed, despite jovial coaxing.
I can’t show the mile-posts of my lives,
the accomplished goals, the life-changing loves.
They don’t really want to see me.
They don’t want to see my tattoos.
They don’t want to see the events
and work and sorrow and love
and striving and heartbreak
that made me who I am.
They want to see the me
who can be marketed,
who can be sold,
and that me doesn’t
have a history, a personality,
a unique identity. That me
doesn’t have tattoos.
OMNISEXUAL
OMNISEXUAL
People ask, "So what are you? Straight? Lesbian? Bisexual?"
And the response I give is, "I'm omnisexual.
I get turned on by men, women, produce, kitchen appliances,
patio furniture, house plants, canned soup, chocolate, playgrounds,
shoe stores, medical equipment, ice cream, power tools, etc.,
and you name it."
"So you're bisexual."
"Yes, and queer and kinky and perverted."
"So, who do you like better, men or women?
"I like gay men and straight women."
I've been called "The Bisexual Bridge."
People say to me, "I thought I was gay (or straight)
until I met you. Now I think I'm bi."
And drag queens. I'm totally into drag queens.
When I was a kid I wanted to be a drag king
before it was even called that.
In the locker room after gym
I would dance and strut on the benches singing "Macho Man."
Also I would imitate Mick Jagger of The Rolling Stones
and Peter Frampton.
I've never been successfully monogamous in my life.
I tried, but now I've given up trying. It's not my thing.
I like group sex and public sex and rough sex and gentle sex and
loving sex and cruel sex and quickie sex and all day long sex and
afternoon sex and morning sex and late night sex and
drunken sex and sober sex and spiritual sex and satanic sex.
I like to bottom and I like to top.
I like to be Mommy and I like to be Daddy's girl, and
I like to be Daddy and I like to be Momma's boy.
I like email sex and phone sex and MySpace sex.
Any orifice; any tool; any prop is okay by me.
(Though, in general, I prefer to avoid anything that would lead
to a trip to the emergency room and police inquiries.)
I like them old and young and in between.
It's the enthusiasm, that's the thing.
I like them thin and plump, tall and short, big and small.
It's the attitude, not the amplitude.
I like to fuck and to be fucked
again and again.
I fuck in my dreams and
when I wake up
I fuck some more.
People ask, "So what are you? Straight? Lesbian? Bisexual?"
And the response I give is, "I'm omnisexual.
I get turned on by men, women, produce, kitchen appliances,
patio furniture, house plants, canned soup, chocolate, playgrounds,
shoe stores, medical equipment, ice cream, power tools, etc.,
and you name it."
"So you're bisexual."
"Yes, and queer and kinky and perverted."
"So, who do you like better, men or women?
"I like gay men and straight women."
I've been called "The Bisexual Bridge."
People say to me, "I thought I was gay (or straight)
until I met you. Now I think I'm bi."
And drag queens. I'm totally into drag queens.
When I was a kid I wanted to be a drag king
before it was even called that.
In the locker room after gym
I would dance and strut on the benches singing "Macho Man."
Also I would imitate Mick Jagger of The Rolling Stones
and Peter Frampton.
I've never been successfully monogamous in my life.
I tried, but now I've given up trying. It's not my thing.
I like group sex and public sex and rough sex and gentle sex and
loving sex and cruel sex and quickie sex and all day long sex and
afternoon sex and morning sex and late night sex and
drunken sex and sober sex and spiritual sex and satanic sex.
I like to bottom and I like to top.
I like to be Mommy and I like to be Daddy's girl, and
I like to be Daddy and I like to be Momma's boy.
I like email sex and phone sex and MySpace sex.
Any orifice; any tool; any prop is okay by me.
(Though, in general, I prefer to avoid anything that would lead
to a trip to the emergency room and police inquiries.)
I like them old and young and in between.
It's the enthusiasm, that's the thing.
I like them thin and plump, tall and short, big and small.
It's the attitude, not the amplitude.
I like to fuck and to be fucked
again and again.
I fuck in my dreams and
when I wake up
I fuck some more.
