Revisions

FYI, I did some major revisions on these pieces for my midterm and changed them accordingly on the blog. Check it out!

Mobile Phone on a Saturday Night

Your fingers grasp
clumsily for me, snug
in your back pocket, and I am

yanked out, beer sloshing
out of the red Solo cup held
high above your head as you dance.

Thick fleshy pads press into
my keys, contacting
people you’ve not spoken to in years.

Misspellings and extra letters added
to the ends of words --
“goin to spaceeeee”

“shot shot soth soht shotttt!!1!”

At one point, you called the number 23
and spoke for a good three minutes,
despite my persistent dial tone.

You might black out, but
tomorrow morning I’ll be sure
to give you a taste of your shenanigans. 

Lollapalooza - n. - an extraordinary or unusual thing, person, or event.

Sitting in Grant Park, sweating,
grass tattooing itself onto my flesh,
and I swear to god I can actually
feel my sunburn blistering.

It’s day three and I’m tired as all hell.
I’m staring into space while my tank top
melts into my flesh, sticky and searing.

But then -- there are the Kaiser Chiefs.
And the drummer clicks off
1...2...1-2-3-4 and away we go.

I’m pushed into the crowd,
bass and drum thumping in my core,
and we’re swept into a frenzy.

There’s a kid who looks like Adonis
standing behind me. I don’t know him,
but under the August sun we dance,
we clap, we jump and shout out a primal call.

Ricky Wilson is at the barrier,
calling to us - Citizens of Lollapalooza!
We’re carried on a wave, jumping
over the stage,
over Buckingham Fountain,

over the Sears Tower.
We leap the Atlantic Ocean,
landing who-knows-where.

A great mob of sweat and beer
and sunscreen and marijuana and
euphoria splashing mud through
the cobblestone streets, a tidal wave of
dancing and cheering.

We’re the kids on the street and
we never miss a beat,
never miss a beat, no we never miss
a beat-beat, beat-beat.

Just like the lyrics.

La Belle et la Bête

Andrew Bird serenades her from the speakers --
Beware, my children, beware. The devil may care...
Caution is thrown to the wind and
down they go, falling onto his bed in a careless heap.
Embracing each other in a desperate, tipsy sort of way,
fondling and kissing each other sloppily,
grasping for feeling and the gnawing sensation of something they couldn’t quite get at.

Her heart is racing -- whether it’s a thrill or hesitation, she can’t tell.
It’s anything but acknowledging what they’re really doing here,
jigsaws that almost fir but damn it if they’re not going to force them together somehow.
Kids playing hide and seek in the night, except what if no one’s seeking?
La Belle et la bête, as they say. Do that actually say that or is she still tipsy?

Moonlight filters through his miniblinds, casting an odd shadow on their faces.
Naked and pale as the branches on the tree outside his window.
Oh my god. Oh yes.

Pratfalls can be fun, but encores can be fatal...

Quixotic. That’s what this is -- it’s charming, it’s romantic, it’s completely rash.
Rapturous for a moment, a moment where whatever comes after doesn’t matter.

She’s flushed, her chest and cheeks red with satisfaction.
Tipsy still, tired, but content. Maybe she’ll regret it in the morning, maybe not. That’s
up in the air. Right now her body is still doing that pleasantly odd post-orgasm tingle.

Vanishing into a velvet night, she is content.

Waking to a harsh grey morning, he finds she’s gone. Nothing but a note scrawled on
Xerox paper: If I let this keep going I’ll ruin it.
You were great. I’m sorry. He sighs, looks out at the dreary March day, and sees only
zeros.

We Are a Barnes and Noble Cafe Proudly Serving Starbucks Coffee

Persona Poems

Espresso Machine

Every day,
I spew their shots out into
vanilla hazelnut half-caf triple nonfat
caramel machiattos.

Usually I work well under pressure,
usually I can keep my cool,
the shots are pulled evenly,
they’re the right temperature,
and it’s all good.

Customer satisfied.

But sometimes I just get sick of it,
when the beans are running low
and I have to spit out three or four
triples in a row, boom boom boom.

Hasn’t it ever occurred to anyone
that occasionally I could use an
extra shot of energy, too?

So I quit.
Stopped.
Just like that.

I became a useless hunk of machinery,
wasting counter space, and it was blissful -
if only for a day or so.

