Memories Of Mary Magdalene
I met you for the second time at Lorna's House
after you swallowed every pill in the bag and fell
off the balcony. Someone in the room called you
one crazy mother and they were right. At Gina's
Old-Fashioned Sportz Grill I used to wait outside
for a ride and I would see you drive by everyday
so one afternoon I waved at you and you screamed
"FUCK OFF" so loudly that the earth froze and every
person on it started feeling guilty for reasons they
could not explain.
I heard a rumor
you got your
clit pierced when
you were fifteen.
No one knows how old you are now but everyone
still wants you. You must take good care of your body.
Not like me. Today my diet consisted of twenty beers
and half a bag of Animal Crackers which I stopped eating
after I thought I heard one of the little buggers scream for its life.
Looking back, I feel like I should have finished that bag of
Animal Cookies or Crackers of whatever the heck they're
called because, in spite of their screams (which are indeed
horrendous) what kind of life is it to be trapped in a
fucking bag all the time? I guess it's no different than my life.
Or yours, even. I know that sounds crazy
(i'm a little wacky sometimes!) but if you think about it we
are all like those miniature animals, waiting for that perfect
someone to lift us up from our dreadful containers-of-being
and devour us completely.
Mary, I wish you
would do that for me.
Be my perfect someone.
Kill me while
I'm asleep,
dreaming of your
wild brown hair
************************
White Harbor, 1996
I remember many things
like practicing back-flips
on a trampolene with Joshua or
Larry getting angry
after I stomped out a can
of Jolt Cola in the
kitchen. Here, in Beverly's
torture garden, I am obliged by
physical laws to tell you
everything I know about myself.
To disguise his red eyes
my little-league coach wore
sunglasses and all of
my teachers thought I was
retarded. I remember Katie,
legs too long for playground
equipment. You
always hid behind a bush
before Brice would beat the
shit out of you. Math became
a new language at some
point. More Blueberries.
We were all like miniature
detectives, piecing our parents
together upstairs.
Yours bigger
than mine bigger than
yours.
I was not allowed to eat bread
each wednesday. I convinced
Kenny to tell the teacher
about his father, the
wife-beater. Lynette, a drummer,
hated her brother Neil, an
eighth grader who trapped
me in a bathroom stall
to spit Mountain Dew in my
eyes. I remember throwing up
in Keith's hair.
Through homeroom windows
we watched daily cataclysms
like Robbie getting paralyzed
playing King of The
Mountain. I remember
counting to thirty and chasing
you around the cul-de-sac.
Lisa, expelled for pot, was
so beautiful. I used to be alone
for many hours until Nate
called. Nate missed the bus
once and some kid called him
a sperm-drinker walking home.
Nick, three years older, snorted
pain-pills in a closet. The first time
I saw a person high was on
Halloween. I circled the neighborhood
for what seemed like my
whole life until I saw Alison,
naked in her room. I watched her
from a close distance and she noticed me,
standing in the road like a confused
animal. Teasingly, she blew a kiss
but before I could catch anything
Nate shot himself in the
basement and the sun
rose over like a
bloated authority figure.
I remember motivational speakers
in constricting gym shorts.
Myself in the present, bombed
in a bathroom stall. I cried on the
busride home and Andrew consoled
me patiently.
I remember his fat mother.
***********************
A Gap
through a symphony of clapping
bodies, standing
beside me, my favorite
helicopter-head: you.
we were too bored for
sitting around so we found
some psychoactives under
the couch. we
brought them to a parking lot
where new faces passed by
until night was gone
and the only face was yours,
a beautiful spotted thing.
as you know,
I can never not want
to tell you
everything, driving
home after lunch
when, as usual,
some sound outside
distracts me from
thoughts of failure
and I swerve into
a giant bus, ending
up in a hole somewhere
in the earth
where you escape
and I
remain seated,
tired and
miserable
like a
mastiff
in the
sun.
*************
please don't die, diva downer
after that particular
get-together
we spoke seldom at
the garden, not doing
much but
watching television,
marvelling at tropical
soda flavorings.
this one's for you, Shirley.
surely, this one's for you.
you may stay
at my house
under
unspoken conditions.
you see, a door is
always open for your
army of
nasty thoughts
about the
pre-legals across
the street,
taunting you with
their good skin,
shouting
"Amen!"
"Amen!"
when you're
not staring
at them.
whenever it's lights out
i'm wearing your
clothes without
caring,
thinking how far
you've come in the
years you were
dead to everyone.
that's you,
an armored insect
dodging a steel-toe
in summer,
a tornado
of regrets destroying
statues of
buildings
built by
men
you might find
suitable for
a
hardcore bedroom
fire derby
or maybe you are but a pebble
in the view of your crimson
kreator and I am just
another cipher
in your daydream,
handing you a chlorine
capsule to forget
the weekend
with.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
new poem
My Sister, The Woodchipper
On islands, we did bad things
Before their blinking lights
Chased us back to the Emporium.
