21 December 2006
12 December 2006
boose bed-eh ; or tall dark and handsome
came to my house and I wasn’t wearing underwear
and we made love in the stairwell
and everything I touched was turning purple
he lifted me up
and he looked like
I mean amazing
when I woke up I was so sad because
my bed was empty
only me and the
cat clawing at the door
and when I told beth she said ‘ew’
but then again
she didn’t see how amazing he looked
Oh god those persians
there are no persian men in
01 December 2006
hardly outside reach of his playful little bat;
lay it down without a battle and
y a w n : goes distant
Each fresh cat knows the play which is a play, after all.
26 November 2006
I was never one to hang on to nothing: I’ve just got to kiss you before Christmas.
11 November 2006
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
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
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.
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
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
It’s a good night.
05 November 2006
everyone deserves a twenty-second chance?
I miss you I love you I will always love you I’m sorry
[ Rinse, repeat. ]
23 October 2006
watching paint become wet
he is cherry kool-aid in every possible sense.
every possible sense he is.
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)
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.
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.
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.
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.
02 October 2006
so can we just skip right to the stage where we are laying naked together on Saturday morning listening to NPR?
23 September 2006
when did i love you become hard
the only living girl in new orleans
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.”
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.
And one of the hosts told me ‘someone threw up in my sink, brandy’
-‘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
The beautiful two are slow dancing, pressed, high heels on big toes, kissing collar bones, oblivious
11 September 2006
old poem new language
La robe courte
des baisers humides
Mon corps trahit
ses hanches :familier
cheveux tordus draps blancs
un désordre négligent
08 September 2006
06 September 2006
on my voicemail
28 August 2006
25 August 2006
all grown up
And want you to be the best man.
the best man
17 August 2006
12 August 2006
a completely unnecessary poem
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.
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
29 July 2006
13 July 2006
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.
07 July 2006
27 June 2006
you want; try something new (a new husband?)
110 reasons to shop
this is my letter of resignation
(she might be a little lazy)
the world needs another self-absorbed person
25 June 2006
24 May 2006
you’ve already got the weed going, lets clear it out’ and everyone heads for the door
23 May 2006
to the past
was certainly not from a small southern town
but he was
15 May 2006
i imagined bilingual children running through heidelberg
i was hurting in more ways than one
(i could tell you could sense it, the tension in my hips)
but yourfingers felt it all out
and when i left you for paris i
and those fucking dimples
god- those dimples, how that boy smiles...
when he smiles...
my skin feels better when its blue
05 May 2006
the sexiest boarding pass ever
06 April 2006
L’île de la Réunion
29 March 2006
you are my rhythm and blues
in your red cowboy boots
and goddess eyes
from lola leigh to lola laa
make it up pick it up
remember when we drank habibis in the bathtub?
(that was the best night of my life)
i’m lowering the rent in my shoulder blade,wanna
I’ll always be your Persian party trick
you make it happen—
there’s magic in your flase eyelashes.
16 March 2006
i'll never be jack kerouac
no matter how
much cheap wine i drink but
i think he would agree
that the red port fills the void
but can never fill the empty.
13 March 2006
le weekend // flash (non?)fiction
I say 'bed' because these days I've been sleeping on the couch. My room is on the mountain side of the apartment and when the sun starts to rise (4:30 island time) the rays slither through every slit of my shutters and slowly heat up the room like an unsuspecting cattle ant under an 8-year-olds magnifying glass in early August. By 7 AM my skin in covered in sweat and I'm in a cold shower by 9.
So I'm sleeping like a scorned husband in the salon nowadays, which led me to witness, as I said, Nachos -boxer clad- on the terrace. The famous Nachos is a friend of Rapheal (AKA meathead). He is so-named because both me and Anna agree that he vaguely reminds us of movie theater nachos, in the way that they are sinful and irresitible but also a little repulsive. I thought I had seen the last of him seeing as a week before, Raphael, in a bout of guilt or responsibility, told me that we could be friends but not sleep together anymore, in a move I can only imagine was inspired and initiated by his girlfriend- this being a week after he was in my bed lecturing me on 'la révolution sexuelle'. Where's the sexual revolution now?
I guess I should have known better than to believe him because Saturday night around midnight thirty he called me. Apparently it was his birthday and he wanted to invite me to join him, Nachos, and any number of their rugby-playing, massage-giving meathead friends for a night out. He asked about his birthday present, which he was certain was waiting for him chez moi. I declined seeing as I was already sleeping because the night before, friday, there had been a Spanish party down the street.
Spanish parties are infititely cooler than French parties in that the food and music are better and Spanish boys are adorable. The night was too long, however, ending in a sangria-drugged tryst with Vincent from Catalonia, who is writing his masters thesis on some spanish literature hullabaloo. Not to mention that the little sleep we actually achieved was in the bedroom, where, as I mentioned, people from the Sahara come in the summertime to get a little sun.
