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Archive for the ‘Musings’ Category

dolls house2

-after Henrik Ibsen

 

You are a child, Nora.

 

Did it amuse you to see me dancing about,

Dressing up, acting?

I passed from mother’s hand to yours.

I lived by performing tricks.

 

Little lark frisking about, nibbling macaroons—

Gambler, spendthrift,

The capricious little Capri girl.

 

A song bird must sing clear and true, with no false notes.

 

Earning my keep copying the words of others,

Well into the night.

It is wonderful to work—

I almost feel like a man.

 

Play the tarantella, dance with your tambourine,

Good little songbird—

Just . . . not so violently.

 

If your little squirrel were to beg you for something—

Would you do it?

I would skip about and play all sorts of tricks,

If you would only be nice, and kind,

I would twitter from morning till night.

 

One can retrieve her character,

If she owns the crime and takes the punishment.

 

I should so love to say

Damn it all.

Wait, I just did.

 

I drink wine for breakfast.

I shave my legs clean.

I drink in my smell and stop worrying about hell.

 

Tomorrow night, when the dance is over I shall be free.

There’s something glorious in waiting for the miracle.

 

I thank you for your forgiveness.

I will think of you,

Our child, this doll house.

 

But I have other duties, equally sacred.

I no longer believe in miracles—

Other than those I deserve.

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American Poem.jpg

A nuclear pompadour

Releases

Buried collective anger.

 

Integrity and humanity cease.

The world becomes much stranger.

 

Incandescent lies,

Breach of the fragile peace,

Fear the money changer.

 

What his billions buy,

The mouthpiece,

Of the clear and present danger.

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I don’t buy this business
About 50 being the new 40.

It’s an excuse,
When the AARP stuff shows up.

Oh cool,
I got the discount card.

I’m not old;
I am PRIVILEGED.
I am a smart shopper now.
I can get 20% off at Best Western.

But who the hell wants to see
Brad Pitt on their magazine cover?

And tell me,
Why the Cialus couple never shares a tub?

I mean, why do they bathe side by side?
In separate tubs?

Wasn’t that the purpose of Cialus,
To get rid of the separate tubs and bedrooms.

Where does all that water drain?
Where is the towel rack?
Where are their robes?

Oh my children, there’s no going gentle
Into the dermatologist’s office
For that Botox shot

It hurts.
A lot.

And when that perfect Pilates instructor
In her $100 Lululemon pants
Puts you on the rack
To get rid of your menopause midsection spread
I can assure you

That hurts too.

I will not go gladly
Into the days of elastic waist pants.
I will rage, rage against the dying of

In fact. . . .

When I am 85
I will slam a hole in the podiatrist’s wall
With my tennis ball walker.

And scream at the top of my lungs

Keith Richards rules!

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Meat Market

– a college anxiety story

Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I got an F in American history for first quarter. Holy crap! If you average it the best I can hope for is a C. What the hell can I do with a C? Damn you, I just had to cross 5 schools off my list. My teacher is a dick, and geez, I am a 16 year old boy. What do I know?

Damn it, I am a 16 year old boy and I don’t have time management skills and that adult stuff. I am a kid, and I am stressed out.

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I was full of pulchritude and lacked punctuality.

It was all staged, of course.

They sewed me in my naked dress,
Trotted me out,
The trollop offering.

My cotton-candy hair,
Even the white ermine was fake.

Peter Lawford had a few before we took the stage.
I had a few too.
He asked for a blowjob.

That limey skank.

I knew what was up.

I went through the motions and gestures,
Sang my silly words off key—

Ignored the crowd.
Don’t judge me.

For all the things you’ve done,
To me,
I thank you so much.

Happy Birthday, Mr. President.

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Wild Thing

-a 100 word story
(for Crap, and Cindy Jeanne)

My friend Cindy was adopted. She had the best bedroom of all, and I loved sleepovers at her house. It was a big bright room, with pink walls and white wainscotting. And in the center of the room was a white canopy bed. I always wanted a canopy bed! But my attic room was small, with sloped ceilings.
Cindy hung her fancy straw hats and scarves on the bedposts.
We sat at the foot of the bed and shared a joint, singing along to Black Sabbath.
She hung the feathery roach clip on the headboard.
Cindy was a wild thing.

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Great poem from Denise Duhamel, a modern American poet:

Kinky

They decide to exchange heads.
Barbie squeezes the small opening under her chin
over Ken’s bulging neck socket. His wide jaw line jostles
atop his girlfriend’s body, loosely,
like one of those novelty dogs
destined to gaze from the back windows of cars.
The two dolls chase each other around the orange Country Camper
unsure what they’ll do when they’re within touching distance.
Ken wants to feel Barbie’s toes between his lips,
take off one of her legs and force his whole arm inside her.
With only the vaguest suggestion of genitals,
all the alluring qualities they possess as fashion dolls,
up until now, have done neither of them much good.
But suddenly Barbie is excited looking at her own body
under the weight of Ken’s face. He is part circus freak,
part thwarted hermaphrodite. And she is imagining
she is somebody else– maybe somebody middle class and ordinary,
maybe another teenage model being caught in a scandal.

The night had begun with Barbie getting angry
at finding Ken’s blow up doll, folded and stuffed
under the couch. He was defensive and ashamed, especially about
not having the breath to inflate her. But after a round
of pretend-tears, Barbie and Ken vowed to try
to make their relationship work. With their good memories
as sustaining as good food, they listened to late-night radio
talk shows, one featuring Doctor Ruth. When all else fails,
just hold each other, the small sex therapist crooned.
Barbie and Ken, on cue, groped in the dark,
their interchangeable skin glowing, the color of Band-Aids.
Then, they let themselves go– Soon Barbie was begging Ken
to try on her spandex miniskirt. She showed him how
to pivot as though he was on a runway. Ken begged
to tie Barbie onto his yellow surfboard and spin her
on the kitcen table until she grew dizzy. Anything,
anything, they both said to the other’s requests,
their mirrored desires bubbling from the most unlikely places.

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