Officer “Pork, the Other White Meat,” Goodwin
A few months ago, I was making a mad dash with the kids to Main Street in Keene to sell off some old Backstreet Boys (I know, I know) CDs at the local pawn shop. I figured the ten cents per CD might buy us a few Dollar Menu double cheeseburgers before my son’s football banquet. Worth a shot, right?
Anyway, it was around 4:30 – it was 4:19 to be precise – when I pulled a U Turn on Main Street. I’d never been to this particular pawn shop before and I avoid the traffic loving Main Street as often as humanly possible. But on this afternoon, out of work early, and with a plan to make a small fortune on the 100s of CDs and DVDs piled into boxes in the Jeep, the kids and I were feeling brave. I happily pulled the U Turn when I spotted the pawn shop and – holy shit! in Keene? and on Main Street? – a parking spot.
My initial bliss turned to that dreaded feeling in the pit of my stomach when I saw the blue lights of a cruiser from my rearview mirror. Well, that’s no biggie. I wasn’t speeding. I must have a light out or something. Wait. Is it even dark enough for lights? I quickly checked my inspection sticker. Yep. All good. I wonder what he wants. “Jake! Do you have your seatbelt on?” “Yeah, Ma.” Check.
No sooner had I run my mental list of “Are you sure it’s me you are pulling over, officer?” when I was looking into the eyes of a very pissy Officer (Pork Chop, Bacon Breath, Bacon Bits) Goodwin. “License and registration, ma’am.” I didn’t argue, and handed him my documentation with a happy smile. I knew there had to be a mistake. I hadn’t done anything wrong.
Officer Goodwin went to his cruiser to check on the lengthy criminal record I was more than positive he would not find. He was gone a full twenty minutes, making a traffic back up on Main Street during what was becoming the end of the day rush hour. I kept my head low, hoping none of my co workers saw me and wondering what was taking him so long.
Main Street was getting crowded quickly. I’d forgotten that at 4:20 p.m. every day, the local college students, former vets, cancer patients, hippies, and well – just about everyone without a job in town, and even many with jobs – crowd the street holding signs for the legalization of marijuana. This movement had started a few weeks ago and participants had vowed to bring their pro-pot signs (and in some cases, paraphernalia and joints themselves) to the center of town. The would not stop, they insisted, until pot was legal in the Granite State. I was watching these people march up and down Main Street with their signs – thinking back to my own pot smoking days – and wondering if my kids understood what was going on.
Lost in thought, I was startled when Bacon Breath tapped on my window. He promptly handed me a ticket for $72 for pulling an illegal U Turn. I was baffled. There was no sign preventing a U Turn. I told him so, in a polite, God I hate former hall monitors with short man’s syndrome sort of way. He smirked, and pointed to the back of what he claimed to be a no U Turn sign.
Now, Bacon Breath could have cared less that I could not actually SEE the sign, because the only sign in front of me was one that said 4:2o Friendly! being held by a man in ripped jeans and a heavy flannel jacket. I wondered how long our neighborhood hippie had been standing there, blocking the sign from any one’s view. I tried to point this out to Pork Chop. He wasn’t impressed. Apparently, drivers on Main Street in Keene are expected to have X-ray vision and see THROUGH cardboard rally signs to the traffic signs they block.
You see, the rules in Keene are different from the rules in other places. Not only are you supposed to have X-ray vision, but, it’s more important to catch wild mothers on a pawn shop selling mission than it is to stop the people smoking weed in public on public streets at 4:20 in the afternoon.
Now, I’m not sure if I am for the legalization of marijuana or not. I frankly, don’t care! But what I am for is fairness here! The fact is that I could not see the sign because of a protester on the street. I don’t care whether that person was protesting pot laws or the war: It’s the police department’s duty to make sure that there is order and that drivers are safe and can navigate the roads safely regardless of who is protesting what. It’s also their job to uphold the law.
The law is that pot is illegal. Yet, it’s ok for hundreds of people to gather on public land and smoke it. But it’s not ok for me – with no criminal record and only one speeding ticket on the books (which I was totally guilty of) – to make an honest error?
I’m thinking Pork Chop (like many cops I know) was too afraid to deal with the real issue at hand that day and felt it better (and easier) to pick on the little lady with the smile than it was to deal with the potheads. It was, after all the end of the month and he had his quota to make.
But it gets even BETTER ladies and gents!
A week later, I’m sitting in my house late at night (we’re talking 11:30 here). Everything is quiet and the only people up are my oldest son and I. We’re watching a movie in the living room. I’m falling asleep (nothing new, I can’t ever seem to stay awake for movies). Suddenly, my 12-year-old SCREAMS, “MOM! WAKE UP! THERE’S SOMEONE SHINING FLASHLIGHTS INTO OUR WINDOWS!”
I about shit myself.
There’s nothing like being the primary weapon for your family’s safety and protection. You know you’re a wimp. You’re more than aware that your martial arts skills consist of twirling the chopsticks when you eat sushi. And best of all? The “man” you’ve been raising is already making a bee-line for the other room. Yep, you’re on your own here, Mom.
Sleep in my eyes, I reach for the phone – ready to call the fine men in blue (whom, for some reason, I STILL believe in). That’s when the flashlight shines directly into the glass panel on the front door. I freeze. Squinting from around the corner and fumbling for the 9 button on my phone, I see the glint of a badge. I look closer. Yep, it’s a police officer. Wow! Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hard on Bacon Breath after all (cursing his name to everyone in town who’d listen). Maybe they saw a burglar, rapist, murderer shining flashlights into unsuspecting women’s homes and is here to rescue us. WAKE UP, MOM! You’re not thinking straight!
Of course, it’s the darn cop who’s doing the shining in the first place! Duh! I stumble toward the door. “Yes, officer, can I help you?” He verifies my name and tells me it is imperative I call the Keene Police Department this very moment. I’m horrified. “Why? What’s this about? Did something happen? Is everything ok?” He responds that he knows nothing (shocker) except that I need to call them immediately. He gives me their non emergency number.
Pork Chop answers the phone. I tell him who I am, entirely not placing the name with our recent run in on Main Street (after all, I’ve already filled out the back of the ticket – marked it not guilty – and have sent it out for a court date). Pork Chop tells me that he made an error on the ticket he sent me. Instead of a $72 fine, it’s a $74 fine.
WELL, THANK YOU OFFICER! Thank you for scaring the shit out of me. Thank you for protecting our streets from druggies. Thank you for disrupting my home in the middle of the night and waking my children and pets. And, most of all, THANK YOU for telling me I have to pay another $2 for something that wasn’t even my fault in the first place! Justice has been served! You must feel fucking proud!
I virtually hang up with him.
Three days later, I receive a new (corrected) ticket in the mail. But Bacon Bits is so sloppy that he forgets to make a copy of both sides of this new ticket, making it impossible for me to even have the option of entering a not guilty plea. I throw it in a file (the one I will take to court with me) and curse his name for the remainder of the week.
This is a man who has NOTHING better to do than harass ordinary, law abiding people. This is a man who ENJOYS torturing people. This is a man who doesn’t get laid. Or, if he does, he HAS to be on top.
I am excited about my April court date. I am anxious to tell the judge about Bacon Bit’s fine attention to detail and his uncanny ability to make quotas at any cost. While the City of Keene is stoned, no one there need fear the wild U Turn avoiding good citizens headed to the pawn shop for quick cash.
I made $12 at the thrift shop that day. In the end, I’ll probably lose more than $60. But you can bet your bippy that we’ll be eating Pork Roast that night in April, win or lose, in tribute to the hard work and fine service of officer Goodwin!
If you’re ever on Main Street in Keene and you see a woman standing in front of a U Turn sigh with a poster reading “Honk for Hogs!” and smoking a crack pipe with an unregistered gun tied to her hip and threatening passersby for no apparent reason (hey, laws don’t apply in Keene unless they are traffic laws!) be sure to say hello! But whatever you do, don’t make a U Turn!
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Unnamed Spirits
Four Spirits, Two Stars
By Erin L George
It was spectacular really
how they¹d send a spirit skipping
through murky paths of alternate choice
and meaning
and consummate the love of twinkling stars
destined for stardom on a cosmic stage
(they didn¹t believe in God)
and worshiped false gods
no more horrendous than He to steal
slurping skips of spirit.