Pedestrian Rage
Pedestrian Rage
You’ve heard of road rage, of course,
when the frustration of sharing the road
with inconsiderate putzes and assholes
gets to those drivers who
just can’t take it anymore and
they start shooting their fellow
road-hogs. Those are the most
extreme cases. Milder cases of
road rage are happening all the time
in the form of flipping people off,
swearing, throwing things, and
driving even more aggressively, etc..
Well I have pedestrian rage.
You may think I actually mean sidewalk rage,
because that would be the analogous construction,
and I do have rage on the sidewalk,
but also when I’m crossing the street,
or in the shopping mall or grocery store.
I avoid going to the grocery store
or mall on busy Saturdays because I just know
I’m going to kill someone. And my rage
is not just for my fellow pedestrians,
but also cars, bicycles, roller skaters,
baby strollers, wheelchairs, walkers, etc..
And dogs! If I didn’t find them too repulsive
to be near I would certainly kill them
and bake them into doggy pies
and feed them to their obnoxious,
oblivious owners who let their dogs shit
everywhere so it gets in peoples’ shoe treads
and keeps getting spread around, stinking up the place.
And dog shit definitely smells worse than people shit.
Why am I so mad? Well I’ll tell you.
The main reason is that people are slow
and won’t get out of my way.
How can they not understand
that when you’re on the sidewalk and
there are people behind you, you can’t
just stop in the middle of the sidewalk or
walk at a snail’s pace and block anyone
from getting around you and passing you?
Don’t they understand that some of us
have places to go?! Or people who come
to the end of the escalator and just stand
there so that everyone behind them ends
up smashing into them if they can’t
squeeze around them. But there’s more.
There are the drivers who come
speeding around the corner so fast
I think they’re going to run me down
when I have the light. So when that happens
I scream at the top of my lungs
“I HAVE THE LIGHT, ASSHOLE!”
while giving them the finger and crossing the street,
and those motherfuckers just have to wait
BECAUSE IT’S MY FUCKING TURN.
But the people who cross against the light
on a busy street have earned my wrath as well.
They mess everyone up. The cars can’t obey
their light without running them over,
so the cars end up in the middle of the street,
trying to turn, when pedestrians who do follow
the lights finally get the green.
Is it any wonder that things in
this country are so fucked up
when people can’t even figure out
how to follow traffic lights?
What could be simpler than red and green?
Even porn stars get what red and green mean.
Maybe porn stars should be running the country.
Maybe to be allowed to vote, or even just drive,
people should have to submit a porn movie
of themselves doing an S & M scene
where red meant stop and green meant go.
If knowing what they meant was the only way
to have any control over how much pain
you were feeling in your pussy, or
how tight your ball stretcher was,
you’d figure it out or be sorry.
And why are those bicycles on the sidewalks
when the sign clearly says
“No Bicycles on the Sidewalk”
in pictorial form, so not being able to read
isn’t even an excuse. What do they think
that big line across the picture of the bicycle means?
And if you can’t maneuver
one of those big double or quadruple strollers,
maybe you shouldn’t have had so many kids
or maybe you shouldn’t take them out of the house
all at once until they can walk.
And if you can’t work your wheelchair or walker,
hire a damn healthcare worker to push you.
I’m sure there’s lots of people who would like the job.
Or just don’t leave home, because
I sure as hell am not going to pick you up
off the sidewalk when you tip over.
I’m more likely to kick you all over and
stomp on your face and
wipe the dog shit from my shoes on you.
You’ve heard of road rage, of course,
when the frustration of sharing the road
with inconsiderate putzes and assholes
gets to those drivers who
just can’t take it anymore and
they start shooting their fellow
road-hogs. Those are the most
extreme cases. Milder cases of
road rage are happening all the time
in the form of flipping people off,
swearing, throwing things, and
driving even more aggressively, etc..
Well I have pedestrian rage.
You may think I actually mean sidewalk rage,
because that would be the analogous construction,
and I do have rage on the sidewalk,
but also when I’m crossing the street,
or in the shopping mall or grocery store.
I avoid going to the grocery store
or mall on busy Saturdays because I just know
I’m going to kill someone. And my rage
is not just for my fellow pedestrians,
but also cars, bicycles, roller skaters,
baby strollers, wheelchairs, walkers, etc..
