In Bringing Poetry Month to a Close

I have to showcase Staceyann Chin. She is perhaps my favorite poet. She's raw, funny, sexy and hauntingly honest. I am trying to be as courageous in my writing.

Here is my latest favorite:

What is sex, Exactly?

Three fingers and a barrier

no fluids/fluids

what about breath/what if she just panted a little
on your panties

what if you kept your top on/in the shower
in the hours before dawn

one finger/no barrier
silk/or lace

her face on your nipple/palm on chest
with bra/without a skirt

one hand under her shirt
no penetration/but you came

what if you got permission
would that mean you cheated

what if the it wasn't that heated
or that good

what if the hood of your jacket
stayed on the whole time
what if you thought of your lover/said her name
a hundred times/under your breath

out loud

should you be proud that you held her
present in every moment

what if there is no dick
no licking of parts deigned genital

what if you only kissed her face
but she opened like a parachute/and bled all over your hands

what if you did it standing in the hallway
of a church
what if you said ten Hail Mary's after it was done

what if it wasn't that much fun
what if you wanted to take it back when you were done

what if there were no lips/no slipping of anything
inside of anybody

only a humping
just an impassioned bumping of groin
against groin

moan or no moan
on a bed of foam/at home

outside/at a bar
far enough in to say that something happened

what exactly
you cannot say

tongues
open surfaces/non-private

heated glances across the room
cliches/really
possibilities of what could happen in another life

another lifetime
what if we had a parallel reality

another one of me/you
to be circumspect/to not consider what could be not-sex
with you

with her/with the parallel versions of us

could ignore these consequences
not have to
reference these parameters

why can't can I just jump
measure the cost/later

much later

in this lifetime
after the flushes/and the hush/hush/love

not so loud
mind the neighbors/the dogs
wooden floors is not made for this kind of activity

I have to be careful

though I want to press you
to the walls of the shower

make no note these hours passing so quickly
with your fingers buried
in my hair/my heart/my art

I want to reduce the neighbors
to whispers

so they would know
that what we are doing
is something akin to fucking/to rutting

to making the kind of love
they only dream of

I wish women would be honest enough to say

the basic fingering of foolishness
we endure from some loves
is not enough to make us come
alive

what exactly is

sex is exactly the intent with which a body moves
if she comes

you can say you fucked her
even without hands

if you wiggled a pinkie/a thumb
if you made her cunt numb without taking off a stitch of clothes

witch or craft
if you stroked the shaft of her rising

be with word or deed

if she needs you before bedtime
when she awakens
if she calls/if you crawl the floors in her absence

if she references the map of your skin
if you pin her to a wall

if she falls when you push your leg
between hers

if she bleeds for you
if you cut the wrists of your yearning with her profile

if your insides turn when you think of her
kissing her lover

you are already fucked
the parts of you still tucked away from wanting her
are doomed to emerge eventually

they will be marked by her ardor
striped by the way your eyes reach for her

in a crowded room
no hands
you have already committed the sin

tin-man or straw heart
the brick road ahead will be hard to follow

it will be impossible to turn back/it will be
painful to acknowledge

the details of such a thing will haunt you
how far
was too far/at what point was enough/enough to say

we crossed a line
having smudged the chalky lines with our bodies
arching/ardent on these floors

the more I think of it/the more
I am inclined to press the details in palms that will hold them

without judgment/my friends far away
have no opinion on the matter

are you happy, bitch

then I really don't give a fuck
if you fucked her or/if you fingered Mary Magdalene

if she makes you laugh/if she makes you food/if
she makes you scream the right notes

when you are nestled
if she makes you purr/pen in hand
if she informs that pool of ink you call your god

then she is good for you
like the Ocean/after a good cry

like the wind
when you have just about had it with the heat of Summer

if she can hold you when you holding back those waters that threaten
to drown you at night
if she feels right