They are spectacular really
how they¹d dance to beats unheard
through murmurs caught on love strikes
and heat
and validate the love of twinkling stars
falling in the mirror
(they did believe in love)
and cherished pixie dust
no more magical than He to know
cooing memories of their spirit.
By Erin L George
It was spectacular really
how they¹d send a spirit skipping
through murky paths of alternate choice
and meaning
and consummate the love of twinkling stars
destined for stardom on a cosmic stage
(they didn¹t believe in God)
and worshiped false gods
no more horrendous than He to steal
slurping skips of spirit.
They are spectacular really
how they¹d dance to beats unheard
through murmurs caught on love strikes
and heat
and validate the love of twinkling stars
falling in the mirror
(they did believe in love)
and cherished pixie dust
no more magical than He to know
cooing memories of their spirit.
You'd Come
You'd Come
You'd come to me, miles over more
and i'd smile
to catch a moment's whisper of your scent
locked, somewhere, in wind chimes
tickled by the pines
you'd come to me, blind and free
and i'd play the violin
your sway matching that of the tide
between sand drifts and snowfall
you'd scar tears upon my cheeks
and i'd wonder where you came from
how you blew in on peppered air
you'd come to me.
You'd come to me, miles over more
and i'd smile
to catch a moment's whisper of your scent
locked, somewhere, in wind chimes
tickled by the pines
you'd come to me, blind and free
and i'd play the violin
your sway matching that of the tide
between sand drifts and snowfall
you'd scar tears upon my cheeks
and i'd wonder where you came from
how you blew in on peppered air
you'd come to me.
Tuesdays with Erin
Tuesday Morning Sprite
By Erin L. George
She bore an angel
on a Tuesday morning
in September
between cold cries,
scattered sheets,
she pledged
to teach
to soar
sacrifice
for angel
wide white wings
above
a darkened sky.
She combed those wings
mending broken feathers
when little boys at school
spit on him,
cursed his name,
dressing him
in cotton band aides
glued in angel kisses
on a wounded ego
and banged up knee.
She worked two jobs -
a grocery store,
mom and pop,
and spent weekends
selling tomatoes
to lift
her seraph
to a stronger nest
made of sturdy sticks
from a walnut tree
where he learned to read
and told her his dream
of flying.
She soared
to glimpse him fly
upon come back
in a private jet
he’d rented
to take her out
on her birthday
on a Tuesday
in June
above a rainy sky
and blanket clouds
past the school he’d cussed
beyond band aides
and an angel’s wink.
She watched a demon
end his life
on a Tuesday morning
in September
as he used his wings
to take flight
through a sunny sky
feathers all in tact
ending her dream
of an angel’s flight
above
a darkened sky.
By Erin L. George
She bore an angel
on a Tuesday morning
in September
between cold cries,
scattered sheets,
she pledged
to teach
to soar
sacrifice
for angel
wide white wings
above
a darkened sky.
She combed those wings
mending broken feathers
when little boys at school
spit on him,
cursed his name,
dressing him
in cotton band aides
glued in angel kisses
on a wounded ego
and banged up knee.
She worked two jobs -
a grocery store,
mom and pop,
and spent weekends
selling tomatoes
to lift
her seraph
to a stronger nest
made of sturdy sticks
from a walnut tree
where he learned to read
and told her his dream
of flying.
She soared
to glimpse him fly
upon come back
in a private jet
he’d rented
to take her out
on her birthday
on a Tuesday
in June
above a rainy sky
and blanket clouds
past the school he’d cussed
beyond band aides
and an angel’s wink.
She watched a demon
end his life
on a Tuesday morning
in September
as he used his wings
to take flight
through a sunny sky
feathers all in tact
ending her dream
of an angel’s flight
above
a darkened sky.
Train Girl & The Wolves
Train Girl and the Wolves
Wolves howl
and she
turns her head -
knowing of their spots
and the moles that lie
between shoulder blades,
sore,
or not.
He howls when she
gets him off
collared in panties
white, stained in the crotch -
she chuckles
wolves have that effect
(particularly those so proud of their dens).
He barks back at a full moon,
one that rose the night she slept with chocolate
pillow mints
and the grin of a brindle
too skinny
for her liking.
The way he barks,
twisted in an evil snare -
he chuckles when she groans
and she knows he’ll lift his leg
watching from the mirror
winking back inside.
He’d howl at a prairie dog,
so long to catch a buzz
some wolves grow up with snouts
a tad too long
and she’ll look away
pretending not to notice.
Wolves, howling
under a moon
tight to pizza tray
she sighs - how many pieces would he dare to eat?
Some wolves are thick on greed
and who is she
to be his prey?
He’d have the nerve to tell her how to spit
she likes it
thick,
from barrels in her neck
and she laughs -
howling back, coyote girl
pissing on his grin
(no need for her go back).
He whimpers,
tail tucked between the thighs
she wishes on a shining star to view of his delight
(it’s the baby wolves who make her shake
her head in guilt and lies).
He has no reason to whimper
but does
she shakes her chestnut mop -
too late to take a ride with her
(he’d be better off
with wolves who squander rations)
wasting time.
And he likes her vines,
soaked of birthright due
she wonders how he howls -
“Do you have friends now on the side?”
It’s always odd to get up without goodbye.
Where wolves howl -
under starry skies.
Wolves howl
and she
turns her head -
knowing of their spots
and the moles that lie
between shoulder blades,
sore,
or not.
He howls when she
gets him off
collared in panties
white, stained in the crotch -
she chuckles
wolves have that effect
(particularly those so proud of their dens).
He barks back at a full moon,
one that rose the night she slept with chocolate
pillow mints
and the grin of a brindle
too skinny
for her liking.
The way he barks,
twisted in an evil snare -
he chuckles when she groans
and she knows he’ll lift his leg
watching from the mirror
winking back inside.
He’d howl at a prairie dog,
so long to catch a buzz
some wolves grow up with snouts
a tad too long
and she’ll look away
pretending not to notice.
Wolves, howling
under a moon
tight to pizza tray
she sighs - how many pieces would he dare to eat?
Some wolves are thick on greed
and who is she
to be his prey?
He’d have the nerve to tell her how to spit
she likes it
thick,
from barrels in her neck
and she laughs -
howling back, coyote girl
pissing on his grin
(no need for her go back).
He whimpers,
tail tucked between the thighs
she wishes on a shining star to view of his delight
(it’s the baby wolves who make her shake
her head in guilt and lies).
He has no reason to whimper
but does
she shakes her chestnut mop -
too late to take a ride with her
(he’d be better off
with wolves who squander rations)
wasting time.
And he likes her vines,
soaked of birthright due
she wonders how he howls -
“Do you have friends now on the side?”
It’s always odd to get up without goodbye.
Where wolves howl -
under starry skies.
The Rose
The Rose
By Erin L George
it bleeds into concrete
settling there as gentle men watch the evening news
she waddles down the driveway
off to fetch the mail -
bills are due on Saturdays
and you'll tell me that i scream too loud, begging you
tell me:
what kind of dog would run from a bitch, crying out in heat?
wolves howel, pissing on their territory
it bleeds down her leg
still warm now from his thrust -
she grins, waving at the soccer moms
walking dogs down Parkway Ave
nibbling on her fingers
she'll tell you that you look just fine, tempting you
tell her:
what kind of soldier kneels before his enemy?
strong men stride, marching toward their call
bleeding all the same
they'd rather bite their tongues off
than be caught shivering -
they grin, nodding at the higher ups
shuffling off to dine
shoveling down mystery meat
you tell me it's funny, taunting me
tell me:
what kind of women have you fucked?
vixens drink of rivers, swimming in their lust
prickle of a thorn
they arch their backs to take it all inside
tiring easily -
they grin, wiping away laugh lines
soaked in Maybelline
twisting salty nipples
as it bleeds there in the concrete
napping on a summer's day
careful not to overlook the breeze of passing traffic
and those too busy to notice.