And dogs! If I didn’t find them too repulsive
to be near I would certainly kill them
and bake them into doggy pies
and feed them to their obnoxious,
oblivious owners who let their dogs shit
everywhere so it gets in peoples’ shoe treads
and keeps getting spread around, stinking up the place.
And dog shit definitely smells worse than people shit.
Why am I so mad? Well I’ll tell you.
The main reason is that people are slow
and won’t get out of my way.
How can they not understand
that when you’re on the sidewalk and
there are people behind you, you can’t
just stop in the middle of the sidewalk or
walk at a snail’s pace and block anyone
from getting around you and passing you?
Don’t they understand that some of us
have places to go?! Or people who come
to the end of the escalator and just stand
there so that everyone behind them ends
up smashing into them if they can’t
squeeze around them. But there’s more.
There are the drivers who come
speeding around the corner so fast
I think they’re going to run me down
when I have the light. So when that happens
I scream at the top of my lungs
“I HAVE THE LIGHT, ASSHOLE!”
while giving them the finger and crossing the street,
and those motherfuckers just have to wait
BECAUSE IT’S MY FUCKING TURN.
But the people who cross against the light
on a busy street have earned my wrath as well.
They mess everyone up. The cars can’t obey
their light without running them over,
so the cars end up in the middle of the street,
trying to turn, when pedestrians who do follow
the lights finally get the green.
Is it any wonder that things in
this country are so fucked up
when people can’t even figure out
how to follow traffic lights?
What could be simpler than red and green?
Even porn stars get what red and green mean.
Maybe porn stars should be running the country.
Maybe to be allowed to vote, or even just drive,
people should have to submit a porn movie
of themselves doing an S & M scene
where red meant stop and green meant go.
If knowing what they meant was the only way
to have any control over how much pain
you were feeling in your pussy, or
how tight your ball stretcher was,
you’d figure it out or be sorry.
And why are those bicycles on the sidewalks
when the sign clearly says
“No Bicycles on the Sidewalk”
in pictorial form, so not being able to read
isn’t even an excuse. What do they think
that big line across the picture of the bicycle means?
And if you can’t maneuver
one of those big double or quadruple strollers,
maybe you shouldn’t have had so many kids
or maybe you shouldn’t take them out of the house
all at once until they can walk.
And if you can’t work your wheelchair or walker,
hire a damn healthcare worker to push you.
I’m sure there’s lots of people who would like the job.
Or just don’t leave home, because
I sure as hell am not going to pick you up
off the sidewalk when you tip over.
I’m more likely to kick you all over and
stomp on your face and
wipe the dog shit from my shoes on you.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
One of my "alphabet" poems, which were initially inspired by Emmett Williams' "the ultimate poem"
I Could Change the World If Only I Could Get Up in the Morning
complaint
oozing
friend
noble inside radio alter caretaker
open possible fountain enlightenment oeuvre
crumble shrivel pandering feather terror
noble marred sadness face caution nightmare
open deleterious children never coffee chalk
crumble crime sympathetic worry stutter jail
shine marred nightmare
candy deleterious chalk
society crime jail
breakfast inside baggage alter caretaker
deluxe possible pessimism enlightenment oeuvre
crazy shrivel foreign feather terror
complaint somewhere
oozing deter
friend jammed
inside face alter arrow
possible never enlightenment cater
shrivel worry feather under
complaint
oozing
friend
noble inside radio alter caretaker
open possible fountain enlightenment oeuvre
crumble shrivel pandering feather terror
caution nightmare shine
coffee chalk candy
stutter jail society
radio outside
fountain doting
pandering jingle
complaint face
oozing never
friend worry
shine marred nightmare
candy deleterious chalk
society crime jail
hate inside baggage face complaint face caution
murder possible pessimism never oozing never coffee
gravel shrivel foreign worry friend worry stutter
complaint
oozing
friend
noble inside radio alter caretaker
open possible fountain enlightenment oeuvre
crumble shrivel pandering feather terror
