ARTY ACTION

[mollybloom]

I want to write a poem for you, like you give me a sentence, quote, picture, idea, color, event, memory, etc. and I'll respond with a poem.

I'm hoping this'll give me the creative incentive I need to fuel through this month while I jealously watch everyone else NaNoWriMo.

So! post! Get a poem!

Comments

[mollybloom]

He came to me in the middle of night,
and I mean that in the sense, that he
waddled up in a cheap rent-a-tux
asking if I had a light and maybe if
I wanted a beer or two to pass the time
or stave off the cold and, for some reason
or another, I saw this as a sign, as some
way of God telling me, “Hey, you, this is
it. Cigs and beer be code words
for love and soul mate. Take it and run,
child.” So, I took God’s advice,

followed his raggedy minivan home,
stopping with him once at a gas station
so he could pick up a 6-pack and drop
a couple of bucks on condoms. His apartment
looked much like the rest of him, sallow and
filthy, but I had gone to spirituals good
and proper and God had never led me wrong
before, so why stop having faith now?

He gave me the tour.
He had names for every room and most every
object. Beer-a-rator was the fridge. Jiminy was
the toilet. Shit-den was the living room/dining
room area. Cornelia was the squat, broken down
table in front of Domino, the television set.
His bedroom didn’t have a name, but he laid me
out on top of the “pimp cot.”

I understood why it was called “pimp cot”
because I could smell stale sperm, cigarettes
and cheap perfume. He was also done in
what a hooker would have called “record time,”
so I laid there, expecting a flourish of love,
some sensitivity maybe, but instead, he got up
to brush his teeth and asked if I wanted to stay
or go.

I stayed. I mean, God wanted me here, right?
…right?

The weird thing is, really, that I kept staying,
kept coming back, kept looking for something
but then, it sort of hit me:

morning sickness, cramps,
missing work because I was belly-up
over the toilet begging to be able to
walk past a fucking Starbucks without
wanting to throw up the water I was
sort of able to down earlier and
forgetting the “pimp cot” and even his
name (Jesus, what was it anyhow?) and
wanting bbq pork sandwiches and strawberry
yogurt, and a child, a bouncing
giggly
chubby
cherub

God never leads me wrong.