how un-characteristic

I see lollipop laughing light little petticoats, giggle giggle giggle and you wear that shirt so well. I see wind in the trees (all leaves, all leaves) and books upon books upon your faded leather jacket. You strut, I know it, I know you, page 576 lets study over drinks. At the risk of being lame, I claim comparative negligence the way you’ve been pulling me, on the pull, not pulling my hair but pulling my cliché. Bottom line, footnote time, you’ve turned my brain to mush and I’m an instant gratification kind of girl.

I was never one to hang on to nothing: I’ve just got to kiss you before Christmas.

candid curry

We were supposed to be at the restaurant at 7:30, but Sylvia, Lane, and Eugene rolled up to the Plex around 8 to pick me up. I had been watching wheel of fortune and reading Elizabeth Cady Stanton, killing time and not studying.

I had asked Sylvia if she wanted to go out to eat Thursday night, told her I needed some curry in my blood and have you heard of the great Indian place on magazine street? She more than agreed, needed some korma therapy, but said she had to break a date with Eugene to do it. I said ‘tell him you had plans with me and you forgot, invite him along even…’

Sylvia, Eugene and I all have something in common, lack of wheels. Transportation. Vehicle handicapped. I had told her I would meet the two of them at the restaurant by scooter, my Babette. But nights in New Orleans by scooter are chancy-- the potholes could swallow you whole and the drivers and martinis… so I was happy when she called and said Lane was coming and he had a car.

Its like 1950s bohemia, the way we covet the cars.

Lane is blond and curly and has a light southern accent that makes me feel comfortable. I had met him at the barristers ball, I know, but I don’t remember a word I said to him because I had been friends with gin that night, trying to get the most of my $200 dress. Eugene is quick and funny, he’s got a look like a candy cane.

We went to Indian curry and split dishes and talked about the dems taking the house and senate, pedagogy and small southern towns. Weekends. Clubs. Life in excruciating general.

Lane is from Louisiana. Eugene’s from California. Sylvia is from Boston. I’m from Atlanta by way of the world. Afterwards we dropped Eugene off at someone’s house, for him to continue the rest of the night in reckless abandon no doubt. Sylvia just glows. Like always. She is so beautiful. Everyone falls in love with Sylvia. And you can’t even hate her for it, because she is so genuine.

Lane said he has some friends that I could meet. I ask him if they speak a second language. I don’t usually sleep with guys that speak only one language. He asks if this has any connection to me asking him earlier if he remembers any Italian from his year in Florence. I tell him I don’t date law students. He says it isn’t too late for him to drop out.

It’s a good night.

everyone deserves a twenty-second chance?

late night calls from the ex
I miss you I love you I will always love you I’m sorry

So, what are you wearing?
[ Rinse, repeat. ]

red

i sit in the big big room
watching paint become wet
he is cherry kool-aid in every possible sense.
every possible sense he is.
cherry kool-aid.
i’m sitting in the big big room
drawing sonnets on the inside of my thighs.
sonnets for no one
no one to read them.

autumn series (working stages)

[Autumn I]

I lost it in autumn
Those corduroy pockets made my freshman head spin
You played me ditties
On your glitter guitar
And we made love for hours on your little dorm room bed.

[Autumn II]

The bus stop
End of the road // other side of the earth
Autumn winds send crunchy leaves flying;
my brother and I would run to catch them,
Dropping lunch boxes and notebooks in passionate lunges before the bus would come,
where Luke would sit next to the boys who would
pull my hair , laugh too loud-and
A few years
and bus routes later,
ask me to the homecoming dance.

[Autumn III]

Avignon
And those yellow van gogh trees all around.
But mostly I remember
Smelling fall in the air
walking to get a beignet, a café,
And waxing WWI in the dingy, damp computer lab all day when I could have been in it.
19 year old hearts are like peanut brittle,
broken and devoured by indifferent little boys.

[Autumn VI]

Our bicycles were magic and my backyard a plantation
I’ll be Melanie and you’ll be veronica
our little hands will be frozen,
from escaping down hills, bike tires spinning like little girl madness;
Or from washing mud pie pans
In the chilly pond water.

devastating crush

You’re pretty dreamy

so can we just skip right to the stage where we are laying naked together on Saturday morning listening to NPR?

when did i love you become hard

Helena found Sam on the side of the house, sitting on a rock and smoking a joint.

-What are you doing? I made macaroni and cheese.

-Shhhh, he said, and motioned across the lawn, to a lit window. In the window was a woman, late 20’s or early 30’s. She was facing away from the two of them, standing in front of a mirror and concentrating hard on lacing herself up into a black corset. She tugged at the laces with red fingernails, then twisted to try to see her back in the mirror. Tug, twist. Tug, twist.

Helena sat down next to Sam and they watched together for a moment in silence.

-That looks difficult, said Helena.

-She’s been at it for 10 minutes, said Sam.