noble marred sadness face caution nightmare
open deleterious children never coffee chalk
crumble crime sympathetic worry stutter jail
shine marred nightmare
candy deleterious chalk
society crime jail
breakfast inside baggage alter caretaker
deluxe possible pessimism enlightenment oeuvre
crazy shrivel foreign feather terror
complaint somewhere
oozing deter
friend jammed
inside face alter arrow
possible never enlightenment cater
shrivel worry feather under
complaint
oozing
friend
noble inside radio alter caretaker
open possible fountain enlightenment oeuvre
crumble shrivel pandering feather terror
caution nightmare shine
coffee chalk candy
stutter jail society
radio outside
fountain doting
pandering jingle
complaint face
oozing never
friend worry
shine marred nightmare
candy deleterious chalk
society crime jail
hate inside baggage face complaint face caution
murder possible pessimism never oozing never coffee
gravel shrivel foreign worry friend worry stutter
The poem from my book LSfP that I read 1-31-09 at Elbo Room just before The Stoneflys played
Boyfriend
I love my boyfriend
He’s the best
He gives me food
and he gives me sex
He works harder
than anyone I know
He always listens to me
even when I’m feeling low
I love my boyfriend
He’s A-Okay
He is really cool
and he likes to play
He has long hair
and an even longer nose
I like to fart on his face
when his eyes are closed
I hate my boyfriend
He’s such a dick
He tried to fuck my ass
with a carrot stick
I said do we have to play
salad-shooter again?
He went off by himself
to play with his little friend
I miss my boyfriend
Where’d he go?
He’s the only sado-pervert
I want to know
When he looks at me
with his evil-eye
I’m glad to have a guy
whose inner child isn’t shy
I love my boyfriend
I love my boyfriend
I love my boyfriend
He’s the best
He gives me food
and he gives me sex
He works harder
than anyone I know
He always listens to me
even when I’m feeling low
I love my boyfriend
He’s A-Okay
He is really cool
and he likes to play
He has long hair
and an even longer nose
I like to fart on his face
when his eyes are closed
I hate my boyfriend
He’s such a dick
He tried to fuck my ass
with a carrot stick
I said do we have to play
salad-shooter again?
He went off by himself
to play with his little friend
I miss my boyfriend
Where’d he go?
He’s the only sado-pervert
I want to know
When he looks at me
with his evil-eye
I’m glad to have a guy
whose inner child isn’t shy
I love my boyfriend
I love my boyfriend
The poem from my book Love Songs from Psychopaths that I read at Elbo Room 1-25-09 just before Overman played
Confession of Penis Envy
More than anything else
I would like to be
a gentleman and a scholar,
but failing that,
as I know I must,
I would like to have a brain
with large, long, glowing tentacles
reaching out
to conquer the world.
This is my most evil fantasy.
But mine it is,
and I shall not deny it.
I would like to be a man,
no, much better than a man,
better than an Ubermensch,
better than Scylla and Charybdis
all wrapped up in one.
I would touch and enter and feel
everything.
I would be in control.
I would kiss you.
And run my tentacles through your hair.
More than anything else
I would like to be
a gentleman and a scholar,
but failing that,
as I know I must,
I would like to have a brain
with large, long, glowing tentacles
reaching out
to conquer the world.
This is my most evil fantasy.
But mine it is,
and I shall not deny it.
I would like to be a man,
no, much better than a man,
better than an Ubermensch,
better than Scylla and Charybdis
all wrapped up in one.
I would touch and enter and feel
everything.
I would be in control.
I would kiss you.
And run my tentacles through your hair.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The anti-smiling poem I read at The Spot 1-27-09
Why Aren‘t You Smiling?
If someone asks me why
I’m not smiling, or worse,
tells me to smile,
it infuriates me.
I don’t understand.
On what planet,
under what circumstance,
is it appropriate to tell someone
what facial expression to have?
Especially considering that
facial gestures are not universal
(as some people would have you believe)
but differ according to race,
culture, class, gender, and other variables.
I feel like I’m smiling my creepy little face off.
I genuinely try to be pleasant, sincere,
to treat other people as I would want to be treated.
But I’m not smiling enough.
People ask why I’m sad.
But I’m not sad.