On weekends, the clouds convulsed
Above our ripped skulls as
We walked into walls and puked
Pink over colorless subdivisions.
In Act One, she hijacked
A hovercraft and rode it into
The Empty City where she
Told me to stop staring,
That even she feels like a
Nobody in the eye of her
Freckled beauty. Later,
Alone
In Chester's Smut Locker,
I remembered myself two years
Younger, my ear hissing
Against the gameroom entrance, and
You calling for me through
The scramble of
Infernal engines. For now, you are
Still young, grazing your
Tongue over cocaine gums while
I lie in the trunk
Waiting for you
To untie me.
On islands, we did bad things
Before their blinking lights
Chased us back to the Emporium.
On weekends, the clouds convulsed
Above our ripped skulls as
We walked into walls and puked
Pink over colorless subdivisions.
In Act One, she hijacked
A hovercraft and rode it into
The Empty City where she
Told me to stop staring,
That even she feels like a
Nobody in the eye of her
Freckled beauty. Later,
Alone
In Chester's Smut Locker,
I remembered myself two years
Younger, my ear hissing
Against the gameroom entrance, and
You calling for me through
The scramble of
Infernal engines. For now, you are
Still young, grazing your
Tongue over cocaine gums while
I lie in the trunk
Waiting for you
To untie me.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
new poem
Residential Doubles
we woke to shrill lashes
of parental static and stayed still
until I crept into your mother's
pharmaceutical pantry for a few
more handfuls. It was
summer when the walls were
too thin to not spy on eachother, when
her pleasure arrived in sharp cries
through the hall and into my room and
into my arsenal. They found us
passed out at the
Shiloh Recreation Center, and
according to mirrors, we were older,
still skating the broken diameter of
a non-city spent under
spells of syrup and ether, past
echoes of other nights, names
not remembered, plaza to plaza
before cutting through the Health Park
on the way to your house. By the time
I zeroed out in Osprey,
you'd already forgotten me, and
life became a series of
unanswered phone-calls, some of
which make some of me still
feel guilty for forgetting you
not entirely. For weeks,
I hid in garbage bins and crashed
through fences, into backyards where
stepdads scrambled for reefer,
shirtless and full of anger, outside,
where we would duck in through the back
and watch
sisters act like sisters
before settling on poppers,
and later, again, I became
your shoulder until it was
time to go, until she
tripped over an uncoiled hose
and hurt her skull and hated me
for the rest of her life.
we woke to shrill lashes
of parental static and stayed still
until I crept into your mother's
pharmaceutical pantry for a few
more handfuls. It was
summer when the walls were
too thin to not spy on eachother, when
her pleasure arrived in sharp cries
through the hall and into my room and
into my arsenal. They found us
passed out at the
Shiloh Recreation Center, and
according to mirrors, we were older,
still skating the broken diameter of
a non-city spent under
spells of syrup and ether, past
echoes of other nights, names
not remembered, plaza to plaza
before cutting through the Health Park
on the way to your house. By the time
I zeroed out in Osprey,
you'd already forgotten me, and
life became a series of
unanswered phone-calls, some of
which make some of me still
feel guilty for forgetting you
not entirely. For weeks,
I hid in garbage bins and crashed
through fences, into backyards where
stepdads scrambled for reefer,
shirtless and full of anger, outside,
where we would duck in through the back
and watch
sisters act like sisters
before settling on poppers,
and later, again, I became
your shoulder until it was
time to go, until she
tripped over an uncoiled hose
and hurt her skull and hated me
for the rest of her life.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Sara
Part One.
I am fifteen years old. More people than ever now know how old I am because my face is plastered on the sides of buildings and streetlights.
I have been gone for nine months, the time it takes for a baby to come out of someone’s vagina. Last year, when I was 14, I became pregnant. A baby was put inside of me by a boy I do no much care for. The baby never came out of me and it is probably in a dumpster somewhere with a bunch of others just like it.
Last night I met a man named Charly. He was black, or a nigger, as my dad would say. Charly asked why someone like me would be prowling through the city streets without company. He said I was beautiful, that I deserved better. Then he tried to rape me in an alley so I stabbed him in the throat with a letter-opener I took from my mother’s work-desk shortly before I left home. I have never murdered anyone before. I’m not even sure If I killed Charly, I just know there was a lot of blood spewing from his neck and down into the rainy gutter.
My name is Sara. I am attempting to document my life up to this moment. I was considering not telling you my name, but what difference does it really make? If I could know your name, I promise I would remember it for the rest of my life.
