Poetry really isn't my thing, folks. But I dig these Orson and Edna people. They're just so weird. And they have a really rich life inside my head. I know Edna a bit better than I know Orson, he can tend to be reduced to a stack of stereotypes. And poetry is where they should live. Truly. Like, what would have happened if Barryman had tried to put Henry or Mr. Bones into prose? Um, He probably wouldn't have been the poet laureate, or be renowned for insanity.
If I want to be noted for something after my death, or late in my life, I want that thing to be massive eccentricity, insanity or substance abuse. I think Orson and Edna are more-likely to get me there. But most of what ends up here in blogland will more-than-likely be prose.
Poems, for me, are easier to fit into my retardedly busy life, and I find that they're also easier to work on in very short clips of time. Like blogs. Hence this self-indulgent pile.
Showing posts with label Orson and Edna. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Orson and Edna. Show all posts
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Orson and Edna epistolary poems
With Love, Your Raisin Muffin
Those years since then
when you smiled
down across your flat
brown nickel-nipples and
into me, when we broke
our fast with love-sausage and salt-muffin,
Have dreamt me imageless:
her in your mirror-eyes
when I look for me.
I am a steak of you that
offends your vegan.
I am a raisin of who
I was when I teased your
nickels warm, and you
trusted my safe
with your roll,
our mutual fund,
our fidelity.
Dear Raisin Muffin, It's Not My Fault
You know I love you,
simpering twit!
We swung once, remember?
I said I would love you,
we could fuck them.
I still love you, fuck them.
You're what's changed,
muffin. My two dollars is
still invested.
But I don't get my apples-peach-pear return.
You guard them love.
You stopped letting me see.
So I stopped eating meat!
You stopped cooking.
Stopped serving.
Stopped being.
Those years since then
when you smiled
down across your flat
brown nickel-nipples and
into me, when we broke
our fast with love-sausage and salt-muffin,
Have dreamt me imageless:
her in your mirror-eyes
when I look for me.
I am a steak of you that
offends your vegan.
I am a raisin of who
I was when I teased your
nickels warm, and you
trusted my safe
with your roll,
our mutual fund,
our fidelity.
Dear Raisin Muffin, It's Not My Fault
You know I love you,
simpering twit!
We swung once, remember?
I said I would love you,
we could fuck them.
I still love you, fuck them.
You're what's changed,
muffin. My two dollars is
still invested.
But I don't get my apples-peach-pear return.
You guard them love.
You stopped letting me see.
So I stopped eating meat!
You stopped cooking.
Stopped serving.
Stopped being.
Edna spent an hour in the bathtub.
she floats in the tub, her breasts erect, nipples islands. she feels her bladder shift, full, and press against her uterus. it is odd to hold her pee underwater. last time was ages ago because an older kid told her there was a chemical that turned pee red to catch pool pissers. she remembers being afraid of getting sucked down the drain as a child; compressed, tubular, and spat out into a world of mome wraths and scum monsters who dealt cards. now she reads a romance, watches the pages crimp under her wet touch. giggles at the thought of a wet touch. wishes for her own plastic lover, like fabio-on-the-cover. hopes for warm palms to cover her tits: submerge them in water and love.
Dead: haiku
Orson ate poisoned
chocolate chip cookie and he
almost choked to death.
Edna inhaled, deep,
blinked once: smiled, danced and whooped
boots are made to walk.
chocolate chip cookie and he
almost choked to death.
Edna inhaled, deep,
blinked once: smiled, danced and whooped
boots are made to walk.
Orson spies on the neighbor in the shower
He bleats like a goat
when she takes off her
clothes, steps -- toes first --
into the mildewed tile box.
He streams like the Conodoguinet
when she lathers up under
the water's massage, hopes
she'll never realize he can see
through the sky light, thrugh
the fog, her dark layer of hair
trail like seal skin down her back,
pink roses bloom on
her cheeks and her shoulders
under the hot water.
he liquefies like burning tallow
when she opens her mouth and
it fills with water, spills over the
corners, down, over the crowns
of her breasts, converges
below her naval, drips down the drain
from a beaded curl at the vortex of
her thighs.