By Erin L George
it bleeds into concrete
settling there as gentle men watch the evening news
she waddles down the driveway
off to fetch the mail -
bills are due on Saturdays
and you'll tell me that i scream too loud, begging you
tell me:
what kind of dog would run from a bitch, crying out in heat?
wolves howel, pissing on their territory
it bleeds down her leg
still warm now from his thrust -
she grins, waving at the soccer moms
walking dogs down Parkway Ave
nibbling on her fingers
she'll tell you that you look just fine, tempting you
tell her:
what kind of soldier kneels before his enemy?
strong men stride, marching toward their call
bleeding all the same
they'd rather bite their tongues off
than be caught shivering -
they grin, nodding at the higher ups
shuffling off to dine
shoveling down mystery meat
you tell me it's funny, taunting me
tell me:
what kind of women have you fucked?
vixens drink of rivers, swimming in their lust
prickle of a thorn
they arch their backs to take it all inside
tiring easily -
they grin, wiping away laugh lines
soaked in Maybelline
twisting salty nipples
as it bleeds there in the concrete
napping on a summer's day
careful not to overlook the breeze of passing traffic
and those too busy to notice.
The Gift
The Gift
By Erin L George
Somewhere
between the sparkle in his eyes
others don't see
and the crevice of his brow
lies an innocence
born guilty
pleasures he chose ignore
others don't see
but should
had they not worn blindfolds
had he never clothed
babies are born naked
spanked by a doctor's hand
others don't see
the smile in the eyes
of the baby boy
who squirms
then pisses
but should
had they not been cuffed
by views inflicted
somewhere
in his surrender
others won't see
the fireworks spun on flight
where wings are spread
to kiss the face
of the man on the moon
others won't see
but should
had they taken the time
as will I.
By Erin L George
Somewhere
between the sparkle in his eyes
others don't see
and the crevice of his brow
lies an innocence
born guilty
pleasures he chose ignore
others don't see
but should
had they not worn blindfolds
had he never clothed
babies are born naked
spanked by a doctor's hand
others don't see
the smile in the eyes
of the baby boy
who squirms
then pisses
but should
had they not been cuffed
by views inflicted
somewhere
in his surrender
others won't see
the fireworks spun on flight
where wings are spread
to kiss the face
of the man on the moon
others won't see
but should
had they taken the time
as will I.
Bull
March 14, 2008
The Bull and the Matador
Erin L George
He is a bull. And I, industrial-manufactured to think I am the matador, agreed to the tango long before tickets were cut. Yet I stand here, dizzy. Spinning.
Crimson kisses made of bloodied eyes make me blink. I struggle to find the spaces, the light. His horns come toward me fierce, like a lover hot on night. He fucks me. Right there. In a stadium filled with city folk, who’ve just come out to see the show. He fucks me.
I cry.
There’s no kissing or silent moans with this kind of fucking. Nipples aren’t suckled and his hands aren’t even clean. No, his fingernails hold under them the grime of city life, heartlessness, and the thrill of the show.
Strike!
I can hear them. My ears buzz with their leers. “Do it again! We told you so! She ain’t shit!”
Gracefully, graciously, he steps back. I must have been bloody enough. He retreats.
I bite. Reminding myself of his words, his truth.
That’s when he allows me to run head first through one red flag after the next. But wasn’t it I who was supposed to be holding the sheet? I cannot afford to ask such self-indulging questions now. We’ve come too far. “Fuck you, bitch! I changed my mind! I have that right!”
I back-peddle.
One, two, three steps forward. I fix my eyes tight between his horns. Sure that if I focus hard enough he will see I don’t intend to give up. I tell him so with my eyes. Forever. Baby. Yours.
It’s to no avail.
And he, with his puppy dog eyes – shaded by those horns – lures me back. I can hear him say it. Almost like a threat – “You have no other choice!”
He doesn’t want me to give myself to him freely. Instead he wants to take of me: To soak me to see how far he can go. To challenge just how much I am willing to bleed for him. Will I fill a bucket with my blood? While they just drink of it, free? Will I stand behind my words, and for him, actually die?
This ain’t no cockfight tucked in the lust of city streets. Where cash is laid on death blows. No. This ain’t no gang war. “You is mines!”
To him, love doesn’t come free. Nothing in life does. Cause that’s the way they teach it in the city streets. Watch your back or you’ll have a dick up your ass before you can blink. Why must he push this shit on me?
We do it in style. He the bull. I the matador. I dodge left, he right. He, always right. Stupid cunt!
How naieve was I, a country girl, to think myself graceful enough to keep time? To sway within his horns – set now on killing me. On drawing the very soul songs that make me dance and leap! City bulls don’t do popcorn and peanuts! City folk are mean.
They cheer.
This isn’t a church bizarre, bitch! Where children run free, unsupervised, through hallways, laughing, and picking chocolates off of artificial trees. No. This isn’t some free for all. “Let you go in peace. Amen.”
To them, it takes a village. But where is this village? And why can’t they raise their own kids?
With each stab he takes at me they shout. “Fuck the bitch again!” There’s no mistaking the fire in his eyes. And I can’t say he didn’t warn me. The red flag was there, all along. But isn’t it the matador who waves it?
Gone with tradition! Chivalry is dead! He taught me that.
I lay here, on concrete ground. Pleading up at him. “Just take care of me!”
He puffs his chest. Holding solid to his ground and the task at hand. Completely unaware that I was the only one willing to die! There’s a crowd to please, and their shouts are only becoming louder, more intense!!!
“Kill the bitch! Die!”
From my position laying supine, I can see him now. I watch, as he swaggers toward me, using his back legs to kick up sand, swept on time. There were more important things to discuss. To resolve. To find.
My chest is closing in on me and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to breathe. I close my eyes.
I remember feeding him. Taking a steel brush to his fine hairs. Cleaning his stall. Waxing his horns. I remember being sure he got big and strong. Not so we could tango. But so he could feel again. His puppy dog eyes. Back then, not blind.
I ask myself. I ask him, in my mind: Did they feed you? And how much is the almighty dollar really worth? Worth a life? Worth true love’s goodbye? How can you be afraid of me, are you really still that blind?
“Get up, fat ass! We have a show to put on!” He mocks me. Cheered on by the city folk. Darker in intention.
I did not write history!
I struggle to stand. My vision is blurred. But I can still see him. And them. I can see what drove him to be this way – to be more interested in show than in what is real – mine. But the singular version of it makes no matter now. There are words to take back and minds to change! Why bother to make me believe I was the matador? Was that all just part of the game?
Time.
Doing time.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
My heart marches forward – toes downward pointed and obedient. He has to see! It was me! It was me! I’m screaming. But the words won’t come out. Don’t strike! I feel myself rise.
Standing. On my own two feet. I watch him digging still at sand with those behind. Four. Four feet for him. Two for me. He says they owe him. That’s why. But not enough to owe us. No. That shit ain’t mine!
WHAM!!!
I feel it smack me hard! I reach to my temple, bloodied on hate’s inequities. You are not strong! You don’t know how to feed him right! You babied him and this is what you get! Bloody white chick! Country whore! How dare you be so dam naieve??? We city folk have those to please!
He lets them! Then blames me for starting this war! Defending me? “Ha! No! We covered that! Chilvary is dead! Stupid, stupid whore! My rules. My way!” And he’s not so sure he wants to take up with some country whore anyway. Doing time….
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
As days draw closer I can feel it. The pushes on his free steps. Where he’ll close right back up to send me on my way. His words saying one thing, his intentions another. Where hidden messages and sharp insults sting at my very soul. He has nothing but those that are habitual good to say about me anymore. Gone are his memories of me feeding him, nurturing him.
It’s all about her. Them. Now.
I reach up to see how deep I bleed.
One. Two. Three ….
Four.
He scratches again concrete.
“But I tried to feed them too! Please!”
My protests are met with silence. It is under his rules and authority this dance is beat. It is he who leads.
“Silly, silly ‘matador.’ How fucking naieve can you be? I say the words you long to hear, so you can fall, of false belief. You country folk aren’t shit. Stupid ghetto seed! This ain’t no cockfight! You IS mines! It is ME who leads!”
Strike!
One.
Two.
Three.
A final blow indeed. Protest? No need.
He is the bull. I am the matador. Industrial-manufactured to surrender. I get it now. Silly, Silly, naieve. The only flag I wave is white - blood tinged, killing me. I concede. He was right. I am weak. But only, to he. And he? Too blind to see.
***
The funny part? We just bought a bull. And he's not even halter-trained...
The Bull and the Matador
Erin L George
He is a bull. And I, industrial-manufactured to think I am the matador, agreed to the tango long before tickets were cut. Yet I stand here, dizzy. Spinning.
