Day Eight: High School

MISFITS


In sophomore English
I sat next to a boy
named Kevin Dick,
an unfortunate moniker
for an unfortunate lad.
His head was misshapen,
as if it had begun the process
of melting and toppling from his body
like ice cream from a cone,
and his hair sprouted in irregular patches
revealing shadowy bald spots
from where he had pulled it out
during fits of nervous self-deprecation.
Kevin had plans to own a mansion
when he grew up,
and have Bach piped in through speakers
while he worked on his masterpiece--
masterpiece of what, he never explained.
He had a tittering laugh,
manic and high,
like the call of a sandpiper.
Most people avoided him, but I
was in love with his mind,
so I talked with him whenever possible
during breaks in class,
about books and writing,
life after death, which both of us doubted,
our deeply rooted disgust with everything
and our mutual desire
to escape from downstate Illinois
as soon as we graduated.
Once the teacher changed the seating chart,
moved everyone away from their friends
except for us, whom she inexplicably
placed directly beside each other again.
We were astonished, and overjoyed,
and she told us she had done this
because she loved listening to us talk.
I thought this should be enough incentive
for Kevin to love me,
so one night
on a school bus returning from a play
I said to him, “Kevin, I really like you,
do you like me?”
and he replied that we were parallel lines
in the universe, drawn to each other,
but we would never cross.
That was the end of Kevin,
until years later,
I was passing through downstate Illinois,
and I heard his heart had exploded--
he had died slowly and quite painfully
from taking too many pills,
that he was gay
and had never stopped living with his parents,
and soon after he died,
their house burned down.
I was always a such poor judge
of whom I should love.

Day Seven: Family Matters

This assignment was especially difficult for me--not because of the subject matter (I'll write about anything) but because it was written at the end of a very long and arduous weekend.  It's more of a work in progress than anything else.

MIDNIGHT CONFESSIONS

I never knew who my father was
until I was nearly nineteen,
my mother spilled her guts
after six or eight Schlitz malt liquors,
explained that I was a love child
conceived with a man she'd met in Old Town
who suddenly
jumped onto a table in a coffee house
and began chanting poetry,
while young women, including my mother,
clamored around his feet, begging for more.
Somehow
this never surprised me a bit.

Day 6-- Three Haikus

New age chanting guy
pretends to be Native American,
I guess we all are.



Driving past strip clubs,
Kung fu, Vietnamese food
No espresso for miles.

One perfect tulip
Droops to the side of the vase,
Barely past its prime.

Day Five Theme: Embarassment

ROLE REVERSAL

Relaxing at my battered coffee table

smoking a bowl from a glass pipe

on a mellow Friday afternoon--

then suddenly the door bursts open.

I startle reflexively,

dropping the bowl on the table,

wondering whether a neighbor called the cops

and if they still do that in west Aurora,

a town with a Protestant church on every block--

but it's my teen-aged daughter,

staring at me

with a look of horror on her face.

She gasps, “MOM!

What are you doing?!”

in a tone of such stunned disapproval

that I am instantly embarrassed,

and I stammer, “Why are you home?!”

“It's a half day at school” she replies

with her head turned sideways,

pointedly avoiding the coffee table

with its damning evidence

of my heinous marijuana addiction,

something I'd sworn she knew about for years.

She retreats to her room,

staring at me with a sort of terror,

mixed with with an odd sadness,

as though I was suddenly a stranger--

and I am left alone with my shame.

Day Four Theme: Fashion

PORTLAND PIZZA JOINT

The hipster in the Misfits tee shirt

wears a ski cap over his head

like Elliott Smith,

although he is bald.

He pushes a slice to the back of the oven

in the trendy pizza restaurant

and I notice that everyone has tattoos,

it must be a job requirement, or something.

I imagine the conversations they might

have after job interviews that don't go well--

all of them whispering to each other:

“Did you see that dude?”

“His shoes were so LAME.

“I bet he listens to Justin Bieber.”

To work in this place,

you must be aggressive,

yet speak in a slurred whisper

as if the act of speaking was ridiculous,

stalk around in ankle-high thrift store boots,

and stay up for hours after work

drinking Pabst and smoking organic cigarettes,

which just sounds exhausting to me.

I'm happy with a slice and a pint

and my son beside me, grinning

while he checks out the waitress' ass.

Day Three/Poetry Month/Theme: Going Places

BORN LUCKY

An old boyfriend once called me the “Queen of Leaving”

and he was undoubtedly right, because

I left him constantly, leaving broken furniture

in my wake, only to return a few months later.

We had drunken sex and fought again

a few hours later, often furiously

and about causes neither of us understood,

until the pressure was so bad that I left again.

Everything was more difficult

when I stayed in the same place,

grievances piled in corners like abandoned trash,

then torn into shreds by scavengers.

It was home to me, and comfortable

because someone was always making for the door

knowing that the other side held images

that, if not better, at least were different.

The trick is learning to stay,

and releasing the need for escape.

The irony is that this only happens

when I have less interest in movement,

and even the act of crossing the room

appears unnecessary--

something I only do through force of habit.

Sitting quietly is an act of trust,

and I can afford to do it,

but even this admission is terrifying.

It's the same weird luck I experienced

during a sudden thunderstorm in Chicago

when I was a tiny child, returning from the zoo

with my mother, and I was frightened

by the hailstones and the lightning

and she said, “the lightning won't strike you”

with such absolute certainty that it stopped me

and I asked, “how do you know?”

and she replied, “because you were born lucky”

and I knew I didn't have to escape from anything.

Day Two, Thirty Poems for National Poetry Month/Theme: Bones

I CAN DRIVE 55


It's not the bones that ache,
it's the connective tissue,
the part that gives way so the bones can move.
Tired of a lifetime spent
being too flexible, the cartilage
begins its slow protest,
like a gear that slips and slips
again, until the grooves are all worn out.
I push my left hip downward slightly
and it protests, until I exert
enough slow pressure that it finally gives way.
The right side always led me to trouble
and the left stayed behind and took the punishment.
My scars and swollen places
were always on the shy part,
the side that preferred to reflect.
None of it matters, as I picture the tissues
slowly parting, leaving me
free to make missteps all over again,
not caring whether I fall.