He hardens like brick when he
remembers that this is not his wife,
this is not his house, his skylight, his
soggy toilet paper: that he has to
return to Edna, queen of a chill
aimed at him.
when she takes off her
clothes, steps -- toes first --
into the mildewed tile box.
He streams like the Conodoguinet
when she lathers up under
the water's massage, hopes
she'll never realize he can see
through the sky light, thrugh
the fog, her dark layer of hair
trail like seal skin down her back,
pink roses bloom on
her cheeks and her shoulders
under the hot water.
he liquefies like burning tallow
when she opens her mouth and
it fills with water, spills over the
corners, down, over the crowns
of her breasts, converges
below her naval, drips down the drain
from a beaded curl at the vortex of
her thighs.
He hardens like brick when he
remembers that this is not his wife,
this is not his house, his skylight, his
soggy toilet paper: that he has to
return to Edna, queen of a chill
aimed at him.
Orson Likes Eggs Benedict
The way the hard-yolk-colored
hollandaise joins
the shiny canary of the soft-yolk
Pink slice of pork, tastes
vaguely copper, blood-like as the
muffin soaks it and he sucks it
off the fork at the diner.
The perfect fusion of flavors,
colors like cotton candy, like
babies. His Edna doesn't cook.
He can only be satisfied like this
away from home.
hollandaise joins
the shiny canary of the soft-yolk
Pink slice of pork, tastes
vaguely copper, blood-like as the
muffin soaks it and he sucks it
off the fork at the diner.
The perfect fusion of flavors,
colors like cotton candy, like
babies. His Edna doesn't cook.
He can only be satisfied like this
away from home.
The Weekend Edna Turned Out to be Elvis
At the Casino, she glided
between islands, tossed
ones in the air. Met the hands
of a dark stranger, kissed behind
his ear on her toes. Whispered
come hold me tight, kiss
me my darling. Be mine tonight.
Tucked in her bra strap,
a wad of ones to fake-
out the dealer. She read
how in a story once. Thought
It's now or never.
In her garter, a Russian self-
loading 7.62 Handgun, no
bigger than her palm.
Thought of Orson only once, when
in the elevator, her garter slipped,
dropped the gun by the stranger's feet.
He thought it was sexy, gripped her
waist, toothed her ear, Orson hates
Blue Hawaii.
between islands, tossed
ones in the air. Met the hands
of a dark stranger, kissed behind
his ear on her toes. Whispered
come hold me tight, kiss
me my darling. Be mine tonight.
Tucked in her bra strap,
a wad of ones to fake-
out the dealer. She read
how in a story once. Thought
It's now or never.
In her garter, a Russian self-
loading 7.62 Handgun, no
bigger than her palm.
Thought of Orson only once, when
in the elevator, her garter slipped,
dropped the gun by the stranger's feet.
He thought it was sexy, gripped her
waist, toothed her ear, Orson hates
Blue Hawaii.
Edna's Id
Id was perfect until
she took that course
at the Community college.
Id is everything: the sticky
perimeter of morning's
mocha, Orson's
bald-spot-wink in sun,
her garter's red seam after
twenty-odd years, cellulite.
After that class, all of id
changed, moved up and
down and left her at the
bottom on her bottom,
wishing she still wanted
Orson's bottom
always cold and rough in her
hands at night, afternoon,
morning. His impotent sting,
vacant song. Id is what she
wanted. Knew she couldn't
get id back.
she took that course
at the Community college.
Id is everything: the sticky
perimeter of morning's
mocha, Orson's
bald-spot-wink in sun,
her garter's red seam after
twenty-odd years, cellulite.
After that class, all of id
changed, moved up and
down and left her at the
bottom on her bottom,
wishing she still wanted
Orson's bottom
always cold and rough in her
hands at night, afternoon,
morning. His impotent sting,
vacant song. Id is what she
wanted. Knew she couldn't
get id back.