After the midnight phone call I slept sound in the salon until, with tea in hand and dressed only in my pink polka-dot underwear and matching tanktop, Nachos waltzes in from the balcony, giving me a sly smile with one eyebrow barely raised and grumbles a 'bonjour' on the way to my bathroom where I am sure he used my towel. By this time I am thoroughly confused, knowing that Anna, just as tired as I was, had also fallen asleep after the birthday call.
Minutes later Anna appears from her bedroom, and after dropping Nachos off at Raphael's house, later relays to me that he had called her at 7 AM. Apparently he had fallen asleep at a club in St Pierre and in the meantime meathead and co. all left him there. Finding himself alone and drunk under the rising sun, he figured it would be a good idea to call Anna, finding the temptation of a combination of a ride and possibly sex too good to pass up. So Anna found him in the supermarket parking lot around 8:00 and brought him to the apartment.
She said, 'you should have seen him wandering around the parking lot. He looked just like a lost puppy.'
You can't make this stuff up.
05 March 2006
23 is the year of trench coats and berets and shaking hips in seamed stockings, miss mohito says hello and how are the kids? (22 is so apocalyptic)
et je peux t’appeler mon Fred Astaire
si tu porte ton tuxedo,
je commencerai à fumer
(mais dans une façon très féminine)
nous pouvons se disputer comme des américains
tant que nous nous embrassons comme les français.
j’ai envie de mettre les mains sur ton ventre….
enfin, ici, tu veux me montre ?
avec mon accent, c’est un peu difficile de comprendre,
autour des mecs très charmants,
je deviens nerveuse, mais c’est évident,
je peux pas non plus,
j’ai mal aux pieds, trop d’années en pointe
si tu m’appelle Grace -- je reste
ici, notre royaume, mais danse ,
je t’attend, nue,
tu peux… répéter s’il te plaît ?—plaît plaît
je suis pas très forte en langues étrangères.
(mais les mensonges, c’est une autre histoire)
02 March 2006
Lilla hates the kind of humor that is dredged in misogyny and violence, those kind of jokes that are too ‘cool’ to not find funny. Nazis-gangbanging-a-nun type humor, it’s obligatory to laugh otherwise you seem uptight and too politically correct. “Aren’t we already desensitized enough?” she tries to explain.
She saw a volcano when she was 15. The dried lava flows looked like elephant skin, piled up together, with Lorax trees randomly dispersed. She likes to think the world used to look like that. She dyed her hair black the next year so that people would take her seriously.
Lilla lost her virginity to Tony the same summer that she saw the volcano. He was 19, and she didn’t realize it at the time but seeming attractive to a 15-year-old was scores easier than getting laid in his own age bracket. They were under the boardwalk and Lilla had half a bottle of peach schnapps. She was trying to tell him about elephant skin, and an elephant skin world, but he wasn’t interested.
She thought a lot about elephant skin and Tony’s skin and after a while the two became one memory, especially after he skipped town to do some illegal work in
She moved to
01 March 2006
our place; or- affairs in st pierre
“you are beautiful” he says, Mathieu is his name
i am in the club where i first met you
“are you german?”
you had asked if I wanted a drink, even though I had been checking out your friend
“American” I say
I took a vodka and coke and left christophe to fend for himself
“I can’t believe my eyes” he said.
I can see the chair that we sat on.
“My horoscope today said I would fall in love with a foreigner.”
there is where I first looked into your eyes, your sunken cheeks, your crooked smile.
“How old are you?” I asked. “21” he said.
I told you I teach at the university. you asked what I was studying.
“I don’t believe you” I said. “you can’t be a day over 19.”
I said it again, I don’t take classes, I give classes.
“Horoscopes aren’t always right” I said.
I have to get out of this place, your taste is still in my throat.
20 February 2006
sour cream: bad
diet coke: bad but good
yogurt: I’ll get back to you on that one
I spread to the sink. taptaptap print.
sink: clean me
tap: don’t drink from me
coffee cup: happy mornings
tea bag: one use only
the hallway said walk on me
my doorway said knock please
the television screams distraction
billy Collins and rilke stacked together say uh-huh
on the balcony I put ‘mosquitoes stay away!’
then again in french
and creole, so the mosquitoes understand
anna’s door says ‘roommate’ and ‘hellohello!’ and ‘I love you’ just for reaffirmation
my flip flop says go to the beach
the toothbrush says I’m Lonely
my shoulder heavy/ my fingers stretch/ my forehead YES AND THEN>?
the words aren’t coming quick enough so
on the bathtub I just put brackets [[[]]]]] and on the mirror a percentage sign%
my cell phone says briiiiiiingggg which can be momentarily confusing
car says kitchen table; kitchen table says car; cartchen table says the toaster
alarm clock: Wednesday
picture frame: I have a right to a trial!
anna comes home and wonders why all the popsicles say Take That.
maybe she won’t notice the quote marks on my earlobes.
18 February 2006
the bath water is black and
my knee is bloody like a
little boy fresh off his bicycle
another failed adventure
his friend (the cute one)
tried to kiss me on the beach
what is the difference between French and American men?