The woman was pretty, as far as they could tell. She seemed nervous.

-Have you spoken to Pierce? Helena asked.

-Pierce. Pierce. Don’t you ever talk about anyone but Pierce? Said Sam.

Helena turned to look at him, his profile lightly lit by the streetlight. He put the joint to his lips and took a long drag, making the tip glow bright like a lightening bug. Then she followed his gaze back to the window. The woman was in the corset now. She put her hand down the inside of the front and pulled up her breasts, adjusting and pulling until she had two perfect half circles spilling out the top.

-I just thought you might want to talk about it, she said.

- Well, I don’t. He’s not interested anymore. Meesha said she saw him dancing for hours with some undergrad, then they disappeared, said Sam, between puffs.

-That doesn’t mean---

-That’s enough, ok? Please? Sam reached down to the grass and pulled out a clump, letting it slip through his fingers back to the soil.

The woman disappeared from the room for a moment, and came back with a big glass of dark red wine. She stood in front of the mirror with the wine glass in her hand, leaned forward and said something to her reflection. Then she leaned back and laughed a little, took a sip of wine, and posed with her hand on her hip.

- I’m going to Nashville next weekend, said Helena. I’ve got work there. I won’t be back for a few days. Can you water the plants?

-Do you love your plants? said Sam.

-Love? My plants? said Helena.

- Yeah. Do you love them? Sam chuckled a little at the corset clad neighbor, who was frantically fluffing her hair.

- You are being ridiculous, said Helena. Why are you watching that poor woman?

-Why are you? Sam asked.

- I asked you first.

- It makes me feel real, he said.

- Don’t give me a film school answer, she said. That’s such shit.

- It does, he said. I think I love her, he said.

-Love her? Said Helena. That’s news. You’re changing sexuality by the day now?

- I didn’t say I want to have sex with her, he said. I said I love her. I don’t want to have sex with everyone I love. Do you want to have sex with your plants?

- Umm, I -

Helena didn’t finish her sentence because a car pulled up in the street and a tall, lanky man emerged. He had a grocery store bouquet in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. He walked to the door, rang the bell, and the woman jumped. She had been alternating between talking to her reflection and putting on mascara. She hastily threw on a short black dress over her corset and stockings, and ran to the door, disappearing from view.

- I think you should know that Pierce called me, said Helena.

- Oh, said Sam, who couldn’t think of anything else to say.

- He misses you, she said.

- Oh, said Sam, who couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Suddenly there were two people in the bedroom. The man had removed his jacket and the woman was pulling him by the hand. She went to her dresser, where she had left the big glass of dark wine. She lifted up her glass to him, other hand still holding his, and said a few words before he leaned in to kiss her. He reached his arm around her waist and put his other hand behind her head. She dipped. She stood back up, secured her wine glass on the dresser, and unzipped the back of her dress. The top slid off to reveal her carefully laced corset and carefully positioned chest.

Helena reached for the joint.

The man looked at the woman, took a sip of her wine, and then turned off the lights. The room went dark and so did the little pool of light that had shown on the grass in front of the glass. Helena sighed.

- Fucking romantics, said Sam. They spoil all the fun.

- I think the macaroni is getting cold, said Helena.

the only living girl in new orleans

I

Everyone is really unhappy when they are drunk.
Dot felt sick in the car and Anne said “I called the Christian hotline once when I was drunk. They said $4.99 to pray for me. They asked me for my credit card number.”

by the way he had looked at me I know he is thinking about sheets and pillows.

and casseroles, and flannel pajama bottoms and late mornings.
The bouncer told me he has a masters degree in sociology
And Anne called the Christian Hotline, so we know…

The kids. and me. Hookah café. friday night. grumbling and black heels and french quarter frustration. And sadness in the cockroach cracked streets.

II

At the german party

It was 4 AM
And one of the hosts told me ‘someone threw up in my sink, brandy’

The look on his poor face.
-‘I’m sorry honey. It wasn’t me.’ I was sober. (the only one)

Lovers making out on the balcony but I want to leave. I tell her five minutes and go back inside.

And in the living room
No furniture but a futon and folding table with a laptop
Wobbly disco ball and sappy love song
It could have been atlanta or paris or stuttgart
The beautiful two are slow dancing, pressed, high heels on big toes, kissing collar bones, oblivious

Not everyone is sad when they are drunk

old poem new language

La robe courte

des baisers humides

Mon corps trahit
ses hanches :familier

cheveux tordus draps blancs
un désordre négligent

understanding

“I’m just looking for some understanding” she shouted across the parking lot, at the man walking away away away. Apathy. Her own Kitty Genovese. From him. From everyone. From the women with the lettuce heads and chocolate bars. She should have known. His hair swished toward her. Waving. The lights glared on her. Harsh. Restrictive. She cried by the car, hard. She felt it. In her hands and her ankles. It was hopeless. She cried by the car. Hard. Hard. He didn’t even know who Baudelaire was.

on my voicemail

"i'm glad that the
butterflies came.
imissyou."

law book poem

all grown up

He said
Well Bran

I have news

I am getting married
And want you to be the best man.