Crimson kisses made of bloodied eyes make me blink. I struggle to find the spaces, the light. His horns come toward me fierce, like a lover hot on night. He fucks me. Right there. In a stadium filled with city folk, who’ve just come out to see the show. He fucks me.
I cry.
There’s no kissing or silent moans with this kind of fucking. Nipples aren’t suckled and his hands aren’t even clean. No, his fingernails hold under them the grime of city life, heartlessness, and the thrill of the show.
Strike!
I can hear them. My ears buzz with their leers. “Do it again! We told you so! She ain’t shit!”
Gracefully, graciously, he steps back. I must have been bloody enough. He retreats.
I bite. Reminding myself of his words, his truth.
That’s when he allows me to run head first through one red flag after the next. But wasn’t it I who was supposed to be holding the sheet? I cannot afford to ask such self-indulging questions now. We’ve come too far. “Fuck you, bitch! I changed my mind! I have that right!”
I back-peddle.
One, two, three steps forward. I fix my eyes tight between his horns. Sure that if I focus hard enough he will see I don’t intend to give up. I tell him so with my eyes. Forever. Baby. Yours.
It’s to no avail.
And he, with his puppy dog eyes – shaded by those horns – lures me back. I can hear him say it. Almost like a threat – “You have no other choice!”
He doesn’t want me to give myself to him freely. Instead he wants to take of me: To soak me to see how far he can go. To challenge just how much I am willing to bleed for him. Will I fill a bucket with my blood? While they just drink of it, free? Will I stand behind my words, and for him, actually die?
This ain’t no cockfight tucked in the lust of city streets. Where cash is laid on death blows. No. This ain’t no gang war. “You is mines!”
To him, love doesn’t come free. Nothing in life does. Cause that’s the way they teach it in the city streets. Watch your back or you’ll have a dick up your ass before you can blink. Why must he push this shit on me?
We do it in style. He the bull. I the matador. I dodge left, he right. He, always right. Stupid cunt!
How naieve was I, a country girl, to think myself graceful enough to keep time? To sway within his horns – set now on killing me. On drawing the very soul songs that make me dance and leap! City bulls don’t do popcorn and peanuts! City folk are mean.
They cheer.
This isn’t a church bizarre, bitch! Where children run free, unsupervised, through hallways, laughing, and picking chocolates off of artificial trees. No. This isn’t some free for all. “Let you go in peace. Amen.”
To them, it takes a village. But where is this village? And why can’t they raise their own kids?
With each stab he takes at me they shout. “Fuck the bitch again!” There’s no mistaking the fire in his eyes. And I can’t say he didn’t warn me. The red flag was there, all along. But isn’t it the matador who waves it?
Gone with tradition! Chivalry is dead! He taught me that.
I lay here, on concrete ground. Pleading up at him. “Just take care of me!”
He puffs his chest. Holding solid to his ground and the task at hand. Completely unaware that I was the only one willing to die! There’s a crowd to please, and their shouts are only becoming louder, more intense!!!
“Kill the bitch! Die!”
From my position laying supine, I can see him now. I watch, as he swaggers toward me, using his back legs to kick up sand, swept on time. There were more important things to discuss. To resolve. To find.
My chest is closing in on me and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to breathe. I close my eyes.
I remember feeding him. Taking a steel brush to his fine hairs. Cleaning his stall. Waxing his horns. I remember being sure he got big and strong. Not so we could tango. But so he could feel again. His puppy dog eyes. Back then, not blind.
I ask myself. I ask him, in my mind: Did they feed you? And how much is the almighty dollar really worth? Worth a life? Worth true love’s goodbye? How can you be afraid of me, are you really still that blind?
“Get up, fat ass! We have a show to put on!” He mocks me. Cheered on by the city folk. Darker in intention.
I did not write history!
I struggle to stand. My vision is blurred. But I can still see him. And them. I can see what drove him to be this way – to be more interested in show than in what is real – mine. But the singular version of it makes no matter now. There are words to take back and minds to change! Why bother to make me believe I was the matador? Was that all just part of the game?
Time.
Doing time.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
My heart marches forward – toes downward pointed and obedient. He has to see! It was me! It was me! I’m screaming. But the words won’t come out. Don’t strike! I feel myself rise.
Standing. On my own two feet. I watch him digging still at sand with those behind. Four. Four feet for him. Two for me. He says they owe him. That’s why. But not enough to owe us. No. That shit ain’t mine!
WHAM!!!
I feel it smack me hard! I reach to my temple, bloodied on hate’s inequities. You are not strong! You don’t know how to feed him right! You babied him and this is what you get! Bloody white chick! Country whore! How dare you be so dam naieve??? We city folk have those to please!
He lets them! Then blames me for starting this war! Defending me? “Ha! No! We covered that! Chilvary is dead! Stupid, stupid whore! My rules. My way!” And he’s not so sure he wants to take up with some country whore anyway. Doing time….
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
As days draw closer I can feel it. The pushes on his free steps. Where he’ll close right back up to send me on my way. His words saying one thing, his intentions another. Where hidden messages and sharp insults sting at my very soul. He has nothing but those that are habitual good to say about me anymore. Gone are his memories of me feeding him, nurturing him.
It’s all about her. Them. Now.
I reach up to see how deep I bleed.
One. Two. Three ….
Four.
He scratches again concrete.
“But I tried to feed them too! Please!”
My protests are met with silence. It is under his rules and authority this dance is beat. It is he who leads.
“Silly, silly ‘matador.’ How fucking naieve can you be? I say the words you long to hear, so you can fall, of false belief. You country folk aren’t shit. Stupid ghetto seed! This ain’t no cockfight! You IS mines! It is ME who leads!”
Strike!
One.
Two.
Three.
A final blow indeed. Protest? No need.
He is the bull. I am the matador. Industrial-manufactured to surrender. I get it now. Silly, Silly, naieve. The only flag I wave is white - blood tinged, killing me. I concede. He was right. I am weak. But only, to he. And he? Too blind to see.
***
The funny part? We just bought a bull. And he's not even halter-trained...
Purple Rose
Purple Rose
By Erin L George
Puckered am I, to steal His rod, coming down, like thunder
Under fireworks sold on lightning, the window's cracked a bit
Reams of winter's bite sting at my back, thundering
Purple blasts, He winks at me and gives a slap
Like she, Mother spewing white another blizzard
Eucalyptus hangs on other's walls, I grunt a chilly grin.
Rolling now is thunder, the rose bends to bloom, I wink
On the parting tide, knowing charm in bolts
She calls to me, to spread a path, seeds are meant to plant
Eager Spring she settles back, and so to, does the purple rose.
By Erin L George
Puckered am I, to steal His rod, coming down, like thunder
Under fireworks sold on lightning, the window's cracked a bit
Reams of winter's bite sting at my back, thundering
Purple blasts, He winks at me and gives a slap
Like she, Mother spewing white another blizzard
Eucalyptus hangs on other's walls, I grunt a chilly grin.
Rolling now is thunder, the rose bends to bloom, I wink
On the parting tide, knowing charm in bolts
She calls to me, to spread a path, seeds are meant to plant
Eager Spring she settles back, and so to, does the purple rose.
Bad Girls
Bad Girls
(For my girl)
B ad girls sleep with pillows, tucked between their thighs
A ngry with the boys they love, tired of the lies
D on't expect a picket fence, built up in their dreams
G ood girls sleep with husbands, stitching tight the seams
I d rather sleep in downy fur, damp in salty tears
R ather build a six foot fence, shielding of their leers
L eave the blush to nicer girls, sold on better things
S o I can ride with not so nice, peaches, dirty flings.
(For my girl)
B ad girls sleep with pillows, tucked between their thighs
A ngry with the boys they love, tired of the lies
D on't expect a picket fence, built up in their dreams
G ood girls sleep with husbands, stitching tight the seams
I d rather sleep in downy fur, damp in salty tears
R ather build a six foot fence, shielding of their leers
L eave the blush to nicer girls, sold on better things
S o I can ride with not so nice, peaches, dirty flings.
The Charm of School Girls
The Charm of School Girls
Thighs, stocking wrapped
where flesh should meet the core
curiosities
of little boys
(she prefers panties in the drawer)
should Daddy guess her treasure
through foggy mounds of freckled gore
they’d blush not red
where scarlet rides
licking lips, spreading thighs.
