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
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.
I am grateful for gum
But only for myself and
The highbrow few who
Know how to chew
Everyone else? A crack
Or a smack should get you ten
In the pen where open-
Hearted and closed-
Teach by parable how to
In regards to absent-
Minded yet tasty and
Socially acceptable cud.
(Day 10 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)
It could be anything
An orange peel
Sunset on a fractured path
On a fractured path
Cellulite on a fake-tanned
Thigh gone terribly wrong
See here. See here. See here.
I’ve got my pointer out
Round the borders with every
Line-measure of words
Did you notice
Never on the actual
My frustration is quantifiable
I’ve made a chart
See here. See here. See here.
Just to the left of the
Glowing picture screen
I think we have both
It might have been longing
It might have been
Sunset on a fractured heart
Or some such
Trite shit as that
Give up with me
Let’s call it
Put our heads down on our desks
And take a nap
Poetry sucks anyway
(Day 4 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)
Campus communist relegated to
Literal red square, painted
Cockeyed on the sidewalk
Everyone is occupied
He throws his hands and
(Day 3 of the 66 Day Poetry Habit)
A god in golden overalls leans
Out the driver’s side of an open
Lincoln in the drive-thru
Tries not to puke
Checks his watch
Pays too much for his tacos
Pays too much for our tacos too
We won’t forget it
Who could forget him
He won’t remember
How he got home
(Day 2 of the 66 Day Poetry Habit)
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.
(The prompt was “taboo.” I knew at some point I would find a use for my sociology degree.)
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
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
made me squeeze my thighs together
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.
Loose grime and stringy meat
that comes away in the water
and lies in wait by the drain,
tangled in the silverware,
ready to snarl like seaweed
around the pruned fingers that clutch
in the dark to clean the forks and knives.
Cold, gray and scuzzy water—
reason to fear sharks below,
to fear the chum they’ve spit out
not good enough to get stuck between their teeth,
not good enough to wave alongside the gristle
from where a surfer’s arm was severed
uncleanly from its shoulder.
You’ll roll from aisle to aisle
aimless and slow
eyeballing the shiniest packages first
overhead and at foot
at your groin and at your twitching nose.
You’ll make better bad choices
(still bad choices)
fill your cart with loud
brightly powdered crunchies
that exercise your jaw
but stain your hands
without so much as a goodnight kiss
or any nutritional value at all.