When I was six my father read me many stories. I do not remember any of the stories specifically, just his voice and how it made me feel safe. When I am without sleep, without a place to lie down unless it is in some sleezoids bed after we fuck dissapointingly, I think of my father’s voice, of the stories I cannot remember, then I fall asleep, at least usually.
The other night, I stayed at this ratty house full of other kids like me, and there I met a girl two years older named Kelley. We had what some would call chemistry. Kelley had a tattoo of Orion’s belt above her pussy.
I am not scared of anything, really. Just boredom. When I used to get bored at my old house, I would drink lots of my parent’s liquor and go outside and watch the stars. Sometimes I would see Orion's Belt. Kelley has a tattoo of that. She rules.
I am fifteen years old. More people than ever now know how old I am because my face is plastered on the sides of buildings and streetlights.
I have been gone for nine months, the time it takes for a baby to come out of someone’s vagina. Last year, when I was 14, I became pregnant. A baby was put inside of me by a boy I do no much care for. The baby never came out of me and it is probably in a dumpster somewhere with a bunch of others just like it.
Last night I met a man named Charly. He was black, or a nigger, as my dad would say. Charly asked why someone like me would be prowling through the city streets without company. He said I was beautiful, that I deserved better. Then he tried to rape me in an alley so I stabbed him in the throat with a letter-opener I took from my mother’s work-desk shortly before I left home. I have never murdered anyone before. I’m not even sure If I killed Charly, I just know there was a lot of blood spewing from his neck and down into the rainy gutter.
My name is Sara. I am attempting to document my life up to this moment. I was considering not telling you my name, but what difference does it really make? If I could know your name, I promise I would remember it for the rest of my life.
When I was six my father read me many stories. I do not remember any of the stories specifically, just his voice and how it made me feel safe. When I am without sleep, without a place to lie down unless it is in some sleezoids bed after we fuck dissapointingly, I think of my father’s voice, of the stories I cannot remember, then I fall asleep, at least usually.
The other night, I stayed at this ratty house full of other kids like me, and there I met a girl two years older named Kelley. We had what some would call chemistry. Kelley had a tattoo of Orion’s belt above her pussy.
I am not scared of anything, really. Just boredom. When I used to get bored at my old house, I would drink lots of my parent’s liquor and go outside and watch the stars. Sometimes I would see Orion's Belt. Kelley has a tattoo of that. She rules.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Thursday, March 5, 2009
new poem
The Elderly
The Elderly are now
taking Cocaine Cues
from young men
with lip-piercings,
tattoos?
We were
originally trained find the
infamous Heartworms Of Spirit
and Body,
and there is a difference
between the use of
abstractions in poetry and
the use of poems
as psychoactives,
Uncle Lester's ass
still hurts, too taxed to buy
laxatives. I remember, your
number ended with three sixes,
or
were they twos? My first sentence
had something to do with the
sickly, or
splinters covering The Elderly,
still circling
outlines of
old enemies, lost
in the city, and
bored by poetry,
we, the disposessed,
deserve some hot sex,
some hard candy...?
The Elderly are now
taking Cocaine Cues
from young men
with lip-piercings,
tattoos?
We were
originally trained find the
infamous Heartworms Of Spirit
and Body,
and there is a difference
between the use of
abstractions in poetry and
the use of poems
as psychoactives,
Uncle Lester's ass
still hurts, too taxed to buy
laxatives. I remember, your
number ended with three sixes,
or
were they twos? My first sentence
had something to do with the
sickly, or
splinters covering The Elderly,
still circling
outlines of
old enemies, lost
in the city, and
bored by poetry,
we, the disposessed,
deserve some hot sex,
some hard candy...?
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
new poem
Cinema Skullz
the buck stops here so
stop looking at my nude feet
and shoot this dirty animal,
this
is
filial sentiment,
bondage, or
something American,
some shadows,
and you spilt a gallon
of spit on
the earth and the earth
is just
like you,
a faghag with credit problems
and bad skin,
back to
youth rituals,
their ageless cameos,
and the darkness of skulls
behind other skulls and other
screens,
darker, the
last scene equals many dead things,
the equivalent of your naked
process, your severed heel,
my last lunch before war
the buck stops here so
stop looking at my nude feet
and shoot this dirty animal,
this
is
filial sentiment,
bondage, or
something American,
some shadows,
and you spilt a gallon
of spit on
the earth and the earth
is just
like you,
a faghag with credit problems
and bad skin,
back to
youth rituals,
their ageless cameos,
and the darkness of skulls
behind other skulls and other
screens,
darker, the
last scene equals many dead things,
the equivalent of your naked
process, your severed heel,
my last lunch before war
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