My Days, In verse
I have no idea where the "poetry" is coming from. I do beg the indulgence of the flist for me posting it. Mostly, I'm astonished.
Prufrock Should Have Lived In California in the Spring. Or Why Citrus Is Better.
I have an orange on my desk
The perfect weight and heft for an orange, round and firm in my palm like a baseball
(Sweet and textured and organic, as is expected of perfection
Something to hold, something to throw - although it would thud and squish if I did, unlike a baseball which connects with that equally perfect thwack of palm or wood on leather and string - and I've put it back into the fridge because it is in fact too perfect to eat.
Peaches are clearly not the only fruit with this flaw and Mike cut one up, leaving it on the counter
And I ate part of that.
So I have the best of both worlds.)
I picked it from the tree of the old lady in the Valley whose book I'm editing
She is very, very short and I am very, very tall
But we fit well, like a puzzle, like a Jenga, tipsy and topsy
I had shears in my hand to snip the fruit from the tree - all sorts of citrus,
Tart pale grapefruits and these beautiful oranges
I jumped and jumped up to get at them, and set them to swinging
Before growing scared and using the shears
Because of the bees
The book is taking a long time, because she is old, and I am not
[Women are not the same as they were when she was young,
and yet, they (we, I can say we) still have Cinderella dreams, just tainted by disdain of Disney, and also because of hot pants
And gay sex. And Hillary. And girl astronauts. And the economy. And feminism.
Not that those are bad things.
But broad minds are hard things to tame
To categorize and cage. No one wants to change diapers. Not really.
But we want someone to pass things down to.
One (we.) (i) You? can see the problem.
Because do men still fuck their secretaries? If not, we (she and I) may have a problem.]
The book is taking a long route to relationships.
A long time to get done.
Because of illness, and heartbreak - hers mostly - the loss of her husband,
Her friend from childhood, and rebuilding that world.
I don't have any heartbreak to share
Just fears, and disappointments, mostly mine (although I'm sure his as well. All those hims and hes).
But we - she and I - are like merging traffic, seamless and a little jumpy
And a lot a like
Except she says fuck out loud, and I choke on my bagel and my coffee
Because she's 82. And Jewish, and kind of wonderful.
And when she says it she means sex, and I am shocked.
Prudish at my advanced age, while she is well past that.
Even though I say fuck aloud in other realms
Whispered into an ear, as a command, a request
(Liz asks if people say this for real, if we use it to talk of sex. I want to say yes.
But I'll say no. Because when I say it that way, I mean it to be dirty.
Not so much when I just swear though, say it like I'd say anything. An expletive. Evocative. Evoking. Vox and vox populi.
I know the vocative of fuck in Latin. But English is better).
But these days, it's mostly on the page
My words against white paper, a white screen, tart and biting and damp
Illicit. Eliciting. Fucked. Over. Under. Against.
Fucking.
Amongst imaginary people
Sometimes mine,
Sometimes other people's people (I am not at all ashamed of this, I must say, although it's something I keep tight and close. Because often, I think I should be. Ashamed.).
However, other people's people have taught me that I like the word cunt.
Of that, I'm not ashamed.
Like Clyde Bruckman, I know that everyone else in the world, but maybe he and I,
Are having sex (and he's imaginary, and dead).
At least that's what my television and Loveline and my work tell me (about the sex, not the dead).
Everyone but me
So I'll just go back to the orange, cooling in my refrigerator
Amongst the milk and the wilting vegetables
In the morning, maybe, I'll cut it open, exposing the pulp
And the sweetness, sharp and clean and prickly enough to make my cheekbones sting
From there, I'll work on saying fuck against pilled sheets
To someone other than myself
And my black words on the white page
Except for when I'm out of black ink and they're blue like a perfect metaphor
Prufrock Should Have Lived In California in the Spring. Or Why Citrus Is Better.
I have an orange on my desk
The perfect weight and heft for an orange, round and firm in my palm like a baseball
(Sweet and textured and organic, as is expected of perfection
Something to hold, something to throw - although it would thud and squish if I did, unlike a baseball which connects with that equally perfect thwack of palm or wood on leather and string - and I've put it back into the fridge because it is in fact too perfect to eat.
Peaches are clearly not the only fruit with this flaw and Mike cut one up, leaving it on the counter
And I ate part of that.
So I have the best of both worlds.)
I picked it from the tree of the old lady in the Valley whose book I'm editing
She is very, very short and I am very, very tall
But we fit well, like a puzzle, like a Jenga, tipsy and topsy
I had shears in my hand to snip the fruit from the tree - all sorts of citrus,
Tart pale grapefruits and these beautiful oranges
I jumped and jumped up to get at them, and set them to swinging
Before growing scared and using the shears
Because of the bees
The book is taking a long time, because she is old, and I am not
[Women are not the same as they were when she was young,
and yet, they (we, I can say we) still have Cinderella dreams, just tainted by disdain of Disney, and also because of hot pants
And gay sex. And Hillary. And girl astronauts. And the economy. And feminism.
Not that those are bad things.
But broad minds are hard things to tame
To categorize and cage. No one wants to change diapers. Not really.
But we want someone to pass things down to.
One (we.) (i) You? can see the problem.
Because do men still fuck their secretaries? If not, we (she and I) may have a problem.]
The book is taking a long route to relationships.
A long time to get done.
Because of illness, and heartbreak - hers mostly - the loss of her husband,
Her friend from childhood, and rebuilding that world.
I don't have any heartbreak to share
Just fears, and disappointments, mostly mine (although I'm sure his as well. All those hims and hes).
But we - she and I - are like merging traffic, seamless and a little jumpy
And a lot a like
Except she says fuck out loud, and I choke on my bagel and my coffee
Because she's 82. And Jewish, and kind of wonderful.
And when she says it she means sex, and I am shocked.
Prudish at my advanced age, while she is well past that.
Even though I say fuck aloud in other realms
Whispered into an ear, as a command, a request
(Liz asks if people say this for real, if we use it to talk of sex. I want to say yes.
But I'll say no. Because when I say it that way, I mean it to be dirty.
Not so much when I just swear though, say it like I'd say anything. An expletive. Evocative. Evoking. Vox and vox populi.
I know the vocative of fuck in Latin. But English is better).
But these days, it's mostly on the page
My words against white paper, a white screen, tart and biting and damp
Illicit. Eliciting. Fucked. Over. Under. Against.
Fucking.
Amongst imaginary people
Sometimes mine,
Sometimes other people's people (I am not at all ashamed of this, I must say, although it's something I keep tight and close. Because often, I think I should be. Ashamed.).
However, other people's people have taught me that I like the word cunt.
Of that, I'm not ashamed.
Like Clyde Bruckman, I know that everyone else in the world, but maybe he and I,
Are having sex (and he's imaginary, and dead).
At least that's what my television and Loveline and my work tell me (about the sex, not the dead).
Everyone but me
So I'll just go back to the orange, cooling in my refrigerator
Amongst the milk and the wilting vegetables
In the morning, maybe, I'll cut it open, exposing the pulp
And the sweetness, sharp and clean and prickly enough to make my cheekbones sting
From there, I'll work on saying fuck against pilled sheets
To someone other than myself
And my black words on the white page
Except for when I'm out of black ink and they're blue like a perfect metaphor