the details of some afternoon
fading futile into hindsight
are irrelevant

what glints iridescent is the glow of you
giggling
you wiggling a self we worried was gone from the fierce warrior in you

all weapon and wielding
we need you whole

and we ain't mad at you getting a little nookie
now and then a girl needs to get her nuggets shined

all the ducks don't have to be lined up
they say

nipple or hands or shirts peeled off
barrier or no barrier
fingers or feet

it's good to see you coming
back to yourself

fluid and flowing
breath and beginnings

we give you permission to laugh out loud

forget the neighbors
the dogs
the questions of forever can no longer inform your yesterday

act first
in accordance with the now

today is the fulcrum upon which all future pleasures turn
burn the belly of the broken

look to what remains whole
hold it to you

honestly

trust that the less than noble notions of lace
illicit lips
and the lumbering of the last minute regrets
will leave you eventually

to lock themselves
away from the light of this lithic luminescence

stretching itself
limitness across the length of my hair

my heart
my art is lucky to have you
hopeful

so let me hold you
whole

remain with me here
till the task of time requires the aging parts of us to be
elsewhere

Scenes From the Battle of Us

You are like a war novel, entirely lacking
female characters, except for an occasional
letter that makes one of the men cry.

I am like a table
that eats its own legs off
because it’s fallen
in love with the floor.

My frantic hand can’t find where my leg
went. You can play the tourniquet. A tree
with white limbs will grow here someday.

Or maybe a pup tent
that’s collapsed in on itself,
it so loves the sleep
of men sleeping beneath it.

The reason why women dislike war movies
may have something to do with why men hate
romantic comedies: they are both about war.

Perhaps I should
live in a pig’s trough.
There, I’d be wanted.
There, I’d be tasted.

When the mail bag drops from the sky
and lands heavy on the jungle floor, its letters
are prepared to swim away with your tears.

One letter reads:
I can barely feel
furtive. The other:
I am diminishing.

- Cate Marvin

Spring has sprung

and not in a good way.

I was always one of those "i don't have allergies" people. I secretly found humor but outwardly pitied those that suffered year after year of hay fever misery during the spring. I didn't think it was possible to develop allergies after all these years but my week of severe itchy eyes, scratchy throat, head is about to explode from drainage has made me think otherwise. I am being held hostage by the evil, pretty pink tree in my front yard on what could arguably be the most beautiful day of the year.

kill me now :(

Sleep Door

a light knocking on the sleep door
like the sound of a rope striking the side of a boat

heard underwater
boats pulling up alongside each other

beneath the surface we rub up against each other
will we capsize in

the surge and silence
of waking from sleep

you are a lost canoe, navigating by me
I am the star map tonight

all the failed echoes
don't matter

the painted-over murals
don't matter

you can find your way to me
by the faint star-lamp

we are a fleet now
our prows zeroing in

praying in the wind
to spin like haywire compasses

toward whichever direction
will have us

- Kazim Ali

Be Near Me

Be near me now,
My tormenter, my love, be near me—
At this hour when night comes down,
When, having drunk from the gash of sunset, darkness comes
With the balm of musk in its hands, its diamond lancets,
When it comes with cries of lamentation,
with laughter with songs;
Its blue-gray anklets of pain clinking with every step.
At this hour when hearts, deep in their hiding places,
Have begun to hope once more, when they start their vigil
For hands still enfolded in sleeves;
When wine being poured makes the sound
of inconsolable children
who, though you try with all your heart,
cannot be soothed.
When whatever you want to do cannot be done,
When nothing is of any use;
—At this hour when night comes down,
When night comes, dragging its long face,
dressed in mourning,
Be with me,
My tormenter, my love, be near me.




From The True Subject by Faiz Ahmed Faiz (picture of The James River in Richmond at sunset)

What Do Women Want?"

I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.

-Kim Addonizio

Obama Brushes the Dirt Off

Ha! love this video. Thanks Jay.

