winter is coming early this year.
my lover and i are settling in for the season
because nothing changes after the first snow
and we all know how to read this type of future
and i'm dreaming of sleeping through gray midday sunlight
wake up thinking how many years have i wasted waiting for the sun to come back
and i'm waking up aching at the blanket growing cold in the space between us
she says baby, just hang in there.
but it's dark when i leave my house for work
and it's dark when i come back home
and i miss the way the sun looks
creeping across her face on sunday mornings
like it's in no hurry
like it knows there's supposed to be a gap between sunrise
and sunset.
and everyone's old this winter
even the teenagers on the street, sucking smoke into lungs
too cold to breathe it back out
i'll quit next year i swear just make it through the winter
hard working poor people stuffing money under mattresses
saving up to buy noah's arc in the spring because
who the hell has time to build that big a boat?
and winter is coming early
i'm taking pictures to remind myself the cold is beautiful too
but there's no color here
this town too practical to ever hope for beauty
just settle in for the season
next year
i swear i'll do something.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
introduction to flying
how old were you the first time you became aware of your body
not only its needs and desires but the way other people saw you
the way your body influenced the reactions of those around you
how old were you the first time you hated your body
stood in front of the mirror growing steadily toward the edges saying
please god
if you exist, make me stop growing.
i grew up submersed in this fear as my friends dipped their feet
in their inground
pool parties were the thing the summer between eighth and ninth grade
the summer that i began to curve dangerously into something
that made my friends’ mothers nervous
something that made me nervous for the first time about rejection
based on the size of my stomach, they sat
on the side of the pool, proud of their failure to fill out bikinis
while i floated on my back with my ears underwater
arms outspread like flying
fifteen second intervals of relaxation because that’s how long it took
for my stomach to float to the surface
round in a way that even my eating disorders could not erase
fifteen seconds, that’s how long it takes
for my body to reassert itself
and does it still count as flying if you only go down?
like going down on boys in the backseat of their mother’s car
ninth grade spent in that darkest corner of the parking lot
you all know it
one eye peeled for cops, for other couples who might recognize
my messy hair over the line of the car windows
and jump to the correct no never that never her conclusions
the other closed against my physical reality
shush honey, just close your eyes and make believe
and the next day they laugh when i make the mistake of smiling in their direction
nah, we never did that
she’s a dyke
and i was but scratches on your back are better than the ones on your arms
and does it still count as fucking if you only go down?
because if it does then i fucked
every man or woman placed before me
every positive aspect of my life
every ideal i ever wanted to live until i ended up
fucking my life so hard my heart stopped
for fifteen seconds
and i know because that’s how much of the song i missed
i know because i played it back later with a stopwatch
fifteen seconds
that’s how long it takes for my body to reassert itself
and does it still count as falling when you find out
there’s no bottom?
and so i live a lifetime of purgatory in one week’s time with
martha sits on two chairs at once and sags through the space in the middle
as she runs out of foodstained fingers on which to count her psych ward visits
she says the food here is better than the last place but there
they had popsicles in the freezer and you know
no caffeine allowed but you can have all the sugar you want
and sarah wears the same clothes every day and never lets go of her purse
her lipstick spreads over the course of the week
until it covers her cheeks and fingertips and edges toward her nose
she says they have to let her out for pesach
but she doesn’t know what day it is this year
and louis says he’s bob marley reincarnated
but also jesus christ
in between the spaces in his teeth i can hear his music even when he’s not singing
which is almost never
and mark isn’t crazy he’s just angry
those bastards in washington, they… they…
why aren’t we as angry as mark?
and andy just drank so much he burned out his speech patterns
one grunt means light my cigarette
two means i just pissed my pants, and i
i’m lying alone in bed after my first full meal in three months
wondering what they’re writing about my failure to socialize
wondering where i fall on their spectrum of sanity
and when i finally remember how to laugh out loud it reverberates
through the time bleached overbright hallways until everyone
marthasarahlouismarkandy we’re all laughing
making nurses count heads nervously
and does it still count as flying if it was an accident?
because that’s what i call it these days.
my accident.
it took me two days to piss the pills out of my system and regain consciousness
and three more to convince them
i didn’t mean it.
they let me go for pesach, and sarah didn’t say goodbye like the others
sarah with no accident, just well intentioned relatives
and lipstick with travel lust.
they handed me my car keys and said don’t forget
you promised you were better now.
and maybe my problem is that i’ve always been too good of a liar
because i can make you believe anything, so imagine this:
i’m flying down the road, ninety miles per hour around hairpin turns
saying if i live through this too, i might be convinced to believe in your god
even if he fucks up sometimes
just like us
and i’m learning that when it comes to flying
i do it better with two feet planted firmly on the ground
grow roots straight up my spine instead of wings to hold me aloft
and so imagine this:
i’m planting seeds, hoping for the first time
that i’ll be around next year to harvest them
building my life a solid foundation and praying to gods i never believed in
that i’ll remember to use it the next time the wind blows
and i’m learning
that the clouds up there are just floating around aimlessly
and the sky is really blue, but only from a distance
and maybe from a distance
is all i really need to know about flying
until i learn
to land.
