Rotten Fruit

Thoughts of you were mixed when I learned you weren’t a globe. You were more like a pear. A rotten one. Did you remember that you ate my soul? Those hungry teeth fell out a-knawin’, into a green tornado. You were like a tornado, I remember. You made my hair crazy the morning after. You made it hard to breathe. “Your mother is intolerable.” I hate you because you’re always right, and not in a self-righteous way. You’re softly right, all the time, and spherical. I bought a porcelain angel, one of those little round babies with a words to live by inscribed. It broke and you spoke, and I was your Judas thereafter. But still you were a globe – swallowed in a tornado then, maybe, but round. I didn’t notice it at first. You fell off the roof and a bone splintered. I made a joke – a joke! – and you cried in public. A small little chip we thought we could cast in plaster. I bruised you in bed. You were malleable. A harsh laugh was all you gave me when my pride snapped in half, and I realized after days of sunshine, moonlight reflection in irritable silence you were more like a pear. A rotten pear. And long ago you’d devoured me whole.

Laughing Woman

(This poem was written in class, on a picture of an old homeless woman in Chicago laughing despite broken teeth and wild hair)

Comedy was
Eyes and,
you know,
that Window
even in freezing weather.
Professor
slapped a ruler on
the back of
hands
when giggling was heard.
At nine
O’clock sharp
the circus opened,
and from that open hand
with painted tears
were no dreams about
anything but
red tiger grins:
A chorus of souls, light and frightened all at once, but,
Ultimately,
Together –
and ridiculously
colored flowers.
Cameras existed then.
It wasn’t something we could not know.
A picture of me, though…
?!
He asked where I got the pretty flower.
I know, he thought me
off my ever-loving rocker.
I indulged,
he crackled lightning,
and we were a chorus again.

Two Poems

Hold my hand
Mommy
Hold my hand
Give me a square meal and
A shackle called love


**


She was like the city; modern,
Skinny and molded ontoa
A 4x4 block.
Hair cropped short,
Three earrings in each
Eyebrow.
She didn’t believe in tattoos.
An MBA in business told him
She wouldn’t be
outsmarted by
anybody.
The city had an iron gate on it.
Somewhere
a killer had not been caught.
Somewhere
a girl was giving up on love.

His Name and Her Name

At first, his name was Mark and he was the star of the baseball team looking for an easy first kiss and maybe more. But her mother raised her right, and surely he wasn’t going anywhere except a broken collarbone anyway? Next his name was Adam, a quiet, susceptible pair of gray eyes behind square glasses. He was always the first one to try to hold hands, like it was hard to walk without his hand sweating and an easy swing of the collective arm. But he was never enough to handle her, and he was holding on to a breakneck morning horse. Then his name was Antony, and Drake, and Adam again and Jess and Tom. Finally, his name was John, and John was a business major, and John was going places by God. He smiles and he phoned her sometimes and bought her diamonds which weren’t her birthstone, but John would hardly be expected to give his hard-earned money and time on a play or a concert or a bowling drunk. John had never been drunk in his life. He would, though, take her to a fancy dinner invited by his boss.

And then his name was Time, and Flowers and Freedom, and Dirt Roads and Flat Tires. Poetry, Homemade Dresses, Smell of Horse and Smell of Rain and Hot Chocolate. Wind in the Hair. Sometimes they didn’t even have names, but that was okay.

And then his name was Debt, dull and lurking around every single corner. His name was Worry – God, yes, sometimes Fear. His name was suddenly crushing Duty, and she thought of John with sudden, heart-rending longing.

The strip club was small, but relatively prestigious – no gaudy flashing neon signs. Underground of the Marquis, the hotel’s secret secret. Quiet businessmen – if drunk, not yelling to prove it – sat alone, surveying the horse flesh as pounding music oppressed most of the soft grunts borne of the true purpose here. The pole was cold and smelled of biting metal like goldfish. She hardly saw them but heard their breathing above the music. Tonight his name was Pleasure, and she was an actress on an unsteady stage.

“Shortcake, you’re up.”

“Thanks.” Irony had long been shampooed out of her dyed hair.

The private room was small, but it was hers. A chair overly comfortable. A pole on a s mall round stage. This was her domain.

The door opened, and then his name was John.

The only indication was the trembling of the stiletto, a soft click that could mean anything, against the smooth metal. John was oler. He could have worn the same damned business suit she’d ironed a hundred times, except that it was bigger to accommodate his frame. The door closed. His balding head came between her and the “Look. Enjoy. Don’t touch” sign smothered between some carefully chosen erotic art.

“What’s your name?” The chair whined and squeaked.

“Shortcake.” A stage name… A name he’d once called her…

His face shifted, flinching memories behind wrinkles and small folds of fat. Would he match the face of the stripper and win a price greater than or equal to a new Chevrolet?

“What’s your name handsome?”

As if she didn’t know. “John.” As if he didn’t know that she knew.

She danced for him. In the middle was a carefully placed move he used to like when he had the time to like anything at all.

“Amelia.” He said her name like a reprimand and like retribution.

Whatever else it did, it made her stop.

“Fuck… I knew it. Fuck.” A hand brushed through thinning, chocolate hair.

Ameila was beyond words at this lovely point. “You bastard.” Fifteen years in the making.

Either she didn’t deserve a response, or she scared his mouth shut. He didn’t even move to get up.

“I’m paying by the minute. Keep dancing.” What was his voice? Tired? Angry? Defensive? John. Knotty and maddening.

She danced. Her eyes met his like they never had.

At the very least, his name was not Regret.

Art and Soul

All art is perfectly useless. That’s what he told me. I waited b ackstage for my entrance onto a stage where you could set something on fire if you went too close. Applause… minimal. My performance should be for ghosts who had died too young to perform. Or Shakespeare. Or Michael Jackson. Or Mother. I was never going to live up to the expectations of the dead. Or his. This was one night in twenty-thousand. Importance – minimal. I knew it rationally. He wished me good luck because he knew I expected something, some words that would speak to my soul as the one-hundred twehnty hours of rehearsal had. I stepped on stage. Lights. No lasting memory at all but this moment. No words came from my watering mouth and the only thing that was set on fire was me. Silence. A nervous cough from the audience, and then a cough that lasted forever. Goddamnit, someone get the man a honey drop. I don’t remember the performance at all. I turned into some two dimensional riot. I did get applause. That I remember breathlessly. And after, from him, I got a rose, and a late fast food dinner, and updates on the evening’s football game.

Youth and Sunshine Memories

Remember we were dreamers, when –
Remember when we dreamed?
I flew so high in melting fire
Soft synapse, sparked and preened.

 
Remember then the nightmares?
Terror, force and pain?
We breathed so fierce in lung-trapped claws
We never breathed again.

 
Who were we when in darkened youth
Swells tsunami made of cream?
Death and life rolled into one
Chocolate drowning dream.