Inch by Inch I go

A Measuring Worm

This yellow striped green
Catepillar, climbing up
The steep window screen,
Constantly (for lack
of a full set of legs) keeps
humping up his back.
It’s as if he sent
By a sort of semaphore
Dark omegas meant
To warn of Last Things.
Although he doesn’t know it,
He will soon have wings,
And I, too, don’t know
Toward what undreamt condition
Inch by inch I go.

—-Richard Wilbur

I'm not Hating..But

Bloggers who admittedly hate to blog but get national recognition anyways.. SUCK! They are like the math geeks in school everyone hated because they always claimed Math was sooo hard for them but they got a A+ on every test.

I'm Not Hating... I'm Just Saying :)

Blues

I am lazy, the laziest
girl in the world. I sleep during
the day when I want to, 'til
my face is creased and swollen,
'til my lips are dry and hot. I
eat as I please: cookies and milk
after lunch, butter and sour cream
on my baked potato, foods that
slothful people eat, that turn
yellow and opaque beneath the skin.
Sometimes come dinnertime Sunday
I am still in my nightgown, the one
with the lace trim listing because
I have not mended it. Many days
I do not exercise, only
consider it, then rub my curdy
belly and lie down. Even
my poems are lazy. I use
syllabics instead of iambs,
prefer slant to the gong of full rhyme,
write briefly while others go
for pages. And yesterday,
for example, I did not work at all!
I got in my car and I drove
to factory outlet stores, purchased
stockings and panties and socks
with my father's money.

To think, in childhood I missed only
one day of school per year. I went
to ballet class four days a week
at four-forty-five and on
Saturdays, beginning always
with plie, ending with curtsy.
To think, I knew only industry,
the industry of my race
and of immigrants, the radio
tuned always to the station
that said, Line up your summer
job months in advance. Work hard
and do not shame your family,
who worked hard to give you what you have.
There is no sin but sloth. Burn
to a wick and keep moving.

I avoided sleep for years,
up at night replaying
evening news stories about
nearby jailbreaks, fat people
who ate fried chicken and woke up
dead. In sleep I am looking
for poems in the shape of open
V's of birds flying in formation,
or open arms saying, I forgive you, all.



From Body of Life by Elizabeth Alexander,

Happy Birthday Edda!

Heather..I know I promised to not post anything embarrassing on here and I wont. I wont post the videos of you singing karaoke badly (but not as badly as anjenette schafer) or the pics of you drunk off your ass. Instead, I will just tell you how blessed I've been all these years to have you as my friend. I'm not sure if I know a more caring, generous, authentic heart than yours. Countless are the times you saved my ass and countless are the times you've made me laugh. For all these things and more I wish you all the joy the world can muster. Today and Always!

Long Distance II

Though my mother was already two years dead
Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas,
put hot water bottles her side of the bed
and still went to renew her transport pass.

You couldn't just drop in. You had to phone.
He'd put you off an hour to give him time
to clear away her things and look alone
as though his still raw love were such a crime.

He couldn't risk my blight of disbelief
though sure that very soon he'd hear her key
scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief.
He knew she'd just popped out to get the tea.

I believe life ends with death, and that is all.
You haven't both gone shopping; just the same,
in my new black leather phone book there's your name
and the disconnected number I still call.

- Tony Harrison

Its 7:30 in the morning...Do you know where your civic obligation is?

Well I know where mine is. Its at the Prince George county courthouse reporting for jury duty. Unfortunately for me I had run out of excuses to postpone, delay and reschedule my summons. I guess there are only so many times you can have the Bird Flu.

I just don't understand why jury duty can't be a strictly voluntary endeavor but as my favorite smart-ass co worker Katie told me yesterday in her best Louisiana drawl "cause no one would show up!" We both agree that the unemployed should be responsible for jury duty. What else do they have to do? Let's make it a criteria for receiving unemployment benefits. Go ahead write your Congressman now!

The fact that I have to be here at 7:30 am is insane just so I can sit in a jury assembly room all day with the minute chance of being picked. Let's not forget..you only get a $15 stipend. I normally don't get out of bed for less than $300!