Thighs, stocking wrapped
where flesh should meet the core
curiosities
of little boys
(she prefers panties in the drawer)
should Daddy guess her treasure
through foggy mounds of freckled gore
they’d blush not red
where scarlet rides
licking lips, spreading thighs.
Crucified
Crucified, Myself
i crucified myself with all the other
urban divas, who'd only know of a Mary
whore, she pocketed gold coins with a flip of sunshine
or was it a chocolate river?
and i crave the right to decorate my breasts in pearls
white, like the other, who'd never had needed such commodity
(did she ever pocket a golden coin at all?)
i crucified myself and find myself looking down at men
and girls who'd strike me, pulling flesh from my wounds
spitting salted stares at my sins
and i ask myself: do they not know what they cannot do?
i've already crucified myself! i drink of sweetened let --
vampires suck rawness bought of risk --
how will i ever get down? and, will they care?
she, a Mary, whose face leers naked: has she to know
i've crucified myself and envy her right, perceived,
to wear pearls. (oh...how they tumble!) i chuckle and let...
i crucified myself with all the other
urban divas, who'd only know of a Mary
whore, she pocketed gold coins with a flip of sunshine
or was it a chocolate river?
and i crave the right to decorate my breasts in pearls
white, like the other, who'd never had needed such commodity
(did she ever pocket a golden coin at all?)
i crucified myself and find myself looking down at men
and girls who'd strike me, pulling flesh from my wounds
spitting salted stares at my sins
and i ask myself: do they not know what they cannot do?
i've already crucified myself! i drink of sweetened let --
vampires suck rawness bought of risk --
how will i ever get down? and, will they care?
she, a Mary, whose face leers naked: has she to know
i've crucified myself and envy her right, perceived,
to wear pearls. (oh...how they tumble!) i chuckle and let...
Typical "I am" Assignment Poetry
I am determined mother bear
Clamping down on word counts
Chasing Elements of Style
In old book stores.
I am too creatie and naieve to know
Any better, blind Helen Keller of literature
Instantly intoxicated on the smell of print.
I am swimming in warm water,
Barely treading but bloating all the same –
Sleeping on it on my back, eyes shut.
No fear.
I am out of control
Tortured by the written word
And fully aware of the bloodjet.
I am Sylvia’s sister (or child)
Anxious to make black scribbles
On the blank page
Its’ blue lines tempting me
Like fancy shoes
I am a writer
Free! I am a writer. Me!
Clamping down on word counts
Chasing Elements of Style
In old book stores.
I am too creatie and naieve to know
Any better, blind Helen Keller of literature
Instantly intoxicated on the smell of print.
I am swimming in warm water,
Barely treading but bloating all the same –
Sleeping on it on my back, eyes shut.
No fear.
I am out of control
Tortured by the written word
And fully aware of the bloodjet.
I am Sylvia’s sister (or child)
Anxious to make black scribbles
On the blank page
Its’ blue lines tempting me
Like fancy shoes
I am a writer
Free! I am a writer. Me!
Morpho
Morpho sky, so vast and wide
Reflection of dear Abbie’s frozen eyes
Do you remember?
Wings that span plots of strangers
Pitted one by one
Line by line
In eternal rest
Do they realize?
Reflection of dear Abbie’s frozen eyes
Do you remember?
Wings that span plots of strangers
Pitted one by one
Line by line
In eternal rest
Do they realize?
Voices of the Dead
Voices of the Dead
You have to sit in silence
With the voices of the dead
In order to hear them
Really
Black-eyed abbie
Resting eternal
Next to Flora
Wife of
Daughter of
Do they even like each other?
Did they get along?
You have to visit in daylight,
Willing to peel back moss
In order to see the faces
Of the dead
Lost
Among weed growth
Testament to 1858, age five years,
Seven days.
The sky is so blue
There is no word for it
And perhaps there shouldn’t be
Here in this place
Of the dead
It can’t be compared to the blueness
Of their hearts
For good or bad:
Violet even, for WWII blood sacrifice.
Horns and marching band drums
Linger in the sound of the leaves
Falling from the trees
If you listen carefully
Enough to hear them.
World war hangovers
Dying –
Like Ester did
Laid to death eternal
As “wife of”.
You have to sit real still
To hear the voices of the dead.
Abbie A., 1858.
You have to sit in silence
With the voices of the dead
In order to hear them
Really
Black-eyed abbie
Resting eternal
Next to Flora
Wife of
Daughter of
Do they even like each other?
Did they get along?
You have to visit in daylight,
Willing to peel back moss
In order to see the faces
Of the dead
Lost
Among weed growth
Testament to 1858, age five years,
Seven days.
The sky is so blue
There is no word for it
And perhaps there shouldn’t be
Here in this place
Of the dead
It can’t be compared to the blueness
Of their hearts
For good or bad:
Violet even, for WWII blood sacrifice.
Horns and marching band drums
Linger in the sound of the leaves
Falling from the trees
If you listen carefully
Enough to hear them.
World war hangovers
Dying –
Like Ester did
Laid to death eternal
As “wife of”.
You have to sit real still
To hear the voices of the dead.
Abbie A., 1858.
Leon's Place (The bench where I sit to write)
Leon’s Place
*Dedicated to Leon B. Kilyanczik, PFC, US Army, WWII, Purple Heart
freshly potted yellow mums
buds not yet born
like the son
who shows up on the dandelion harley
to visit him
I watch from afar
American flag,
Soiled and warn
Maple stands by
Keeping guard
Just to the right
Back of the graveyard
Manicured tight
Squaking of geese
White houses nearby
Waiting for Jean
Baby blue sky
(I wonder if they annoy him)
(Or are they good company?)
Who were you, Leon?
Did you have a good life?
Did you save a life?
Is that why the royal heart?
Ice glass bench,
Saved just for your wife.
Do you feel lonely
When the geese fly away?
I should hope not
And on this I pray:
Oh, Leon B. private
Of proud purple heart
May you have long forgotten
This old resting spot.
May you have traveled far past
These tracks worn to path
Making new memories:
Having one last laugh.
*Dedicated to Leon B. Kilyanczik, PFC, US Army, WWII, Purple Heart
freshly potted yellow mums
buds not yet born
like the son
who shows up on the dandelion harley
to visit him
I watch from afar
American flag,
Soiled and warn
Maple stands by
Keeping guard
Just to the right
Back of the graveyard
Manicured tight
Squaking of geese
White houses nearby
Waiting for Jean
Baby blue sky
(I wonder if they annoy him)
(Or are they good company?)
Who were you, Leon?
Did you have a good life?
Did you save a life?
Is that why the royal heart?
Ice glass bench,
Saved just for your wife.
Do you feel lonely
When the geese fly away?
I should hope not
And on this I pray:
Oh, Leon B. private
Of proud purple heart
May you have long forgotten
This old resting spot.
May you have traveled far past
These tracks worn to path
Making new memories:
Having one last laugh.
Under the Cover of Black Umbrellas
Under the Cover of Black Umbrellas
Under the cover of green – made all the more luscious
By the butterflies,
Perched, on her black umbrella
Maybe “perfect” isn’t meant to keep a love alive.
Even seashells have their flaws
And he threw his out long ago
With the torn and stained underwear.
Bundled up, while mother escapes
To the parking lot.
Cat on prey – sucking down a cigarette –
Ultra light. Ultra closeted.
Haunted memories meant to say goodbye
There’s no movin’ on
Embers christening the swirls she’d call heat,
Others cancer in wait.
Under the guard of angels
Guised
Left somewhere in a purgatory state –
Who won’t decide what makes a poem the caliber of Plath?
Lord knows Hughs was out fucking (no different than me)
While family obligations pressed on and feline frenzied mothers
Reached for their lighters –
Under cover. Under black umbrellas.
Under the cover of green – made all the more luscious
By the butterflies,
Perched, on her black umbrella
Maybe “perfect” isn’t meant to keep a love alive.
Even seashells have their flaws
And he threw his out long ago
With the torn and stained underwear.
Bundled up, while mother escapes
To the parking lot.
Cat on prey – sucking down a cigarette –
Ultra light. Ultra closeted.
Haunted memories meant to say goodbye
There’s no movin’ on
Embers christening the swirls she’d call heat,
Others cancer in wait.
Under the guard of angels
Guised
Left somewhere in a purgatory state –
Who won’t decide what makes a poem the caliber of Plath?