I’m perfectly content.
Until they tell me
they have a problem
with my face.
Again, how is this appropriate?
It’s not.
It’s sexist and racist and fascist
and downright obnoxious and annoying
and unforgivable, though I do forgive
again and again.
What I want to say is,
“How are you so ignorant
that you don’t know that that is
a totally offensive, sexist,
racist thing to say?’'
Or, “I’m sorry. Am I not
feminine and subservient
enough for you? This
drag queen—sex slave—geisha girl
thing I got going isn’t sufficient?
Do I need to demean myself
further for you to be satisfied?”
Or, “I’m so sick (literally puking my guts out)
of living in a culture where people smile at you
while they’re simultaneously lying to your face
that I don’t want to contribute
to the emotional/ mental/ ideological pollution.”
Or, “I don’t tell you what to do
with your face, but if I did,
I’d tell you to kiss my ass.”
But no matter what I say,
they don’t get it.
They think people should smile.
Smile!
There’s a war on!
Smile!
Your baby’s on crack!
Smile!
People have credit card debt and, what’s worse, no health insurance!
Smile!
You can’t afford the lifestyle you aspire to!
Smile!
Your children want to kill themselves!
Smile!
The powers-that-be don’t want you to know the truth!
Smile Smile Smile
or you might hurt someone’s feelings.
You might disappoint—not meet a customer’s expectations.
Hey, we all have to cater to assholes with money,
so if they want you to smile at them,
then smile!
Damn it!
If someone asks me why
I’m not smiling, or worse,
tells me to smile,
it infuriates me.
I don’t understand.
On what planet,
under what circumstance,
is it appropriate to tell someone
what facial expression to have?
Especially considering that
facial gestures are not universal
(as some people would have you believe)
but differ according to race,
culture, class, gender, and other variables.
I feel like I’m smiling my creepy little face off.
I genuinely try to be pleasant, sincere,
to treat other people as I would want to be treated.
But I’m not smiling enough.
People ask why I’m sad.
But I’m not sad.
I’m perfectly content.
Until they tell me
they have a problem
with my face.
Again, how is this appropriate?
It’s not.
It’s sexist and racist and fascist
and downright obnoxious and annoying
and unforgivable, though I do forgive
again and again.
What I want to say is,
“How are you so ignorant
that you don’t know that that is
a totally offensive, sexist,
racist thing to say?’'
Or, “I’m sorry. Am I not
feminine and subservient
enough for you? This
drag queen—sex slave—geisha girl
thing I got going isn’t sufficient?
Do I need to demean myself
further for you to be satisfied?”
Or, “I’m so sick (literally puking my guts out)
of living in a culture where people smile at you
while they’re simultaneously lying to your face
that I don’t want to contribute
to the emotional/ mental/ ideological pollution.”
Or, “I don’t tell you what to do
with your face, but if I did,
I’d tell you to kiss my ass.”
But no matter what I say,
they don’t get it.
They think people should smile.
Smile!
There’s a war on!
Smile!
Your baby’s on crack!
Smile!
People have credit card debt and, what’s worse, no health insurance!
Smile!
You can’t afford the lifestyle you aspire to!
Smile!
Your children want to kill themselves!
Smile!
The powers-that-be don’t want you to know the truth!
Smile Smile Smile
or you might hurt someone’s feelings.
You might disappoint—not meet a customer’s expectations.
Hey, we all have to cater to assholes with money,
so if they want you to smile at them,
then smile!
Damn it!
Monday, January 26, 2009
PolyRhythmic Tuesdays at The Spot!
POLYRHYTHMIC "Without a Trace," a mid-winter residency at The Spot
near Uptown, Tuesdays thru February...
The Green Room @ The Spot, 4437 N Broadway @ Montrose
10 pm, $3, 21 and over, open mic for poets, singers, puppets, ringers
and you, plus featured performers:
Jan.27 RICH EXPERIENCE! "Keytarist, Hilariator"
Feb.3 NIKKI PATIN Performance poet/burlesque artist/ vocalist/media
commentator/ poetry slam champion/ PolyRhythmic co-founder
Feb.10 JAMAAL VS MAY Author/ teacher/ performance poet from Detroit
Feb.17 BIG POPPA E slam legend from Northern California & WONDER DAVE
MPLS slam master, international slam competitor.
