I was getting into a car outside Wa-wa convenience store and I was looking a lot like Jessica Simpson. I could feel my body and inside everyone around me. In a backseat, pressed against the window between inconspicuous bodies, two men I can’t remember
and a girl in front bit I still couldn’t get over how dark it was.
I made eye contact with our driver in his rearview.
His eyes tore through me, his smile made my stomach turn.
He knew something I didn’t.
To ease my discomfort I tried asking questions.
He didn’t respond until we dropped off the other girl. That’s when things got hazy. For a moment I may have been the girl leaving.
The guys got out at the next stop, leaving me alone with the driver. At that point I was the only one left in the car. I saw lips moving and it looked aggressive. The driver persuaded them back into the car.
Part of me felt relief for having thought I was the girl that escaped or because the guys got back into the car.
As we drove away again it was back to silence and eye contact with. We passed the yellow house with a red ribbon and the Deleware river split open and pouring into the streets from recent storms.
When I turned from the window I looked at the driver who turned back in his seat and muttered words. It was a silent film. His back cracked open and out of which grew two enormous wings. Like a an eagle or dragon or a combination of both more petrified than I had ever seen. Was this the angel of death? With his large talons he the skulking beast grabbed us in his claws over the WaWa and the girl we left behind.
I was frozen still when I woke up. And I was in a bedroom that resembled my mothers in Yardley. I was wrapped in a down comforter.
Petrified I dreamed of him again. Only this time the man was in my bed or a bed, he wasn’t the beast from before but similar, maybe in the sexual way and this dream seems a little more suppressed.
Monday, September 17, 2007
2 poems
Orion
He’s strange enough to knit corduroy scarves
and overdo pages in his memoir.
When did wild rumors start muddying
linen curtains draped over the panes
of glass that described sex practices and
a growing anger towards young women?
His friend Patrick telephoned the women
in the neighborhood, reassured one scathed
group that the street artist was depressed and
deformed by fiscal abuse. “He’s like noir
by trade. Dark fallacies helped sell the pain.”
They misunderstood a boy muddying
his starched jeans during scouts, dying
to be picked first for a pervert. Women
watched curiously through their window panes
as he wrapped everything in plastic; scarves,
books, dishware. It’s all written in his memoir.
Like aluminum cans, he looked bent and
fragile. I wanted to open him and
spill out his contents, find those things dying
and mend them, to be a page of memoir,
and change all his perceptions of women.
When we met I screamed like a schoolgirl scarved
in taffeta. Split by age, I still died
to hold his bald head. When I write memoir
I may include that time we fed our pains
over a bread basket. The women
he left was what attracted me and
what put my nerves on edge. Like mud, dying
our clothes a certain yellow or scarves
tightly woven I picked at his memoir,
left sheaves of white paint over panes.
I was so curious what women
On a recent trip to the mall
I wanted to kill
the band of octagon blondes,
those women waiting
amongst a sea of dressing rooms,
dim like schools
of dolphins trapped in fishnets.
I went in to buy a ring
but realized I needed a man.
So I found the closest clerk
at the Orange Julius stand
and asked him for my hand.
Pardon me sir
I wanted to know if you’re looking
for a partner?
If my skin tight jeans
and bare breast
make you snarl?
To my chagrin
I was not his type
And thought what a sin
to be part of this bouquet
of crazed singles, a tourniquet
of sticky apricot
bruised fruit.
He’s strange enough to knit corduroy scarves
and overdo pages in his memoir.
When did wild rumors start muddying
linen curtains draped over the panes
of glass that described sex practices and
a growing anger towards young women?
His friend Patrick telephoned the women
in the neighborhood, reassured one scathed
group that the street artist was depressed and
deformed by fiscal abuse. “He’s like noir
by trade. Dark fallacies helped sell the pain.”
They misunderstood a boy muddying
his starched jeans during scouts, dying
to be picked first for a pervert. Women
watched curiously through their window panes
as he wrapped everything in plastic; scarves,
books, dishware. It’s all written in his memoir.
Like aluminum cans, he looked bent and
fragile. I wanted to open him and
spill out his contents, find those things dying
and mend them, to be a page of memoir,
and change all his perceptions of women.
When we met I screamed like a schoolgirl scarved
in taffeta. Split by age, I still died
to hold his bald head. When I write memoir
I may include that time we fed our pains
over a bread basket. The women
he left was what attracted me and
what put my nerves on edge. Like mud, dying
our clothes a certain yellow or scarves
tightly woven I picked at his memoir,
left sheaves of white paint over panes.
I was so curious what women
On a recent trip to the mall
I wanted to kill
the band of octagon blondes,
those women waiting
amongst a sea of dressing rooms,
dim like schools
of dolphins trapped in fishnets.
I went in to buy a ring
but realized I needed a man.
So I found the closest clerk
at the Orange Julius stand
and asked him for my hand.
Pardon me sir
I wanted to know if you’re looking
for a partner?
If my skin tight jeans
and bare breast
make you snarl?
To my chagrin
I was not his type
And thought what a sin
to be part of this bouquet
of crazed singles, a tourniquet
of sticky apricot
bruised fruit.
Reading Wed 9/26
Inside Out : Closing Event at Bowery on Bowery and 1st
Come hear forty poets read and get a last look at the exhibit done by sAnna Sianno.
from 10pm-on
Free Admission!
food and drink available;
Come hear forty poets read and get a last look at the exhibit done by sAnna Sianno.
from 10pm-on
Free Admission!
food and drink available;
Readings
The Lucky Cat, located in Williamsburg, Brooklyn! EARSHOT is a bi-monthly reading series, dedicated to featuring new and emerging literary talent in the NYC area.
*Friday, September 28th, 2007 at 8 PM*
Hosted by Nicole Steinberg
Featuring:
Idra Novey (poet and translator of Paulo Henriques Britto's The Clean Shirt of It)
Diana Lind
Ryan Berg (Hunter College)
Jaime Shearn Coan (City College)
Kiely Sweatt (The New School)
Admission is a mere $5 plus one free drink (beer, wine or well drinks only)!
The Lucky Cat is located at 245 Grand Street in Brooklyn, between Driggs and Roebling. Visit their website for directions: http://www.theluckycat.com.
Also visit http://www.earshotnyc.com for more information on Earshot or e-mail Nicole Steinberg at earshotnyc@gmail.com.
--
EARSHOT!
http://www.earshotnyc.com
http://myspace.com/earshotnyc
*Friday, September 28th, 2007 at 8 PM*
Hosted by Nicole Steinberg
Featuring:
Idra Novey (poet and translator of Paulo Henriques Britto's The Clean Shirt of It)
Diana Lind
Ryan Berg (Hunter College)
Jaime Shearn Coan (City College)
Kiely Sweatt (The New School)
Admission is a mere $5 plus one free drink (beer, wine or well drinks only)!
The Lucky Cat is located at 245 Grand Street in Brooklyn, between Driggs and Roebling. Visit their website for directions: http://www.theluckycat.com.
Also visit http://www.earshotnyc.com for more information on Earshot or e-mail Nicole Steinberg at earshotnyc@gmail.com.
--
EARSHOT!
http://www.earshotnyc.com
http://myspace.com/earshotnyc
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