Lord knows Hughs was out fucking (no different than me)
While family obligations pressed on and feline frenzied mothers
Reached for their lighters –
Under cover. Under black umbrellas.
Tween Pep Rally Woes
Pep Rally
His back curves out almost as
Far as his neck
Semi circle of discontent
His frown falling through bleachers
Dimples, reluctant – but there –
Under the surface
His smile the kind where you just know
He’s gritting his molars
Oh! Age 13! The cusp of manhood
Paints his peach fuzz lips:
“Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy do I have to go?
My brother doesn’t support my team!”
He insists…
Cheerleaders are enough
Reason for a boy to shower
Every day.
Pep rally blues: Go away!
His back curves out almost as
Far as his neck
Semi circle of discontent
His frown falling through bleachers
Dimples, reluctant – but there –
Under the surface
His smile the kind where you just know
He’s gritting his molars
Oh! Age 13! The cusp of manhood
Paints his peach fuzz lips:
“Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy do I have to go?
My brother doesn’t support my team!”
He insists…
Cheerleaders are enough
Reason for a boy to shower
Every day.
Pep rally blues: Go away!
Possessed
Possessed
Fingers owned by home row
Pinky with no minus identity
Semi colon, semi colon, semi colon
Turtle racing:
Glib,
Glub.
Greedy beads of Elmers
Crawling home
Fatter, swollen
Bloated
Mad women
With whom to capture?
An a
S
D
F
…tap,
…tap,
…tap.
Faster!
(dinner’s being served!)
they know no other home
and wouldn’t want it
homeless; any other way
frantic now!
…tap, tap, tap, tappppp!
And the glib, glub
Turns magical!
Glibbity, glubbuty! Glee!
Tap, tap, tap,
Tap, tap.
Don’t stop now!
Extacy!
Flowing with all the heat
Of a whore
Driven by her drug
Cash is only a means
To feed them
Fueling their madness
That certain something
Behind Mona Lisa’s smirk
Smile!
J,
K,
L,
;,
noun
vowel
noun
stealing the fruit of the night
sucking on moon beam fuel
(who needs dinner anyway?)
This, I Believe Essay (Or do I?)
I schedule my life around 12 packs of Labatt Blue beer. Drinking nights, hiding car keys, dodging insults and shielding the children are my rituals. Scarlet creeps upon my cheeks at the town recycling plant as I empty the bottles on Saturdays. Oddly enough, I’m a non drinker.
Sure, I drank back in college. I attended regular fraternity parties and even “forced” myself to take the obligatory Sunday night off from binge drinking. But all of that ended with college. I had dreams of becoming a successful journalist and marrying my Prince Charming. Beer was not part of those dreams.
I’ve been married to a bi polar alcoholic for 13 years. He was not a big drinker when I met him in 1996. He has been drinking for seven years. For seven years, I have hid his beer cans from the children, made excuses for his sometimes wild behavior – such as riding his bicycle in the middle of a winter storm down to the convenience store with a backpack to get one more 40 ounce bottle - and accepted the fact that he won’t eat dinner with the family on drinking nights because food absorbs alcohol. Counting beer cans on the counter, carrying 200 pounds of dead weight to bed, watching him urinate in the middle of the hallway, cleaning it up, and gritting my teeth through drunken ramblings have become habits for me.
I have thought about leaving many times. I have even dreamt of a new Prince Charming rescuing my sons and I. But I have talked myself out of it. Those who say it takes more courage to leave haven’t heard the stories of the women in Alanon who recall watching their kids get into cars with their intoxicated ex husbands because it’s their visiting day. They have no idea what it takes to muster the courage to hang in there “one day at a time.”
My widowed grandmother was married to an alcoholic for more than 50 years. Once, he threw a frozen turkey at my grandmother. Recently, she and I spent the day together. I wanted to ask her if it had been worth staying with my grandfather all those years. I looked at the wedding band she still wore and almost brought it up. Something stopped me. Whatever her answer was, I decided, it didn’t matter. She had made her choice and I respected it.
I believe in loyalty, commitment, and stability. I believe in for better or worse marriage vows and an obligation to give my children a two-parent home. I believe in forgiveness and the power of healing. I believe I am doing the right thing. I believe in Grandma’s choice and that, sometimes, it takes more strength to stay than it does to leave.
Sure, I drank back in college. I attended regular fraternity parties and even “forced” myself to take the obligatory Sunday night off from binge drinking. But all of that ended with college. I had dreams of becoming a successful journalist and marrying my Prince Charming. Beer was not part of those dreams.
I’ve been married to a bi polar alcoholic for 13 years. He was not a big drinker when I met him in 1996. He has been drinking for seven years. For seven years, I have hid his beer cans from the children, made excuses for his sometimes wild behavior – such as riding his bicycle in the middle of a winter storm down to the convenience store with a backpack to get one more 40 ounce bottle - and accepted the fact that he won’t eat dinner with the family on drinking nights because food absorbs alcohol. Counting beer cans on the counter, carrying 200 pounds of dead weight to bed, watching him urinate in the middle of the hallway, cleaning it up, and gritting my teeth through drunken ramblings have become habits for me.
I have thought about leaving many times. I have even dreamt of a new Prince Charming rescuing my sons and I. But I have talked myself out of it. Those who say it takes more courage to leave haven’t heard the stories of the women in Alanon who recall watching their kids get into cars with their intoxicated ex husbands because it’s their visiting day. They have no idea what it takes to muster the courage to hang in there “one day at a time.”
My widowed grandmother was married to an alcoholic for more than 50 years. Once, he threw a frozen turkey at my grandmother. Recently, she and I spent the day together. I wanted to ask her if it had been worth staying with my grandfather all those years. I looked at the wedding band she still wore and almost brought it up. Something stopped me. Whatever her answer was, I decided, it didn’t matter. She had made her choice and I respected it.
I believe in loyalty, commitment, and stability. I believe in for better or worse marriage vows and an obligation to give my children a two-parent home. I believe in forgiveness and the power of healing. I believe I am doing the right thing. I believe in Grandma’s choice and that, sometimes, it takes more strength to stay than it does to leave.
Hypothetically
Hypothetically…
Would you still have them babies
If I weren’t your babies’ Daddy
Or didn’t wish to be?
If the doctors told me –
Dude, there’s something wrong with your seed.
Would you give them away
If I decided one day
I didn’t want to breathe?
Hypothetically….
Would you allow me to be the man in their lives
If I didn’t love you
Or make you my wife?
If the minister told me –
Dude, this chick’s white!
Would you give me away
If I decided one day
I no longer want you and me?
Hypothetically?
***
Hypothetically II…
Do you have it in you to walk away
Knowing you pissed on your promises
And your word means nothing?
If the skinny bitch told you –
Baby, fuck me! I don’t have AIDS!
Would you give her your heart
If she decided to stay
Just cause it’s easier that way?
Hypothetically…
Would you allow me to be the woman in your life –
Loving past the pains
Or have your forgotten?
If the preacher said
Make her your bride?
Would you embrace me that way
If I decided one day
I’m just too darn tired…
Hypothetically?
Would you still have them babies
If I weren’t your babies’ Daddy
Or didn’t wish to be?
If the doctors told me –
Dude, there’s something wrong with your seed.
Would you give them away
If I decided one day
I didn’t want to breathe?
Hypothetically….
Would you allow me to be the man in their lives
If I didn’t love you
Or make you my wife?
If the minister told me –
Dude, this chick’s white!
Would you give me away
If I decided one day
I no longer want you and me?
Hypothetically?
***
Hypothetically II…
Do you have it in you to walk away
Knowing you pissed on your promises
And your word means nothing?
If the skinny bitch told you –
Baby, fuck me! I don’t have AIDS!
Would you give her your heart
If she decided to stay
Just cause it’s easier that way?
Hypothetically…
Would you allow me to be the woman in your life –
Loving past the pains
Or have your forgotten?
If the preacher said
Make her your bride?
Would you embrace me that way
If I decided one day
I’m just too darn tired…
Hypothetically?
Dem White Bitches
Dem White Bitches
Dem white bitches, they don’t understand.
We got things to do!
How dare you lock me up in a hotel
To give me my babies?
There’s a whole world to see!
Dem white bitches, they don’t know
We never write about the evil!
