Formal Verse, Humor Poem, Memoir Poem, Poetry

Fruiting Body

Apple, pear, banana, orange, I
Used to be, profoundly, a pear—all
Ass and belly. My thighs were righteous
Too. Not that my boobs were small, per se,
Just smaller than the juicy bottom.

But I lost the weight—all the weight—and
More—and became ingloriously
An un-curved banana. I didn’t even
Know women could be bananas. That
Wasn’t ever on my lifelong, plus-
Sized, orange shaped radar. But there an
Inglorious banana was I
Standing at the mirror, bemoaning
My, let’s call them, “sugar spots.” My poor,
Pear peel, made for curves, never quite fit
The banana right, and was far too
Thin skinned for the picking. Picking and
Picking. Constantly picking. My best

Friend said that, skinny as I was, I
Resembled more an apple on a
Toothpick, (you see I have this giant
Melon head). She’s not that sour. I asked
Her in advance to tell me when my
Apple—melon—toothpick—weirdly-un-
healthy-looking-fresh-fruit-hors-d’oeuvre
Situation got out of hand. I

Rejected the banana. Or I
Should say the part of me that wakes up
At 1:30 every morning and
Eats guilty lemon Oreos in
The come-hither glow of an open
Refrigerator rejects the damn
Banana. The part of me that thinks—

The part that guilts innocent lemon
Oreos—dug her heels in, clung tight
To the un-curviness of it all,
The good clothes, the Big Why, fitting
My flat ass into tight spaces for
once, and managed to think, pick, fret, pick,
constantly picking—pick its way to
Gaining back a third of what I lost.

I did not become a pear again.
I became a fatter banana.

Peace unto the fatter banana.
My melon head is, again, to scale.
Let lemon Oreos be pardoned.
Let me slip comfortably into my
New, thicker peel. Let me savor all
My sugar spots. Let me go un-picked.

-M.

66 Day Poetry Habit, Humor Poem, Misc Poetry

Exclusionary Gratitude re: Gum

I am grateful for gum
But only for myself and
The highbrow few who
Know how to chew
Silently

Everyone else? A crack
Or a smack should get you ten
In the pen where open-
Hearted and closed-
Mouthed missionaries
Teach by parable how to
WWJD it
In regards to absent-
Minded yet tasty and
Socially acceptable cud.

-M.
(Day 10 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)

66 Day Poetry Habit, Humor Poem, Poetry

Critics Rightly Observe My Poetry Often Lacks Context

It could be anything
An orange peel
Sunset on a fractured path
Sunrise
On a fractured path
Cellulite on a fake-tanned
Thigh gone terribly wrong

Funky cheese

See here. See here. See here.
I’ve got my pointer out
Round the borders with every
Line-measure of words

But
Did you notice
Never on the actual
Thing

My frustration is quantifiable
I’ve made a chart
See here. See here. See here.
Just to the left of the
Glowing picture screen

Reader
I think we have both
Lost touch

It might have been longing
It might have been
Sunset on a fractured heart
Or some such
Trite shit as that

I give
Give up with me
Let’s call it

Funky cheese

Put our heads down on our desks
And take a nap

Poetry sucks anyway

-M.
(Day 4 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)

Humor Poem, NaPoMo, Poetry

Around the World in 20 Taboos

Cow meat. Shellfish.
Touching pork and alcohol.
Red lipstick on strict Baptist women.
Entering the temple with your street shoes on.
Walking on your mother’s white carpet
with your street shoes on.
Genital piercing. Genital mutilation.
Showing your face. Showing your ankles.
Cutting your hair.
Sex. Porn-a-plenty. Masturbation.
That one kink no one talks about.
Having other gods before me.
Cooking cabbage in the office microwave.
Dishonoring the corporation.
Tattooing little children blue with bush thorns.
Cultural relativism.

-M.

(The prompt was “taboo.” I knew at some point I would find a use for my sociology degree.)

Humor Poem, Love Poems, Poetry

Dearest Dr. Link, I Still Love Your Buttons (poem)

Your School of Music staff picture made
you out to be so much uglier than
you actually are so
I couldn’t show my friends, so
we couldn’t fan ourselves with our
hot-girl palms and drool together over
you.

I couldn’t make them understand the
dark-haired, fair-faced impetus for
trotting a mile to class in
the actual spiked Mary Janes that
made de Sade himself blanch—

what pale, long-fingered hand moving
half notes from here to there delectability made
me choose the long sensuous skirt with
the long sensuous slit, (oh mid 90’s rage!),

what high-toned atonal muscle, what
used-to-be-high-school-outcast humor
made me squeeze my thighs together
surreptitiously between
this-will-be-on-the-quiz cues.

Dr. Link—may I call you Stan—
of course I may, I
was also madly in love with
every single silver button on
your early spring black jacket.

-M.