Remember This

The radiator clicks on

And I ask about the weekend.

No, 

you say, 

We are sticking to the point.

Can you let go for today?

On the train

no, I couldn’t.

Images of mountains 

streams

The way the 

sun spread 

across those 

tall trees.

Why not 

let go

like that?

You tell me 

I will remember this.

Like a shitty tuna sandwich.

How are you to know 

what a good one tastes like 

unless you’ve had it

wrapped in cellophane 

at the airport

for $3.95?

I stand 

at the window

My reflection 

stands back,

a ghost.

As I plie

to the back 

of Brooklyn

You say,

We will remember this.

I think of Venice

Hot, yellow sun.

A boat.

A piece of rope

winding around 

a cleat.

And I know you’re right.

THWACK

I first think about smashing something. I want to put my fist through a bigass piece of glass. Watch the whole thing shatter, like a spider web. Like a symphony. 

“Do you have good veins?” the nurse asked today. I am so much more than a long arm with a good vein. I am a fist. Two long legs with boots that click and go THWACK when I kick. I am strong and hard. Tall. When art students paint my portrait, I look mad. One woman painted me all distorted. 

“The hard thing about painting pretty girls,” the teacher said, “is you make one mistake, and they look like monsters.” 

I have learned how to sit in a subway car, tightly packed next to two strangers, our arms touching, and weep without them noticing. Fold your arms. Don’t let the sound come out. 

What made me cry most? One thought, again and again.

I want my mommy. I want my mommy. I want my mommy.

We Must Be Crazy

When he was angry
he'd throw his arm back
like a softball pitch
and wind-through-POW
hit his hand
fist against hand
again. again. until we stopped him.

That's what I'd like now
to take a wall out
or a window
throw my fist into something solid
until it shatters.

Is this what it means to be an artist?
We must be crazy
no diagnosis necessary.
What if
he didn't talk
because he knew
we wouldn't listen?

the interior walls of houses

The day that the wall punching happened, you got out of bed and stood,

looking eye level, 

at the softly collapsed piece of plaster. 

A perfect circle. 

You sighed, 

and without looking at me, 

walked to the bathroom to shower. 

What

-->

Before the proverbial apple, Adam and Eve had no understanding of death. I imagine them naked in the garden, biting the fruit. Knowledge comes like a wave. Oh shit. Death? What is death! They shout.

           I have taken bites. 

           Have digested knowledge. 

           I am in over my head. 

           Love? What is love!

September

You and school,
and me: jealous, jealous, jealous.

Staff Pricks. I mean picks! (Part II)

The Cows

Lydia Davis

It's about cows.

Lost In Yonkers

Neil Simon

Read this out loud in front of your ol' Zenith shortwave radio with a cup of mustard soup. And use a New Yawk accent, see?

 Ugly Duckling Press

Any Issue

Smart and fresh, like most Brooklyn-based products. I like that their corners are "cut by volunteers." 

 White Heat

Brenda Wineapple

Maybe Emily Dickinson never left the house, but her sex appeal did.