Did you think I’d tell you about the shanks
To make you understand?
I’d rather blame you for not understanding.
Dem white bitches, selfish.
Not knowing circumstances change
Cause there’s a whole big world out there
And I don’t have to write letters.
Cause I’m out of the pen
And there ain’t no need for knives
Made of toothpaste scraps
There’s a whole world to see!
I don’t have to hide the dagger
I’ll stick in your heart
The one you pledged to me
Cause I’m looking for an excuse
Cause I need an excuse
Karma, do believe!
Dem white bitches, weak!
My sisters, they strong
They understand
Cause maybe I never called them my queen
And made promises…
What happened to night aches?
And pillow talk?
Your voice is so sexy baby!
You’ll always get your way with me!
Dem white bitches. He!
Dem white bitches, they don’t understand.
We got things to do!
How dare you lock me up in a hotel
To give me my babies?
There’s a whole world to see!
Dem white bitches, they don’t know
We never write about the evil!
Did you think I’d tell you about the shanks
To make you understand?
I’d rather blame you for not understanding.
Dem white bitches, selfish.
Not knowing circumstances change
Cause there’s a whole big world out there
And I don’t have to write letters.
Cause I’m out of the pen
And there ain’t no need for knives
Made of toothpaste scraps
There’s a whole world to see!
I don’t have to hide the dagger
I’ll stick in your heart
The one you pledged to me
Cause I’m looking for an excuse
Cause I need an excuse
Karma, do believe!
Dem white bitches, weak!
My sisters, they strong
They understand
Cause maybe I never called them my queen
And made promises…
What happened to night aches?
And pillow talk?
Your voice is so sexy baby!
You’ll always get your way with me!
Dem white bitches. He!
Promises
Promises
Promises can last – oh, but a week
Sleeping alone is too difficult.
And they say white women are weak.
Don’t fool yourself.
The tears I cry come from a place of strength.
Promises can last – oh, easy to see
Jerking off is too redundant
And they say white women don’t have rhythm.
Faithfulness bleeds.
I never said it would be easy.
I promised it wouldn’t be!
Promises.
I guess I just thought,
Stood up for more than a week.
Promises can last – oh, but a week
Sleeping alone is too difficult.
And they say white women are weak.
Don’t fool yourself.
The tears I cry come from a place of strength.
Promises can last – oh, easy to see
Jerking off is too redundant
And they say white women don’t have rhythm.
Faithfulness bleeds.
I never said it would be easy.
I promised it wouldn’t be!
Promises.
I guess I just thought,
Stood up for more than a week.
Tribulations of of the Convict's Wife
Doing Time On the Outside
He calls her his fiancé
(Well, not publicly)
And he’s too proud to get down on one knee.
He done time in the penitentiary.
Doing time
…Believing he’s all mine
Dumb white chick.
I’ll spoil you silly, baby girl
I’ll buy you the whole darn world
But my ear – it costs time
Not spending a dime.
Bring me your sex
…That shit mines.
14 years without family
Bring me your cunt, B.
16 months?
That ain’t shit
…Hanging on to Forever, Yours…
Drop it. Drop it all. White bitch.
“You’ll always be my forever girl”
(I hope)
BUT
He’d rather die…
That day, he said would be mine
Then sold it
To the highest bidder.
Stupid country folk.
“I’m preparing”
Got big things to do
For us, but I don’t have time
Got other shit to do.
Gonna be a millionaire
Downloading I Tunes.
Eating at Applebees.
Hanging with my neice.
How do I work this MP3?
Got other shit to do
No time. I’m a city guy.
Come on, bitch
Give me my excuse
No, I ain’t gonna meditate
Ain’t no more count times!
And you’s?
You’s mines!
Self development?
No more time!
Got better shit to do
Why ain’t you let me piss on you?
Don’t whine!
Why you crying now, white bitch?
(rolling eyes).
My sisters…they strong!
Black.
Proud.
What’s wrong witch you, white bitch?
You better be there
You better come here
I need my pussy
This ain’t no joke.
I’m gonna breed you, bitch
And barely crack a smile.
I ain’t fucked in 14 years
So get down on your knees
I’m free as a bird
To love…
To disease.
I ain’t fucked in 14 years
So be ready to please.
Kiss Harvard goodbye!
Doin’ time…..14 years
Three on parole.
I ain’t bothering getting finger printed again.
I ain’t got time to be pissin in a cup.
I only talk after seven.
My shit’s for sale to the highest bidder.
Self development can take a hike.
My family? Neverminds.
You’s mines.
White queen.
14 years! Give me my excuse!
Doin time! You wasn’t here
That makes it alright!
What the fuck’s a little morning sickness –
When you ain’t done taked care of Daddy’s business?
All your fault. And I’m pissed.
No, the blame ain’t mine.
Come on, bitch
…That’s right, my forever whore.
I ain’t got no more time!
Don’t you take that ring off!
You’s mines!
Do you hear me?
6:59.
Count time.
He calls her his fiancé
(Well, not publicly)
And he’s too proud to get down on one knee.
He done time in the penitentiary.
Doing time
…Believing he’s all mine
Dumb white chick.
I’ll spoil you silly, baby girl
I’ll buy you the whole darn world
But my ear – it costs time
Not spending a dime.
Bring me your sex
…That shit mines.
14 years without family
Bring me your cunt, B.
16 months?
That ain’t shit
…Hanging on to Forever, Yours…
Drop it. Drop it all. White bitch.
“You’ll always be my forever girl”
(I hope)
BUT
He’d rather die…
That day, he said would be mine
Then sold it
To the highest bidder.
Stupid country folk.
“I’m preparing”
Got big things to do
For us, but I don’t have time
Got other shit to do.
Gonna be a millionaire
Downloading I Tunes.
Eating at Applebees.
Hanging with my neice.
How do I work this MP3?
Got other shit to do
No time. I’m a city guy.
Come on, bitch
Give me my excuse
No, I ain’t gonna meditate
Ain’t no more count times!
And you’s?
You’s mines!
Self development?
No more time!
Got better shit to do
Why ain’t you let me piss on you?
Don’t whine!
Why you crying now, white bitch?
(rolling eyes).
My sisters…they strong!
Black.
Proud.
What’s wrong witch you, white bitch?
You better be there
You better come here
I need my pussy
This ain’t no joke.
I’m gonna breed you, bitch
And barely crack a smile.
I ain’t fucked in 14 years
So get down on your knees
I’m free as a bird
To love…
To disease.
I ain’t fucked in 14 years
So be ready to please.
Kiss Harvard goodbye!
Doin’ time…..14 years
Three on parole.
I ain’t bothering getting finger printed again.
I ain’t got time to be pissin in a cup.
I only talk after seven.
My shit’s for sale to the highest bidder.
Self development can take a hike.
My family? Neverminds.
You’s mines.
White queen.
14 years! Give me my excuse!
Doin time! You wasn’t here
That makes it alright!
What the fuck’s a little morning sickness –
When you ain’t done taked care of Daddy’s business?
All your fault. And I’m pissed.
No, the blame ain’t mine.
Come on, bitch
…That’s right, my forever whore.
I ain’t got no more time!
Don’t you take that ring off!
You’s mines!
Do you hear me?
6:59.
Count time.
Poem for Jack
Do You Believe?
Fate could twist, twice
For those who had the nerve
To deem?
There’s a moment, now, in meeting
Where fate goes out the door
And free will sets in:
Do we follow?
My heart’s been laid to devil’s den
Tears have spilled
On flaxen sheets.
Your heart’s been laid in vixen’s hand
Squeezed and torn
In heaven’s shame.
Do you believe
Such a twist of fate could bring
Something new, and of
Another name?
There are moments, now, in knowing you
Where I think I may
Just suppose…
So tell me, dear:
Do you believe?
…and Thank you!
For taking a chance
With me.
Fate could twist, twice
For those who had the nerve
To deem?
There’s a moment, now, in meeting
Where fate goes out the door
And free will sets in:
Do we follow?
My heart’s been laid to devil’s den
Tears have spilled
On flaxen sheets.
Your heart’s been laid in vixen’s hand
Squeezed and torn
In heaven’s shame.
Do you believe
Such a twist of fate could bring
Something new, and of
Another name?
There are moments, now, in knowing you
Where I think I may
Just suppose…
So tell me, dear:
Do you believe?