not only its needs and desires but the way other people saw you
the way your body influenced the reactions of those around you
how old were you the first time you hated your body
stood in front of the mirror growing steadily toward the edges saying
please god
if you exist, make me stop growing.
i grew up submersed in this fear as my friends dipped their feet
in their inground
pool parties were the thing the summer between eighth and ninth grade
the summer that i began to curve dangerously into something
that made my friends’ mothers nervous
something that made me nervous for the first time about rejection
based on the size of my stomach, they sat
on the side of the pool, proud of their failure to fill out bikinis
while i floated on my back with my ears underwater
arms outspread like flying
fifteen second intervals of relaxation because that’s how long it took
for my stomach to float to the surface
round in a way that even my eating disorders could not erase
fifteen seconds, that’s how long it takes
for my body to reassert itself
and does it still count as flying if you only go down?
like going down on boys in the backseat of their mother’s car
ninth grade spent in that darkest corner of the parking lot
you all know it
one eye peeled for cops, for other couples who might recognize
my messy hair over the line of the car windows
and jump to the correct no never that never her conclusions
the other closed against my physical reality
shush honey, just close your eyes and make believe
and the next day they laugh when i make the mistake of smiling in their direction
nah, we never did that
she’s a dyke
and i was but scratches on your back are better than the ones on your arms
and does it still count as fucking if you only go down?
because if it does then i fucked
every man or woman placed before me
every positive aspect of my life
every ideal i ever wanted to live until i ended up
fucking my life so hard my heart stopped
for fifteen seconds
and i know because that’s how much of the song i missed
i know because i played it back later with a stopwatch
fifteen seconds
that’s how long it takes for my body to reassert itself
and does it still count as falling when you find out
there’s no bottom?
and so i live a lifetime of purgatory in one week’s time with
martha sits on two chairs at once and sags through the space in the middle
as she runs out of foodstained fingers on which to count her psych ward visits
she says the food here is better than the last place but there
they had popsicles in the freezer and you know
no caffeine allowed but you can have all the sugar you want
and sarah wears the same clothes every day and never lets go of her purse
her lipstick spreads over the course of the week
until it covers her cheeks and fingertips and edges toward her nose
she says they have to let her out for pesach
but she doesn’t know what day it is this year
and louis says he’s bob marley reincarnated
but also jesus christ
in between the spaces in his teeth i can hear his music even when he’s not singing
which is almost never
and mark isn’t crazy he’s just angry
those bastards in washington, they… they…
why aren’t we as angry as mark?
and andy just drank so much he burned out his speech patterns
one grunt means light my cigarette
two means i just pissed my pants, and i
i’m lying alone in bed after my first full meal in three months
wondering what they’re writing about my failure to socialize
wondering where i fall on their spectrum of sanity
and when i finally remember how to laugh out loud it reverberates
through the time bleached overbright hallways until everyone
marthasarahlouismarkandy we’re all laughing
making nurses count heads nervously
and does it still count as flying if it was an accident?
because that’s what i call it these days.
my accident.
it took me two days to piss the pills out of my system and regain consciousness
and three more to convince them
i didn’t mean it.
they let me go for pesach, and sarah didn’t say goodbye like the others
sarah with no accident, just well intentioned relatives
and lipstick with travel lust.
they handed me my car keys and said don’t forget
you promised you were better now.
and maybe my problem is that i’ve always been too good of a liar
because i can make you believe anything, so imagine this:
i’m flying down the road, ninety miles per hour around hairpin turns
saying if i live through this too, i might be convinced to believe in your god
even if he fucks up sometimes
just like us
and i’m learning that when it comes to flying
i do it better with two feet planted firmly on the ground
grow roots straight up my spine instead of wings to hold me aloft
and so imagine this:
i’m planting seeds, hoping for the first time
that i’ll be around next year to harvest them
building my life a solid foundation and praying to gods i never believed in
that i’ll remember to use it the next time the wind blows
and i’m learning
that the clouds up there are just floating around aimlessly
and the sky is really blue, but only from a distance
and maybe from a distance
is all i really need to know about flying
until i learn
to land.
the girl at the bar
the girl at the bar is watching me dance
with eyes so wide i wonder
that the man sitting next to her, leering down at nearly grown in tits
old enough to be her father and he leans over, staring
and i wonder that he doesn't fall in.
eyes so wide i see myself reflected from across the bar
not twenty and naked, pumping hips obscenely against this brass pole
but sixteen, and unsure of my own worth
watching girls i know are better than me in a vain attempt to learn something
pick something up, anything
as long as it's not my own.