Feb.24 SEAN CONLON Hampshire College spoken word organizer &
performer/ Hampshire County, MA slam master, national slam competitor
...and then the return of "Safe Smiles" in March!
myspace.com/polyrhythmicchicago
Helltrane since 2001
near Uptown, Tuesdays thru February...
The Green Room @ The Spot, 4437 N Broadway @ Montrose
10 pm, $3, 21 and over, open mic for poets, singers, puppets, ringers
and you, plus featured performers:
Jan.27 RICH EXPERIENCE! "Keytarist, Hilariator"
Feb.3 NIKKI PATIN Performance poet/burlesque artist/ vocalist/media
commentator/ poetry slam champion/ PolyRhythmic co-founder
Feb.10 JAMAAL VS MAY Author/ teacher/ performance poet from Detroit
Feb.17 BIG POPPA E slam legend from Northern California & WONDER DAVE
MPLS slam master, international slam competitor.
Feb.24 SEAN CONLON Hampshire College spoken word organizer &
performer/ Hampshire County, MA slam master, national slam competitor
...and then the return of "Safe Smiles" in March!
myspace.com/polyrhythmicchicago
Helltrane since 2001
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
The poem about dollies I read at The Spot 1-20-09
If I Didn’t Have Dollies
If I didn’t have
dollies
I would have to
bring people home
and kill them
and stuff them
so that I could
hold them
anytime
I wanted.
They would be mine
always.
And never
could they leave.
I would keep them
on the couch
and carry them
to bed
and touch them
anywhere
I wanted and
they would be
mine mine mine.
So the next time
you feel
like ridiculing
someone
for collecting
dolls
or anything
for that matter
just remember
the lives
that are saved
when it’s things
that are collected
rather than
human bodies.
If I didn’t have
dollies
I would have to
bring people home
and kill them
and stuff them
so that I could
hold them
anytime
I wanted.
They would be mine
always.
And never
could they leave.
I would keep them
on the couch
and carry them
to bed
and touch them
anywhere
I wanted and
they would be
mine mine mine.
So the next time
you feel
like ridiculing
someone
for collecting
dolls
or anything
for that matter
just remember
the lives
that are saved
when it’s things
that are collected
rather than
human bodies.
The MySpace poem I read at The Spot 1-20-09
I’m a MySpace Addict
Will you be my friend?
Who can I ask to be my friend?
I hope someone cool asks to be my friend.
When is my favorite band playing?
I’ll leave a comment about them.
Maybe someone will leave a comment about me.
I have 135 friends.
I’m going to get more and more friends.
What can I write in my blog?
I can choose from a long list of moods
and an animated smiley face will illustrate
the mood I choose.
I can let everyone know what book I’m reading
and what cd I’m listening to.
Look. I choose it from the list
and the picture shows up in my blog.
This is so cool.
I’ll let everyone know about my poetry reading.
I’ll send out a bulletin.
I’ll do a search on a name and try to find my old boyfriend.
Look there he is. He doesn’t have as many friends as I do.
He’s going bald. His wife is fat. They have dogs.
Look I have new event invites.
There are so many events to go to.
How will I decide what to go to?
I guess it depends on my work schedule
and where I can get a cab home from.
Maybe I’ll meet some cute guys and then
I can do a search on their names and ask them
to be my friends on MySpace.
I better make a point of remembering
their names correctly or at least
what they look like.
All these guys I don’t know
are asking to be my friends.
Their pictures look weird
like those that come in the picture frames
you buy at Walgreens.
They could be stupid and creepy.
Maybe I should accept them as friends
because they’re interested in my poetry.
One guy sent me a message.
He says that he is 20-something and
Puerto Rican with green eyes and
hangs on the Northwest side of Chicago.
He says that I seem like a freaky bad girl
and that I should definitely get back to him.
Gee, I don’t know.
I accepted this one guy as my friend.
I actually felt weird about it,
but then I decided I should go ahead
and accept him
because I need
to build my audience.