Edna's Brick Feet
Edna actually wears
a seven, but she buys a
nine-wide. She mashes
her archless, heavy meat-pods
into pumps and sandals,
the sides gap, reveal red rub.
At night she can smell
the day's wear like over-salted
cashews,dusts them with
Gold Bond Medicated and
remembers how grateful
she was when Orson, her
husband, was charmed y her feet.
He'd peeled her knee-highs
said her feet were
tender, womanly;
pulpy red toes, stale edges of
callous notwithstanding.
She believed him. He rubbed her
feet until she was cooked spaghetti.
a seven, but she buys a
nine-wide. She mashes
her archless, heavy meat-pods
into pumps and sandals,
the sides gap, reveal red rub.
At night she can smell
the day's wear like over-salted
cashews,dusts them with
Gold Bond Medicated and
remembers how grateful
she was when Orson, her
husband, was charmed y her feet.
He'd peeled her knee-highs
said her feet were
tender, womanly;
pulpy red toes, stale edges of
callous notwithstanding.
She believed him. He rubbed her
feet until she was cooked spaghetti.
Edna's Miscarriage
She sat on the seat,
felt pain like cinderblocks
scrape her innards,
let some of the mess out
of her mouth to splash
the floor.
More, she let spill
into the pink toiet water,
sound like state-fair
ping-pong balls in goldfish cups.
She stood, wobble-kneed,
looked down, thought she
saw an arm, leg in the black
clotted mess. Wept.
The pain ended like punctuation. What is
left are the cuts under her heart
from the cinder block, gashes
in her iron stomach's wall
that will puss, ooze, take
years to bruise.
felt pain like cinderblocks
scrape her innards,
let some of the mess out
of her mouth to splash
the floor.
More, she let spill
into the pink toiet water,
sound like state-fair
ping-pong balls in goldfish cups.
She stood, wobble-kneed,
looked down, thought she
saw an arm, leg in the black
clotted mess. Wept.
The pain ended like punctuation. What is
left are the cuts under her heart
from the cinder block, gashes
in her iron stomach's wall
that will puss, ooze, take
years to bruise.
The Costume Party where Orson and Edna First Lied to One Another
In 1977 they were young,
Edna did aerobics, Orson ate
Wheaties and yogurt. They had
matching tuxedo-striped sweat
suits, hers canary and his azure.
Maria, their literary friend,
invited them to a party.
They could dress as Billy Budd,
Ishmael or Bartelby, as Thoreau,
Whitman or Hawthorne.
Orson was Dimmesdale.
Edna was Hester, he grasped
her waist as they danced. She
whispered hot breath in his ear,
promised the unmentionable.
As if the ghost of the old-young
reverend breathed through Orson's
nostrils, he palmed his chest. Fluttered
his eyelids. Slicked his forefinger's
tip with waxed vapor from his ear.
Pressed it to Hester's cheek,
I'm Sorry darling. I need space.
A hundred years' indignant rage flushed
her cheeks. I'll not attend your sick bed,
Arthur. Nor any of your beds. She slapped
him. Removed his arm from her waist, picked
up her gray skirt and absented herself.
The guests applauded.
Edna did aerobics, Orson ate
Wheaties and yogurt. They had
matching tuxedo-striped sweat
suits, hers canary and his azure.
Maria, their literary friend,
invited them to a party.
They could dress as Billy Budd,
Ishmael or Bartelby, as Thoreau,
Whitman or Hawthorne.
Orson was Dimmesdale.
Edna was Hester, he grasped
her waist as they danced. She
whispered hot breath in his ear,
promised the unmentionable.
As if the ghost of the old-young
reverend breathed through Orson's
nostrils, he palmed his chest. Fluttered
his eyelids. Slicked his forefinger's
tip with waxed vapor from his ear.
Pressed it to Hester's cheek,
I'm Sorry darling. I need space.
