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.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
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.
Draft Pages 2 (ugh, very rough)
My most-recently-bethrombosised colleague was addicted to gambling. This is another symptom my colleagues view as weakness. But it looks to me as though the self-delusion in which one must engage to become addicted to gambling (an affair that is always stacked miles against the player) is of a similar sort to the kinds of lies and half-truths we must all erect to ourselves, our customers, and those that our employers actively shroud us in.
This particular colleague was so convinced that he would hit the jackpot—any jackpot—that a myth circulates here about his one almost win. Sal, this colleague, bought a Powerball ticket one day. He was is not a man who does research, or who plays odds smartly. In fact, his skills at assessing risk or income-potential are so lacking that he does not even attempt to penetrate the market the way the rest of us do, carrying with us a stack of business cards, writing letters, dreaming big of a day when we work by appointment. In the eleven years he has worked for this company, he has sold hundreds, hundreds of cars. He has never once followed up with a customer, instead prefers to skate those who “belong” to others. He bought a ticket of random numbers, picked by the lottery machine. And the next morning, as all sucked on coffees to ease our hangovers or our depression or perhaps just to increase the odds of having a heart attack and getting to retire early, Sal whooped with such vigor that everyone (not me, this tale predates my employment) thought he was having another heart attack. Rushing to his red-faced side, the smile that had paralyzed his face was broken by five words, “fuck you all, I quit.”
True, however, to Sal's unparallelled ineptitude (and simple bad luck), The Pine Times later issued a statement that there had been a misprint in the paper. Sal hadn't, in fact, won the lottery. His numbers, 24, 13, 46, 18, 9 were off by one digit. The winning ticket was 15, 13, 46, 18, 9. A sad sack Sal returned to this ugly building to beg for his job back. Since
This particular colleague was so convinced that he would hit the jackpot—any jackpot—that a myth circulates here about his one almost win. Sal, this colleague, bought a Powerball ticket one day. He was is not a man who does research, or who plays odds smartly. In fact, his skills at assessing risk or income-potential are so lacking that he does not even attempt to penetrate the market the way the rest of us do, carrying with us a stack of business cards, writing letters, dreaming big of a day when we work by appointment. In the eleven years he has worked for this company, he has sold hundreds, hundreds of cars. He has never once followed up with a customer, instead prefers to skate those who “belong” to others. He bought a ticket of random numbers, picked by the lottery machine. And the next morning, as all sucked on coffees to ease our hangovers or our depression or perhaps just to increase the odds of having a heart attack and getting to retire early, Sal whooped with such vigor that everyone (not me, this tale predates my employment) thought he was having another heart attack. Rushing to his red-faced side, the smile that had paralyzed his face was broken by five words, “fuck you all, I quit.”
True, however, to Sal's unparallelled ineptitude (and simple bad luck), The Pine Times later issued a statement that there had been a misprint in the paper. Sal hadn't, in fact, won the lottery. His numbers, 24, 13, 46, 18, 9 were off by one digit. The winning ticket was 15, 13, 46, 18, 9. A sad sack Sal returned to this ugly building to beg for his job back. Since
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.
New Job for 2008
Despite my absurd ignorance about all things involving feminine-self-care that involves creams, make up, or other things commonly called "products," I have become a Body Shop At Home consultant. I have a website. Via The Body Shop At Home. You can go there and buy stuff that I'll get paid a commission on. It will be delivered directly to your house, just like any other online shopping.
http://www.thebodyshopathome.com/web/aline
That's the URL. Go there.
I guess since I'm not getting any younger, and as much as I wish it weren't so, people in the professional real world do often give a ?$*# what I look like, and since The Body Shop has really good company "core values" and are about the business of empowering people and women worldwide using fairly traded ingredients, recycled materials for their packaging wherever possible, etc. It's a good company. Nice to the world like Starbucks is. It is one of those companies I'm proud to be affiliated with, even though (like Starbucks) the potential to become an empire.
Stay Tuned for more stuff on the novel, and I think a poetry project I'm going to attempt to revitalize that I started a few years ago.
Yay!
http://www.thebodyshopathome.com/web/aline
That's the URL. Go there.
I guess since I'm not getting any younger, and as much as I wish it weren't so, people in the professional real world do often give a ?$*# what I look like, and since The Body Shop has really good company "core values" and are about the business of empowering people and women worldwide using fairly traded ingredients, recycled materials for their packaging wherever possible, etc. It's a good company. Nice to the world like Starbucks is. It is one of those companies I'm proud to be affiliated with, even though (like Starbucks) the potential to become an empire.
Stay Tuned for more stuff on the novel, and I think a poetry project I'm going to attempt to revitalize that I started a few years ago.
Yay!
Poem for 2008
Resolutionary
This is the year I'll divine with rods
get better at love, worse at eating
I'll make beelines for honeydew.
Won't touch Snickers. Won't snicker, either.
I promise I'll be good good good,
especially to my minister. If he again tells
Lorna Miller not to get divorced, I will
drive the highest road. We won't scoff over
bonbons.
Also, I will make a fish tank. The fish at
Walmart are sad. Their mouths say,
"home home home." I will spend
more time at home. No more two dollar
coffees, maybe once a moon. Cock Full o' Nuts
in the pot I own. For sure no four
dollar coffees, Vicki's Secret, Quizznos,
Gray Goose, Claiborne tops (even though she died)
or those Paige Jeans I've been dying
not to live without.
I will keep a journal: self-tabs. Next year,
I will know what I ate thought did on March 2.
Ride a unicycle. Make a marionette,
Volunteer, candy stripe, read to teh elderly.
Eat more elderly cheese,
Bleu. Try caviar, switch to skim When Maria
asks me to be her wing woman, I won't
say I know flying already.
Do what hurts. Use Fewer Band Aids.
I'll read The Unbearable Lightness of
Being and remember how daily how light
it is to be.
This is the year I'll divine with rods
get better at love, worse at eating
I'll make beelines for honeydew.
Won't touch Snickers. Won't snicker, either.
I promise I'll be good good good,
especially to my minister. If he again tells
Lorna Miller not to get divorced, I will
drive the highest road. We won't scoff over
bonbons.
Also, I will make a fish tank. The fish at
Walmart are sad. Their mouths say,
"home home home." I will spend
more time at home. No more two dollar
coffees, maybe once a moon. Cock Full o' Nuts
in the pot I own. For sure no four
dollar coffees, Vicki's Secret, Quizznos,
Gray Goose, Claiborne tops (even though she died)
or those Paige Jeans I've been dying
not to live without.
I will keep a journal: self-tabs. Next year,
I will know what I ate thought did on March 2.
Ride a unicycle. Make a marionette,
Volunteer, candy stripe, read to teh elderly.
Eat more elderly cheese,
Bleu. Try caviar, switch to skim When Maria
asks me to be her wing woman, I won't
say I know flying already.
Do what hurts. Use Fewer Band Aids.
I'll read The Unbearable Lightness of
Being and remember how daily how light
it is to be.
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