This is Not a Poem

I’m so bored with myself. And now I’m going to pout about it in a public medium. I’m artsy-fartsy but more of the latter as of late. I’m not making anything. I haven’t cried, I haven’t bled, I haven’t danced in 6 months. I’m bored! I feel like I should take up smoking just to feel cool. I want to sell all of my stuff and only keep the non-essentials…a glasses repair kit, an ice bucket, some ribbon and the cats of course. I’m so uninteresting I don’t even wear glasses. My face is just a face. All cheeks and lip. I want a reason to take a train. I want to wear hats but not really. I just want to be a person who can pull off hats, but not wear them just to keep you wanting. I feel like I should do something with brick or yarn or both. I want to be named Francis. I want to only wear dresses from now on. Maybe that will be the project. Only dresses for a year. I want to only eat food that I make in my kitchen but I also want to eat well. I refuse to learn how to cook. Something with brick and ribbon and yarn. I want to be 30. I want to be rich in New York. I want to write a children’s book for adults or an adult book for children. Or Cat Porn: a book of fish. I maybe need to sell my cats. Never. I want to read more. I WANT TO READ MORE. I want to surprise you. 

Just Checking In

January is a big birthday month at our house. Mine is the 11th, Ben’s is the 25th, which means after Christmas and New Years and birthday tidings, we are spent in every aspect of the word. Hence I haven’t written a thing in days. Hence I have about $8 in the bank. High fives all around. 

Would delve into my big plans for February, and likely discuss its asinine spelling, but it’s lunch time and I have $8 to throw around.

 

 

Having Red

Having Red: An Ode to Anne Carson

 

She has a man

Red-winged

Hinge

A kind of spine

 

I want the same

Winged thing

Red or blue

Bent blue it seems

Blue wake

Like blue fin

Like blue eggs from a neighbor

 

One

Speckled two

You would be the bow

Arrow on

Narrow narrow

Poet in an airport

Somehow novel

A weapon

Worth a pat down

 

Down and blue

Pattern pattern

 

To say a world

Is Saturn

Is sadder

To say

A man wasn’t red

I Don’t Wana

A long list of easy things that I HAVE to do and can’t bring myself to:

-go to the DMV to update my last name on my DL…I’m a Lauffer now, but the DMV is still a hell-scape!

-contact my credit card companies to do the same…usually I avoid them

-mail out remaining thank you cards from my wedding 6 months ago…I’m an ass, I know, but they are written and sealed, and the gratitude is still swarming in my heart, but I need stamps and I hate the post office…another hellish nightmare full of flickering fluorescent bulbs and bad haircuts

-mail out wedding gifts to two of my friends from high school…again, the post office…I think it makes most of its money off of twenty-somethings getting married…my summer will likely be spent in line there for this very reason

-fill up my coffee cup…this one may actually happen

-take my cats to the vet for a check up…Miles has a bunky eye that needs to be looked at by a professional rather than swabbed at and fretted over by his terrible caretakers and if I’m going to torture one of them with a trip to the vet, I may as well torture both. Sorry, Lu.

-go grocery shopping…but that entails picking out something to wear to Whole Foods that doesn’t make me look like a peasant…everyone in there wears yoga pants that cost more than my car

-submit some poetry…because I tell people I’m a poet and I need some publications to back that up

-read some poetry…I’m running a contest for a local lit mag and the submissions have surged and the stack just reminds me that I am not submitting so instead I eat sandwiches…how many is too many sandwiches in one day?

-go for a run…ha! See wardrobe excuse for grocery shopping and sandwich response above

-take some jackets to the dry cleaners…I have literally never done this in my adult life and so I’m embarrassed and wholly intimidated by the starch options

-take some packing peanuts to UPS…Ben’s mom mailed us an antique lamp for Christmas and thus 2 tons of pink packing peanuts came with it…I think the peanuts complement the lamp in our living room nicely…Ben does not agree

-clean out my car…but it’s parked at the bottom of 18 steps from my front door which is like 5 steps from my couch so that’s like, 23 steps we’re talking about

-end this list

BOOM

photo (26)

A Capote Note

            Is it telling or just endearingly morbid that my favorite book is In Cold Blood—that I devour pages of familial massacre and woebegone culprits almost on a yearly, sometimes monthly, basis and that I wonder equally at the inhumanity of the true crime as I do at the poetic insight and meticulousness with which Capote wrote it? Telling of what, I don’t know, but I didn’t realize that revisiting the book, as I have done secretly for years, meant that it was my favorite. Paul, my very best friend, enlightened me on his latest visit when I literally confessed my fascination, that favorite was indeed the word to use. He’s absolutely right, as he so often is. It’s an abused book with dog-earred corners and giving pages. Because I have always been one to spill, the cover rolls up at the bottom right corner having dried in an awkward but most welcoming flit. I struggle with this revelation. I struggle with the fact that the story actually happened, the Clutters were actually murdered in their home; that is certainly a facet of my interest and I fear makes me a looky-loo of the highest and most grotesque order.

And then I rediscover a passage like this:

 

But neither Dick’s physique nor the inky gallery adorning it made as remarkable an impression as his face, which seemed composed of mismatching parts. It was as though his head had been halved like an apple, then put together a fraction off center. Something of the kind had happened; the imperfectly aligned features were the outcome of a car collision in 1950—an accident that left his long-jawed and narrow face tilted, the left side rather lower than the right, with the result that the lips were slightly aslant, the nose askew, and his eyes not only situated at uneven levels but of uneven size, the left eye being truly serpentine, with a venomous, sickly-blue squint that although it was involuntarily acquired, seemed nevertheless to warn of bitter sediment at the bottom of his nature.

 

This man is a murderer, but beautifully described by a genius.

I read, and reread, and in my spare time doodle sweaty guys in robes for a laugh.

My oldest brother thinks I’m depressed.

Maybe.

Here’s a drawing of my cat:

 Image

 

Love Nest

By popular demand…sorry, mom.

love nest

As a means to redeem (or quite possibly further bury) myself, here are some old poems of mine that are somehow fitting…though his robe is not.

Porking

Sex is not silvery slender.

 

It’s bulbous,

sweats.

 

We do it under

a moonstruck moon.

 

Otherwise

it’s the same chow pigs do.

 

 

Boning

Soft,

 

though we like to pretend.

 

Collide spryly,

that class has done wonders.

 

I wonder at the grinding hinges.

 

Ribs must lust after tibias,

femur after fibula—despite

skeletal incest.

 

Slim-pickin’s for them lonely bones.

 

There’s so much pink that divides us.

 

 

Screwing

No, no, you are not meant to turn it.