Of course, there is some dispute over what to call you…

I said
Call me
the best man

[and does this mean I don’t have to wear a bridesmaid dress?]

He said
Something black

To match the tuxes is alright.

-I’ll be conservative, I promise

But you know I’ll have French lingerie underneath.

undergraduate infidelity

I took the elevator 3 floors up in my freshman dormitory, and walked down the boys’ hall with its oh-so-recognizable smell. I knocked on your door and covered your peep-hole with my hand. You opened up in 5 seconds, with that goofy grin on your face. Your hand tucked awkwardly behind your back, you said

-I have a surprise for you…

He doesn’t know I’m here, but then again he doesn’t know I’m not here.

You pull out a pint of ice cream, half melted from your sub-par garage sale minifridge, and present it to me. It’s soupy and I have to eat it out of a cup, but it’s perfect. I return your exagerrated smile and offer a little squeak as barter.

-It’s my favorite.

- I know.

I go into your room and we sit on the too-small futon; I start eating the ice cream with a plastic spoon and you start playing with your watch. It’s dark in here, because I like it that way. It’s light enough that I can see you looking at me with your clear eyes. It’s light enough that I can see what is going on, what is really going on. It’s dark, because I like it that way.

-Where is your roommate?

- At bible study.

-heh.

You put your arm around me, and who cares what the conversation is? He doesn’t know you are holding me, but then again he doesn’t know you aren’t holding me. I feel comfortable, and happy, and safe. You tell me about your new poems, I tell you about my geography exam. We don’t talk about him.

Its getting late and I have French in the morning, so I say I have to go. I stand up and toss my hair back over my shoulder. As I turn to the door, you say

-If he asks you where you were tonight, it wouldn’t be lying if you forgot to mention the ice cream.

a completely unnecessary poem

Summer having sex with mirrors
the only thing worse than a man who can’t give an orgasm is a man who can’t have one
(really really have one)
with mirrors is clean/dirty fun
did I say alone? I meant to.
Oh hell, the kid gloves are off.
start the races, boys, I’m moving up in the world.

I better hear it from you. Say it like you mean it. Feel it this time.

Whats my motivation?

If my life were a ride at Disney World

The sign would say
Warning: not for the faint of heart, those suffering from stability. No pregnant women.

I think its about time I febreeze my large vascular organ

(I think the most terrible phrase ever invented is ‘alienation of affection’)

oh spite, oh gracious.

canvas\\ vessel

a little inspiration




a long way

so

i've not been proud of my work lately, since being back in atlanta. feeling distant. uninspired. detached. censored.

but guess what kids? i've got a new lease, in a new city.

(so who can tell me about the literary scene in new orleans?)i need to start drinking again.

_______L_____I_____N_____E__________

He drew the line. Fat, purple, solid. He drew the line and showed it to her. “This is the line.”

She looked at the line. It was ugly. It didn’t match the furniture. When people would come over, things would be awkward. They would look at the line. ‘What’s with the line?’ they would ask. “Oh, its nothing.” She would say. She would serve more wine.

Sometimes, when certain people would visit, she would be embarrassed by the line. She would try to cover it up with carpet pieces and fancy lighting. But it would peek out. In the corner. The rug would slip. The light would glare. “Oh that old thing? Don’t we all have a line or two in our lives?” she would laugh.

“Did you put the rug on the line?” he asked one day. He was sweeping the line. He liked to take good care of the line, keep it shiny. “Why would I cover up the line?” she asked, too quickly. “Good,” he said, “because this line is very important to me. And you. I made this line for you. For us.”

“I… love the line…” she said.

The line started to distract her. She stopped writing. She stopped speaking. The line was getting bigger. The line took up a whole floor now. It was getting impossible to get around the line. Get past the line. She had to yell even to speak to people who were across the line. It got to be too much effort.

“I can’t take the line anymore” she told him one day. “The line is in the way of my life. Why does it have to be there? I can’t handle it any longer.” He was scrubbing the line. She could tell he was exhausted too, always worried about the line, watching the line, thinking about the line.

“I love the line” he said.

“You love the line more than you love me.” She said. And she crossed the line.

old fashioned

on any corner you can find any kind of
drug
you want; try something new (a new husband?)
110 reasons to shop
(doomed?)

this is my letter of resignation
(she might be a little lazy)

take another
look
the world needs another self-absorbed person
(incredibly vapid)

falldown/ downfall

Stumbling/running down Peachtree Street in a pouring down hot summer storm. Half an hour late to the play at the Fox (where I used to see the symphony when I was a girl). Belly full of curry and lemon drops.

Who needs the first act when you have Johnny Dollar and raindrops as big as maraschino cherries?