I don’t mean to be rude
Andrea
I just…
I was breastfed a little too long.
I was fixated.
I was obsessed.
I was lost in a particular craving
that stays with me
to this day.
I don’t mean for my attention to wander
for my gaze to linger
for my brow to moisturize
when I look at you
Or… parts of you.
I swear
I will strive
to look in your eyes
someday soon.
It’s not too late to stop?
You’re wrong.
It is far too late to turn over a new leaf.
It is too late for everything
except me
and the spirits
and this race to the bottom
which is the only thing
I expect to win
anytime soon.
And
who knows?
For those steppers,
the bottom is the beginning
the place where a new world
can be entered.
Perhaps
it is only when empty,
when I can see
what is underneath the bottle.
Perhaps only then will I know
a better future.
Perhaps happiness is waiting for me
sometime after the bottle abandons.
But I suspect
at that time
I shall see something exceedingly different.
When the days are getting shorter
and the grins harder to find…
Web life is giving lemons
but skimping on sugar
and will not let you near a stirrer
or a decanter
or ice…
when you’re weary,
feeling small…
When it looks bad
like you feel like a red headed step child
because you ARE a red headed step child
and you wonder who
if anyone
could ever love the son,
and your moon pies have rotted
so bad that the rats can’t be bothered…
When it’s bad,
when it sucks,
when losers look at you
and laugh, saying
“There but for the grace… ”
When it’s like that,
it must really suck to be you,
you know?
It’s getting cold
and lamp posts are no longer quite so fun to lean upon
but I do what I can.
What? No.
I’m not waiting on a lady.
I’m just waiting for my man.
I’ve been here for ten minutes
that feels like hours
as ice giants blow on me
as I stand on this street corner.
He’s never early.
He’s always late.
First thing you learn while you are waiting for a date
is that it will never turn out hasty
when you are waiting for your man.
I wish I had his number
and not just his beeper.
I wish he trusted me enough
to share some intimate details
or at least a sweet taste
of what I want.
He can be so good to me
offering so much.
I wish that he’d become my baby, I think
while I’m waiting for my man.
Candy says
that Lisa says
that Stephanie said
that this is a new age
and old rules need not apply.
Stephanie says,
according to Candy
by means of Lisa,
that waves of fear
of video violence
have gone the way of the egg cream
– they’re past tense, baby
and have run run run run run away.
Lisa told Candy that Stephanie said
that we don’t have to be vicious
or wildly walk
or engage in that old steer hassle.
Dirty Boulevards can be forgone
for cleaner streets.
Stephanie believes,
according to the girls,
that we have finally arrived at
a perfect day.
Stephanie is my heroine.
Me? Oh, things are great.
Currently, I’m working
on this writing project
about the life and times
of a ferret in the 12th century.
It’s really bad.
There’s no point to it
and every day I continue with the writing
I wonder about
the bog I’ve entered into.
It’s like what the ferret’s friend,
Ferret Number Two
says in the middle of the Chapter Three:
"I seem to have entered into a bog;
I wonder how."
Yeah, it’s not going well.
I keep thinking that if I play through,
it’ll start to make sense
and the characters will come to life
and the plot will have meaning
and it’ll become clear to me
why I thought it would be important
that the ferret
who has no sense of history
should have to be in the 12th century
and not the 15th
or why I can’t give the ferret a more interesting name
than Ferret.
I have devoted so much time
to this bad project
from this dumb idea
and I seem to believe
that doubling down will do some good.
It’s really not good.
I could show you some drafts,
if you’d like.
The is an adult poem
with mature ideas
and sophisticated themes.
This is the way a man broaches a subject:
not cowardly
not insidiously
but direct
Though still somewhat subtle.
This is how a poem gets written,
with words
and thoughts
and feelings
dripping through every stanza
– and it’s a poem that references stanzas
and meter and
it uses the word élan
at least once.
I can’t tell you where
but
it’s there.
Trust me,
it’s there.
This is an adult poem
one that belongs in a folio
or read in a turtleneck
under candlelight
to a woman
who knows things.
This is a poem
written by a man
a man
that i would very much like
to become.
If you tell me how,
I can give you a copy.
My housemate
the one on the first floor
next to the kitchen
and the small bathroom
where we congregate
with great frequency
– Eloise –
has not slept with me.
This thought occurred to me
when we interviewed her
for the spot
much as I considered
Carmen, Sharona and Mel
when I moved in.
They, of course,
all fell like face cards
or left the building
in quick succession.
Eloise however
remains unappreciated
despite my offers of backrubs
or complaints of the plight of the Panamanian
or readings from my secret poetical stash.
She does not know what she’s missing
and I fear
if she doesn’t act soon
she will continue
to not know what she’s missing.
This fear plagues me.
To be fair,
Alastair in the attic
has also not given up the goods
but I’m OK with that
so far.
I am testing limits.
I am pushing buttons.
I am exploring boundaries
and exploding them
and exploiting the remains.
I am daring.
I am making damaging decisions.
I am involved in deicide
as a deiphobe
and using decided directions
to diminishing returns.
I am the problem
a disproportionate response.
I am responding to questions
that haven’t been asked
– argumentatively.
I am wrong.
I am wretched.
I am racking my brains
to cause some more pain.
There’s no harm in that,
is there?
There is?
Well, that’s the problem!
No.
Wait.
I am the problem.
Don’t hold me to it
for I cannot support this
but I have a gut telling me
– a feeling –
that you are something
that I do not like.
I am an empirical one
so there words
they are uncomfortable to say
and I wish
I could substantiate them
or prove them wrong
but I suspect
you have within you
something suspicious.
Like
you are a Nazi Hunter
who bombs the town
to look for any who might escape
so you can shoot them
and let God sort ’em out.
Like
you have faith
in ancient curses
and use them
behind smiling eyes
and winking teeth.
sharp and splendificient.
Like
like…
like if I knew exactly what it was
I could have the evidence
to research
whether you’re as bad as I think
as I suspect
as I feel.
I do not like to trust my feelings
and maybe
what makes me queasy
is just how much you do.
jonberger 