…and Thank you!
For taking a chance
With me.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Unicorn Love Affair (Gone Stale)
Unicorn Love Affair
by Us
Humming birds sing to our love,
in a way doves flap their wings,
and eagles soar from the sunset,
I sit before my computer,
thousands of mile away,
but yet so close to your love,
I lean my head just over my left shoulder,
my eyes are closed and I see visions,
of a garden with a white unicorn,
dancing gallantly to the beat of our symphony.
The garden you see was mine, once,
before I gave you my heart
the way a mother bird brings worms to babies
in a nest built on drive, sacrifice
and I don’t have to close my eyes to see you here
in the garden, now ours
where sunrise mates with morning dew
and the promise of tulips in Spring’s awakening
twisting you, kisses sprung of day dreams, in my hair
perched upon that unicorn, waiting for you.
I see you tall, pale, soft lips, long hair
not with my eyes close, with them open,
my closed eyes visualize my wish,
but you are my reality,
sprung from dreams 1973, that year ago
I am running for you, turn my precious one.
But what need is there to turn when my eyes,
chocolate kisses, are glued to your spirit?
It was December 3, 1973, to be precise
and I’ll always have an aversion to olives – green
I giggle, thanking you for reminding me:
Thoughts turning to a different date
August 21, 2008.
I turn. I turn to you.
Over to you. My spirit, my soul, my dreams.
by Us
Humming birds sing to our love,
in a way doves flap their wings,
and eagles soar from the sunset,
I sit before my computer,
thousands of mile away,
but yet so close to your love,
I lean my head just over my left shoulder,
my eyes are closed and I see visions,
of a garden with a white unicorn,
dancing gallantly to the beat of our symphony.
The garden you see was mine, once,
before I gave you my heart
the way a mother bird brings worms to babies
in a nest built on drive, sacrifice
and I don’t have to close my eyes to see you here
in the garden, now ours
where sunrise mates with morning dew
and the promise of tulips in Spring’s awakening
twisting you, kisses sprung of day dreams, in my hair
perched upon that unicorn, waiting for you.
I see you tall, pale, soft lips, long hair
not with my eyes close, with them open,
my closed eyes visualize my wish,
but you are my reality,
sprung from dreams 1973, that year ago
I am running for you, turn my precious one.
But what need is there to turn when my eyes,
chocolate kisses, are glued to your spirit?
It was December 3, 1973, to be precise
and I’ll always have an aversion to olives – green
I giggle, thanking you for reminding me:
Thoughts turning to a different date
August 21, 2008.
I turn. I turn to you.
Over to you. My spirit, my soul, my dreams.
My Diva Chicks
I'm not skitzo, but sometimes I feel like I am. Here are pics of some "self portraits" of my inner goddesses. (Okay, so maybe I am skitzo!)
Ode to Holly Hobby & Earl Grey
There are a few things I have collected during my life. Teapots, thrift shop treasures, and men. Boxes, magazine clippings, bits of writing, and quotes would definitely follow as well.
My favorite teapot sits on out crayon-dipped, paint-splattered, has seen one-too-many-moves table. It is majestic, with its strong spout and bowed handle. Dust gathers where tape to hold the lid on once was. It’s yellowed, matching the bubble bonnet Holly Hobbie wears on its front.
My teapot is creamy white, minus the aged leopard spots, and hosts a picture of Holly carrying a gray cat in her tiny arms. She’s walking through a field of yellow daisies. Above her, whimsical script reads, “Happiness is having someone to care for …”
The picture of Holly is not etched into the ceramic. Rather, it appears to be somehow laid on – as if she’s caught in time, caring for her cat, in a hurry to get to the other end of the meadow. The teapot’s lid has a tiny round hole in the top. It’s not a fancy hole. It’s just enough to let the steam out in a practical way – so as not to disturb the graceful arch of its crown.
There’s a tiny purple butterfly following Holly. The butterfly is so small that one can hardly notice it at first. It appears to be hidden between the spout and shadows cast by its handle. The butterfly looks lost, but curious, to see where Holly is going.
To the touch, the teapot is cold and smooth. Despite the ragged dust swirls, a glossy sheen still pokes through as if to say “hello! I’m still here! Make a pot of tea! Won’t you join me?” I can imagine the sound of the pot, pouring comfort into someone’s day. I want to be that someone. That’s how the teapot makes me feel. Perhaps Holly is on her way to fetch some afternoon tea?
I’ve had this teapot for years now. I got it in 1995. I found it in an old thrift shop during my reporting days in Hooksett, NH. A second-hand treasure – probably one of my first. (And likely what started my addiction to these sort of stores). I originally bought Holly as part of a set. She came with eight matching tea cups.
Actually, I had the guy I was dating at the time – Mike Sullivan – buy it for me. Mike was older than I by about ten years and would do just about anything to please his 21 year old girlfriend. I knew that and I took advantage of it. (Likely another habit I developed during my dating years – letting men take care of me, when and if they would. It’s certainly not something I am proud of, but comes from the need to be accepted and appreciated by them after so many years of rejection).
The entire set cost about $60 if I remember correctly. All of the tea cups that went with Holly have since been lost and chipped. Mike’s long gone, possibly even in prison after one too many driving on a suspended license charges. I’m far from 21 years old anymore! But somehow, she’s remained. I can’t imagine not having her as part of my tea pot collection.
I’ve been collecting tea pots for a long time now. Holly was my first, but the collection has only grown. I think the reason for this is that tea gives me a feeling of comfort. Tea is also something I associate with my writing. I’ve tried for years to be a coffee drinker but it’s never gotten me anywhere. I find coffee too sweet. It’s no wonder I like my tea black, no sugar, no honey.
My favorite teapot sits on out crayon-dipped, paint-splattered, has seen one-too-many-moves table. It is majestic, with its strong spout and bowed handle. Dust gathers where tape to hold the lid on once was. It’s yellowed, matching the bubble bonnet Holly Hobbie wears on its front.
My teapot is creamy white, minus the aged leopard spots, and hosts a picture of Holly carrying a gray cat in her tiny arms. She’s walking through a field of yellow daisies. Above her, whimsical script reads, “Happiness is having someone to care for …”
The picture of Holly is not etched into the ceramic. Rather, it appears to be somehow laid on – as if she’s caught in time, caring for her cat, in a hurry to get to the other end of the meadow. The teapot’s lid has a tiny round hole in the top. It’s not a fancy hole. It’s just enough to let the steam out in a practical way – so as not to disturb the graceful arch of its crown.
There’s a tiny purple butterfly following Holly. The butterfly is so small that one can hardly notice it at first. It appears to be hidden between the spout and shadows cast by its handle. The butterfly looks lost, but curious, to see where Holly is going.
To the touch, the teapot is cold and smooth. Despite the ragged dust swirls, a glossy sheen still pokes through as if to say “hello! I’m still here! Make a pot of tea! Won’t you join me?” I can imagine the sound of the pot, pouring comfort into someone’s day. I want to be that someone. That’s how the teapot makes me feel. Perhaps Holly is on her way to fetch some afternoon tea?
I’ve had this teapot for years now. I got it in 1995. I found it in an old thrift shop during my reporting days in Hooksett, NH. A second-hand treasure – probably one of my first. (And likely what started my addiction to these sort of stores). I originally bought Holly as part of a set. She came with eight matching tea cups.
Actually, I had the guy I was dating at the time – Mike Sullivan – buy it for me. Mike was older than I by about ten years and would do just about anything to please his 21 year old girlfriend. I knew that and I took advantage of it. (Likely another habit I developed during my dating years – letting men take care of me, when and if they would. It’s certainly not something I am proud of, but comes from the need to be accepted and appreciated by them after so many years of rejection).
The entire set cost about $60 if I remember correctly. All of the tea cups that went with Holly have since been lost and chipped. Mike’s long gone, possibly even in prison after one too many driving on a suspended license charges. I’m far from 21 years old anymore! But somehow, she’s remained. I can’t imagine not having her as part of my tea pot collection.
I’ve been collecting tea pots for a long time now. Holly was my first, but the collection has only grown. I think the reason for this is that tea gives me a feeling of comfort. Tea is also something I associate with my writing. I’ve tried for years to be a coffee drinker but it’s never gotten me anywhere. I find coffee too sweet. It’s no wonder I like my tea black, no sugar, no honey.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