the girl at the bar is watching me dance
and her eyes are so big i have to wonder
how i came to be the one watched.
my own eyes travel past her slender frame
long blonde hair, wavy and perfect
to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the bar
designed, i think, for just this purpose.
i am rolling my way across the stage,
catching eyes on my hips and carrying them with me
each one clutching a sweaty dollar, just waiting for a glimpse
of pubescently naked crotch,
shaved with care in my cold cast-iron bathtub.
so i miss a step, stumble over a stripe of denim
just barely covering more than their imaginations can handle
just barely coming off the end of a silver boot
a practiced flip failing in the light of her uncertain eyes,
and i watch her catch the moment, and save it
slowly building a wall around her psyche,
the one thing these men can't grope.
so i turn my attention back to the men surrounding
wiggle my hips to grab their glances, wandering across the bar
to the various sets of tits exposed to the cold damp air,
shining luridly in the neon lights of every alcohol you could want
to lower your inhibitions with.
so i bat my eyelashes when i catch them looking at me
because once she said my eyes were my greatest weapon.
bedroom eyes. come get me eyes. so i ask for it
over and over, and they stuff dirty bills against my clean skin
staining it with the filth of their uncertain desires
but the girl at the bar is watching me dance
so i weave my steps more intricately
step harder and harder until sweat runs between exposed breasts
and i pull her in. purse clutched to her almost naked body
as she tentatively steps forward, closer
and closer until i am dancing before her
ignoring waving dollar bills, and i wink.
and she winks.
and as i stand up straight and dance with all my heart
i almost don't notice the stacks of bills collecting behind me
the jukebox turned up to match my fervor because what i am watching
are big eyes through the back of her turned head
i'm watching little girl hips sway with pride instead of hunger
so i tumble my way back to the stage with a carefully practiced glide
and end my song with a wink and a blown kiss.
all in a day's work, gentlemen, i say
collecting rent and groceries balled up and crinkled
on the permanently stained floor.
and the girl at the bar is not watching me dance
eyes instead occupied searching for the next wallet
spreading open like the promise of her bare thighs
so i watch her
wrestling the demons of self-hatred and self-worth -
neither has a place on this stage.
and she watches me collecting dollar bills in greasy handfuls
knowing she's next...
and smiles.
with eyes so wide i wonder
that the man sitting next to her, leering down at nearly grown in tits
old enough to be her father and he leans over, staring
and i wonder that he doesn't fall in.
eyes so wide i see myself reflected from across the bar
not twenty and naked, pumping hips obscenely against this brass pole
but sixteen, and unsure of my own worth
watching girls i know are better than me in a vain attempt to learn something
pick something up, anything
as long as it's not my own.
the girl at the bar is watching me dance
and her eyes are so big i have to wonder
how i came to be the one watched.
my own eyes travel past her slender frame
long blonde hair, wavy and perfect
to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the bar
designed, i think, for just this purpose.
i am rolling my way across the stage,
catching eyes on my hips and carrying them with me
each one clutching a sweaty dollar, just waiting for a glimpse
of pubescently naked crotch,
shaved with care in my cold cast-iron bathtub.
so i miss a step, stumble over a stripe of denim
just barely covering more than their imaginations can handle
just barely coming off the end of a silver boot
a practiced flip failing in the light of her uncertain eyes,
and i watch her catch the moment, and save it
slowly building a wall around her psyche,
the one thing these men can't grope.
so i turn my attention back to the men surrounding
wiggle my hips to grab their glances, wandering across the bar
to the various sets of tits exposed to the cold damp air,
shining luridly in the neon lights of every alcohol you could want
to lower your inhibitions with.
so i bat my eyelashes when i catch them looking at me
because once she said my eyes were my greatest weapon.
bedroom eyes. come get me eyes. so i ask for it
over and over, and they stuff dirty bills against my clean skin
staining it with the filth of their uncertain desires
but the girl at the bar is watching me dance
so i weave my steps more intricately
step harder and harder until sweat runs between exposed breasts
and i pull her in. purse clutched to her almost naked body
as she tentatively steps forward, closer
and closer until i am dancing before her
ignoring waving dollar bills, and i wink.
and she winks.
and as i stand up straight and dance with all my heart
i almost don't notice the stacks of bills collecting behind me
the jukebox turned up to match my fervor because what i am watching
are big eyes through the back of her turned head
i'm watching little girl hips sway with pride instead of hunger
so i tumble my way back to the stage with a carefully practiced glide
and end my song with a wink and a blown kiss.
all in a day's work, gentlemen, i say
collecting rent and groceries balled up and crinkled
on the permanently stained floor.
and the girl at the bar is not watching me dance
eyes instead occupied searching for the next wallet
spreading open like the promise of her bare thighs
so i watch her
wrestling the demons of self-hatred and self-worth -
neither has a place on this stage.
and she watches me collecting dollar bills in greasy handfuls
knowing she's next...
and smiles.
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