He’s sent me 7 messages just today.
“I’m still up. Call me.”
“Meet me for a drink.”
“Pick up the phone.”
“Let’s hook up.”
“We make the perfect couple.”
I’ve never met this person before.
I actually emailed him and asked him
if he had seen me read before, or if we had met,
or if we had friends in common.
He said, no, he just was looking
for cool people in Chicago.
His profile says he is nocturnal
and likes cats and is looking for nice ladies.
Maybe he’s a vampire.
His other friends are either dominatrixes or
suicidal goth girls.
I’m going to delete him from my friends.
That’s the first time I ever deleted anybody.
But I’m thinking he could be my first
MySpace stalker.
Will you be my friend?
Who can I ask to be my friend?
I hope someone cool asks to be my friend.
When is my favorite band playing?
I’ll leave a comment about them.
Maybe someone will leave a comment about me.
I have 135 friends.
I’m going to get more and more friends.
What can I write in my blog?
I can choose from a long list of moods
and an animated smiley face will illustrate
the mood I choose.
I can let everyone know what book I’m reading
and what cd I’m listening to.
Look. I choose it from the list
and the picture shows up in my blog.
This is so cool.
I’ll let everyone know about my poetry reading.
I’ll send out a bulletin.
I’ll do a search on a name and try to find my old boyfriend.
Look there he is. He doesn’t have as many friends as I do.
He’s going bald. His wife is fat. They have dogs.
Look I have new event invites.
There are so many events to go to.
How will I decide what to go to?
I guess it depends on my work schedule
and where I can get a cab home from.
Maybe I’ll meet some cute guys and then
I can do a search on their names and ask them
to be my friends on MySpace.
I better make a point of remembering
their names correctly or at least
what they look like.
All these guys I don’t know
are asking to be my friends.
Their pictures look weird
like those that come in the picture frames
you buy at Walgreens.
They could be stupid and creepy.
Maybe I should accept them as friends
because they’re interested in my poetry.
One guy sent me a message.
He says that he is 20-something and
Puerto Rican with green eyes and
hangs on the Northwest side of Chicago.
He says that I seem like a freaky bad girl
and that I should definitely get back to him.
Gee, I don’t know.
I accepted this one guy as my friend.
I actually felt weird about it,
but then I decided I should go ahead
and accept him
because I need
to build my audience.
He’s sent me 7 messages just today.
“I’m still up. Call me.”
“Meet me for a drink.”
“Pick up the phone.”
“Let’s hook up.”
“We make the perfect couple.”
I’ve never met this person before.
I actually emailed him and asked him
if he had seen me read before, or if we had met,
or if we had friends in common.
He said, no, he just was looking
for cool people in Chicago.
His profile says he is nocturnal
and likes cats and is looking for nice ladies.
Maybe he’s a vampire.
His other friends are either dominatrixes or
suicidal goth girls.
I’m going to delete him from my friends.
That’s the first time I ever deleted anybody.
But I’m thinking he could be my first
MySpace stalker.
Monday, January 12, 2009
PolyRhythmic Without a Trace at THE SPOT 1-20-09
PolyRhythmic's weekly open mic show resumes Jan. 20 at The Spot
This just in kiddies! The owners of The Spot (4437 N Broadway) have graciously allowed us to have our open mic show upstairs in the "green room" while Trace is shut down for renovations. There will be no show January 13, but we'll get it up and running January 20th, and we really want people to come.
Things are basically the same except for the venue.
PolyRhythmic Without a Trace
Tuesdays @ THE SPOT
4437 N Broadway
sign-up starts @ 10 pm
4 minutes to do your thing
21 and over please
Love,
Elizabeth, Drew, Bill, Billy, and Zeeshan
This just in kiddies! The owners of The Spot (4437 N Broadway) have graciously allowed us to have our open mic show upstairs in the "green room" while Trace is shut down for renovations. There will be no show January 13, but we'll get it up and running January 20th, and we really want people to come.
Things are basically the same except for the venue.