There is quite the motley crew in the assembly room today and like I usually do when I'm in a crowd I check out the cute guys (2 maybe 3. But that third one looks real suspect) and what the women are wearing. I conclude that I am the best dressed here. Second place goes to the mamacita with the Kelly green trench coat and mohair prada boots. She loses just for trying so hard (its jury duty people!). So after spending 6 hours being passed over for case after case my name was finally called.

I was given a red card with the number 64 on it and was told to get in line and wait for the bailiff. I must admit I was actually kinda excited to finally go into the court. I wanted to experience this important part of our democracy..be a integral part in it remaining fair and impartial..be a beacon of light for those who have lost all faith in the justice system! That was until they told us this would be a criminal case which could last up to 7 days. OH..HELL TO THE NAW! I start to panic..I've got too much shyt to do at work..my boss is going to freak..I have ADD..I couldn't possibly pay attention to anything for 7 days straight even if it was the murder trial of Bobby Brown for a crack induced killing spree.

And just when my panic fest was starting to kick into high gear an announcement was made that the judge only needed 57 jurors and the rest of the group could go home. Whoo hoo! I peaced out my fellow juror breathren and rushed back home just in time for Maury...

Justice has been served.

8 is the magic number...

well not really but it is the amount of questions to some cool surveys Ginger has tagged me to complete. It took me forever but I am returning the favor to Sheila, Haute , JJ , Jay and all my other friends lurking out there. I would love to know more about you!

8 Things I am Passionate About

1. Love. being in it...showing it to others
2. Fairness ..or my own sometimes skewed version of it (it's the Libra in me)
3. Knowledge..my inquisitive mind wont ever stand still
4. My wanderlust...I want to be a citizen of the world
5. Chai Tea
6. Creativity in all forms..poetry, prose, art, fashion, music, dance
7. Beauty..in wherever I find it..nature, paintings, clothes, buildings, people
8. My own writing..most times i feel like its not good enough..but I'm learning to love it

8 Things I Want To Do Before I Die

1. Live in Italy
2. Know what it feels like to be wealthy
3. Fall in love...stay in love
4. Have a book published
5. Travel to every continent
6. Live in a Victorian house with a wrap around porch
7. Know my purpose in life
8. Be at complete peace with every decision and choice I've made

8 Things I Say Too Often

1. WTF!
2. You are stupid!!
3. LOL
4. I was "like"..
5. Oh my Gawd!
6. I know...right?!?
7. Are you serious?
8. Sweetie

8 Books I Have Read Lately

1. The Alchemist
2. Eat, Pray, Love
3. The Lovely Bones
4. Love in the Time of Cholera
5. The Road
6. The Audacity of Hope
7. The New Earth
8. The Kite Runner

8 Songs (Artists) I Could Listen to Over and Over Again

1. The Blower's Daughter - Damian Rice
2. The Prayer - Andrea Bocelli and Celine Dion or Heather Headley
3. Autumn Leaves- Eva Cassidy
4. She Keeps On Passing Me By - Pharcyde
5. This Woman's Work - Maxwell
6. Lost Without You - Robin Thicke
7. Closer - Nine Inch Nails
8. Half the Man - Jamiroquai

8 Things That Attract Me To My Friends

1. their ability to love me for who i am
2. courageousness
3. talent
4. pure silliness
5. beauty
6. authenticity
7. wit and intellect
8. sensitivity

April "Fools for Poetry" Month

Thanks to RedHotMama for reminding me that this was National Poetry Month. So of course I will be posting some of my favorite poems throughout April. It's only fair that I first feature Ms. "Shooting Sanchez" herself as she is a very talented writer in her own right. I'm not sure if you would consider this piece poetry or a story.. or a story about poetry but in any case she moves me and that's what good poets do.

BTW, please feel free to send me your favorites too...enjoy!

*finger snaps* *lights incense*