I listened with glee as the servers
explained, over and over
 and over again -

“I’m sorry, our espresso machine is broken.
Wait! We can still make frappuccin...
oh, nevermind.”

They think I can’t hear them when they
complain, calling me possessed,
jabbing me with sharp little nails
and more force than is required
to extract a shot of espresso.

I’m the reason your customers
are walking away in angry huffs right now,
and you can’t do a damn thing about it.

“Indie Rock Couple”

They overhead Jon tell that one barista
that he’d christened them the
“Indie Rock Couple.”

That’s cool - there are worse
nicknames out there, right?

They hang out in the philosophy
section, the Barnes & Noble classics
section, the music department.

He holds her little hand in his,
stealing a scruffy kiss between the shelves.
Pulling out a book about Existentialism,
Sartre, Nietzsche, Watchmen and Philosophy.

No, no, she wants to go check out
Dave Eggers’ new book.
She tugs him along, her hand still in his,
to the fiction section, her “I Read Banned Books” tote
bumping into his torso with each step.

They share a mocha. She wants a needlessly huge
chocolate chip cookie, and he obliges.

They share a comfy chair,
she with her Dave Eggers,
he with his philosophy,
and they wonder if they’ll spend
the rest of their lives coming to Barnes & Noble.

They can’t decide if this is a cheery thought or not.

Apron

I could tell you everything that’s happened
in the past week or so based on these smudges.

First, Abby dropped a vanilla buttercream cupcake --
that’s the white smudge in the corner.

Then Jordan exploded the mocha everywhere that night --
that would be the brown.

Faith spilled some milk,
and Erin splashed chai everywhere.
The chai actually missed most of me and
ended up in her hair.

I’ve got black where I was used to
erase the whiteboard, soap from when
the dish sink overflowed, and neon green
patches of matcha tea powder.
Oh, matcha powder.

My strings are limp from constant tying and untying --
tight around her waist,
double around hers,
loose around his.
Adjust the neckstrap for the tiny baristas
and loosen it up for the guys.

The old manager would take me home and wash me weekly.
The new one does it a lot less frequently.

I miss the old manager.

Pixar

Form of the week: Haiku based on a non-traditional haiku subject.


Wilderness Explorers
Adventure’s calling
We float to Paradise Falls
Wait, Kevin’s a girl?!

Monsters, Incorporated
Scare because we care
Beware, children are deadly
Boo! Mike Wazowski!

Robots in Love
WALL-E plus Eve*
Computer, define dancing
All that love’s about

The Big Blue
P. Sherman, Forty-
Two Wallaby Way, Sydney
Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!

Ratatouille
Little chef, big dreams
Remy drives a Linguini
Anyone can cook!

* Eve is 2 syllables, pronounced as WALL-E would: "Eeee-VA"

Something to tide you over.

I've been working a lot on my last assignment, but it's very personal and I'm not even sure I'm ready to read it in workshop, let alone post it here.

So... we'll see. I'll have a series of haiku for you soon though! In the meantime, have the lyrics to one of my favorite songs of all time by one of my favorite artists of all time:

"Fake Palindromes" - Andrew Bird

My dewy-eyed Disney bride, what has tried
swapping your blood with formaldehyde? 
Monsters?

Whiskey-plied voices cried fratricide.
Jesus, don't you know that you could've died,
you should've died?
With the monsters that talk, monsters that walk the earth.


And she's got red lipstick and a bright pair of shoes,
and she's got knee-high socks, what to cover a bruise.
She's got an old death kit she's been meaning to use.
She's got blood in her eyes, in her eyes for you.
She's got blood in her eyes for you.


Certain fads, stripes and plaids, singles ads.
They run you hot and colt like a rheostat, I mean a thermostat.
So you bite on a towel,
hope it won't hurt too bad.


My dewy-eyed Disney bride, what has tried
swapping your blood with formaldehyde?
What monsters that talk, monsters that walk the earth!


And she says "I like long walks and sci-fi movies,
if you're six-foot tall and East-Coast bred,
and some other night we can get together 
and I'm gonna tie your wrists with leather,
and drill a tiny hole into your head.
Oh, I wanna drill a tiny hole into your head."


Mmm, Andrew Bird. I'm going to marry him, yes I am.