PolyRhythmic Without a Trace
Tuesdays @ THE SPOT
4437 N Broadway
sign-up starts @ 10 pm
4 minutes to do your thing
21 and over please
Love,
Elizabeth, Drew, Bill, Billy, and Zeeshan
Thursday, January 8, 2009
The poem I read at Jaks January 5, 2008
crazy trails to you may your way make you weary and your thoughts bleary enough so that you can see truth in a new carnival booth where everyone's a winner and the prizes are actually worth winning lying is not the enemy nor those many obstacles and patches of thorns along the way even the desire to give up chasing you on thoroughbred horseback has its beauty and role to play or don't you believe
boredom murder kinesthetic passion learned framing wrangled nightmares blooming tumbling downstairs and across the hall should you call should you wait for him to call will you hear the phone when it finally rings or will the sound be drowned out by the music in your head he's not a prince he's not the cynical and rumpled but adorable cop who will solve the case but where is he and what's he waiting for now
mine eyes have seen the miasma of the coming of the hoard it is jamming up the air waves and washing garbage onto the shore did you mean herd did you mean heard did you mean the worst thing you could possibly never imagine did you mean that which gets you drunk on your own obliviousness and keeps you that way day after day myspace rat race car chase terrible waste mind-boggling morphing face laced
white shoes blue moods drinking myself into a coma yet again going through the tunnel blind hoping there's something better on the other side but why hope and why try when we're all just waiting to die lovers are the only saviors and fuck that guy on the cross we are all lost and hoping to be found over and over again like candy hidden in a coat pocket or a desk drawer like before
it's the hope of love that keeps waking you up like an early morning garbage truck bright and white and gleaming and filthy and reeking got to love the morning if you can't stand the nights when you're so alone you're not even you but travailing thoughts walking fleeing freeing did you mean traveling did you mean unraveling did you mean the mean fairies stealing your good sense away from you every chance they get
my sighs try to find their way out to the ones who will be able to hear them even if only for a moment or hold them on the sofa until they stop crying stop bleeding stop needing and drift off to sleep heartbreak is good for writing knowing the mistakes you can't help making the risks you can't help taking even though you should know better even though you have been through this before
and you will try to figure it out before all the others win the game solve the mystery before anyone else has a chance but you will not be able to no matter how carefully you search for clues and follow the patterns forming in the wallpaper on the walls of the box invisible to everyone else that you can't escape even with mime exercises always trapped always partially collapsed and folding and unfolding again
boredom murder kinesthetic passion learned framing wrangled nightmares blooming tumbling downstairs and across the hall should you call should you wait for him to call will you hear the phone when it finally rings or will the sound be drowned out by the music in your head he's not a prince he's not the cynical and rumpled but adorable cop who will solve the case but where is he and what's he waiting for now
mine eyes have seen the miasma of the coming of the hoard it is jamming up the air waves and washing garbage onto the shore did you mean herd did you mean heard did you mean the worst thing you could possibly never imagine did you mean that which gets you drunk on your own obliviousness and keeps you that way day after day myspace rat race car chase terrible waste mind-boggling morphing face laced
white shoes blue moods drinking myself into a coma yet again going through the tunnel blind hoping there's something better on the other side but why hope and why try when we're all just waiting to die lovers are the only saviors and fuck that guy on the cross we are all lost and hoping to be found over and over again like candy hidden in a coat pocket or a desk drawer like before
it's the hope of love that keeps waking you up like an early morning garbage truck bright and white and gleaming and filthy and reeking got to love the morning if you can't stand the nights when you're so alone you're not even you but travailing thoughts walking fleeing freeing did you mean traveling did you mean unraveling did you mean the mean fairies stealing your good sense away from you every chance they get
my sighs try to find their way out to the ones who will be able to hear them even if only for a moment or hold them on the sofa until they stop crying stop bleeding stop needing and drift off to sleep heartbreak is good for writing knowing the mistakes you can't help making the risks you can't help taking even though you should know better even though you have been through this before
and you will try to figure it out before all the others win the game solve the mystery before anyone else has a chance but you will not be able to no matter how carefully you search for clues and follow the patterns forming in the wallpaper on the walls of the box invisible to everyone else that you can't escape even with mime exercises always trapped always partially collapsed and folding and unfolding again
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