A hundred years' indignant rage flushed
her cheeks. I'll not attend your sick bed,
Arthur. Nor any of your beds. She slapped
him. Removed his arm from her waist, picked
up her gray skirt and absented herself.
The guests applauded.
Orson's Schwinn
Dented metal
in the garage each
spring, when he gets his 60-
grit sandpaper and
buffs rust. Buys
paint the original olive
drab.
Remembers the first time
he waxed anything
was with his father, summer
of '66. put yer back in it, boy!
with a thump there, for
emphasis.
Thirteen, the Schwinn
sparkeled down the street. A
perfect tick of chain-in-cogs.
He saw Edna on a corner,
in her pink sweater, new
points in polyester bra. He
asked her to a cherry soda.
Sure she smiled. He walked
the bike beside her.
When he returned too late,
his father'd locked him out
so he slept curled in the space
between the rims of his felled
machine on driveway asphalt
Edna finds him
each June 7th morning,
resting under the
workbench, can of
wax open at the wheel
of the bike. She remembers.
in the garage each
spring, when he gets his 60-
grit sandpaper and
buffs rust. Buys
paint the original olive
drab.
Remembers the first time
he waxed anything
was with his father, summer
of '66. put yer back in it, boy!
with a thump there, for
emphasis.
Thirteen, the Schwinn
sparkeled down the street. A
perfect tick of chain-in-cogs.
He saw Edna on a corner,
in her pink sweater, new
points in polyester bra. He
asked her to a cherry soda.
Sure she smiled. He walked
the bike beside her.
When he returned too late,
his father'd locked him out
so he slept curled in the space
between the rims of his felled
machine on driveway asphalt
Edna finds him
each June 7th morning,
resting under the
workbench, can of
wax open at the wheel
of the bike. She remembers.
Orson and Edna Holiday Poems: The Tree, The Eve
The Tree
A Stick of a thing,
they fought. Edna's fingers
drummed harsh on Orson's cheer.
She said, "Lover, let's be so Charlie Brown."
"I'm chilled. Let's eat." He said,
thinking how she'd forget and sleep.
Turkey hours later, he unboxes
ornaments to the hum and scrape
of her snores, weaves spare branches
to bloating with tinsel, bulbs. Hums Barry
Manilow so low he can barely hear.
Then a final injection-mold plastic Santa
in royal blue (makes Edna cross annually).
Orson decorates Edna last, he
lays a sprig of milstletoe near her chin.
The Eve
Edna slogs nog. Orson brushes
oil on something oven-ready.
He sips holiday microbrew.
Does not consider details.
Slurry, she asks, "What's your
resolution?"
Orson swells. Choked, he mimes
he cannot say. Edna serves
beers, studies hers without
noticing, waits. A timer breaks
her wait. Orson moves about
the stove.
He forks prok, a bit of kraut
points it in offer to Edna,
"For Health." While she chews,
she considers Orson's two full beers.
A Stick of a thing,
they fought. Edna's fingers
drummed harsh on Orson's cheer.
She said, "Lover, let's be so Charlie Brown."
"I'm chilled. Let's eat." He said,
thinking how she'd forget and sleep.
Turkey hours later, he unboxes
ornaments to the hum and scrape
of her snores, weaves spare branches
to bloating with tinsel, bulbs. Hums Barry
Manilow so low he can barely hear.
Then a final injection-mold plastic Santa
in royal blue (makes Edna cross annually).
Orson decorates Edna last, he
lays a sprig of milstletoe near her chin.
The Eve
Edna slogs nog. Orson brushes
oil on something oven-ready.
He sips holiday microbrew.
Does not consider details.
Slurry, she asks, "What's your
resolution?"
Orson swells. Choked, he mimes
he cannot say. Edna serves
beers, studies hers without
noticing, waits. A timer breaks
her wait. Orson moves about
the stove.
He forks prok, a bit of kraut
points it in offer to Edna,
"For Health." While she chews,
she considers Orson's two full beers.
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