I told him that
the lies sound prettier
14 February 2006
everyone knows that the opposite of love is indifference.
last year it was my philosopher lover, and how he drove me crazycrazycrazy; wanting his kisses and wanting his want. now its Raphael, the Parisian masseuse, and he’s got a girl (wants a little on the side). he’s got ten years on me – his ten years on me [just call me miss midlife crisis] he pretends his friends don’t know but he parades me in front of them, right up the stairs.
I tell him I need a massage therapist; I have a hurting in my heart, to which he just kisses my forehead and says ‘tu mélange tout.’ but I’m not mixed up, I know exactly where this is going- straight to hell in a handbasket as the southern girl in me would say.
09 February 2006
les étoiles sur mon nez
can watch the southern stars and you
can count them
(my freckles too)
31 January 2006
i was never allowed to watch talk shows
which made them endlessly appealing to me
I would stay home sick from school with diet cherry seven up, liptons chicken soup and paperdolls, all I needed spread out on the coffee table and the princess bride in the tape player
but as soon as my mother left the house I would flip on the television,
scan through the channels,
the screen would glow bright with
longlegged lolitas, ball-breaking jailbirds, incestuous cousins,
I would stare wide-eyed as oversized drag queens paraded across the box
shaking what god didn’t give them
the aphrodites would raise from the audience, born in the waves of excitement, screaming ‘how can you live like this? you are a disgrace’
Aphrodite the hermaphrodite
which garnered responses of hiss and blur from the pink and turquoise stage.
girls in short sequined skirts would dance on imaginary poles, shouting, can you believe I was a geek in high school? a thousand pound woman would brag about her lovers
or a punk rock goth boi would be made under into mr republican 1993
the phone would ring, and I would answer, exaggerating the weakness in my voice ‘yes mommy I feel ok, but I wouldn’t say I feel good.’
‘are you watching television? what are you watching?’ she would ask
‘just price is right, mommy.’ it wasn’t any use, she always knew the truth, even if she didn’t hear the audience screaming ‘it’s a man! no it’s a chick!’ in the background. ‘they are talking about a blender’ I would say. ’12 dollars!!! $12.50!’ I would add for affect.
she could tell I was eating up the 12 year old Mexican runaway, the Saturday night latex model/ Sunday school teacher. my eyes devoured the salacious titles,
‘I was fat but now I’m all that!’
‘my man will stay and you will pay!’
‘don’t be crazy, you know its your baby!’
I learned the terminology of daytime tv, like ‘cross dressing’ and ‘paternity test’, ‘three way’ and the perfect way to drag my words when saying
‘that just ain’t right.’
and it just wasn’t right. but it was perfect
it was the world outside of my cul-de-sac, a world bathed in neon lights and techno beats, where everyone has an opinion, an identity,
and a rhyming juxtapositional slogan.
some of those men were the women I wanted to be.
[the rainy season]
one day crawls the sky with black
and following are
only me bollywood and the girls
all in the same place all
who we are in the same place,
a londonite train small and clearly delicious
that smoldering scot which wins each French man
with his spirit
and a soft accent
the bottle precisely does disappear and not a responsibility
not No not a step No
required : the need the whole
30 January 2006
how a bad joke is born
i was waiting to be xrayed as part of my green card process.
my head was heavy because my boy hadn’t called in four days and I was convinced his car was wrecked in a ravine.
I went in the little room and the woman told me to take my shirt off and stand against the wall
“Are you pregnant?” she asked me.
I looked at her, paused, looked some more. I was a few days late, I suppose.
“Do you speak French? Are you pregnant?” she asked again.
I had understood what she said, and at most any other time in my life it would have been an easy reply. “No” I said, though it came out as more of a question than a response.
“the procedure is dangerous for the fetus” she explained. “are you sure you’re not pregnant?”
getting an appointment at this place had taken three months. “I’m not pregnant!” I said to her, with a stronger and more certain tone.
she carried on with the process, xraying my chest and then sending me back out to the waiting room. I was all white.
“whats wrong?” anna asked. “what happened in there?”
“well, I think I am pregnant and I just deformed my child who’s father hasn’t called me in four days.” I replied.
And that was how Lou Deformo was born.
24 January 2006
la fille des baobabs
Our second day in Morondova we decided to drive out to the Allée des Baobabs. It was sticky hot and my flip flops made sand cake on the back of my legs. The trees were larger than I had imagined them to be. Thousands of years were in their trunks. White and strong and thick, with the leaves brushing the clouds in spurts on the tops.
I walked along the sand path and almost immediately a little girl approached me, with the greeting I had become accustomed to, “Salaama Vozaha!” basically, hello white person. Her voice was sweet and high and matched her pretty face. She was wearing a dirty skirt that hung to her knees, and no shirt covering her little girl body.
“Salaama” I said, looking down at her.
“Comment tu t’appelle tu?” she asked, inquiring about my name.
“Je m’appelle Lola” I said to her.
“Lola” she mouthed. “Lola.”
She had asked so casually, as if we had been seated next to each other at a dinner party or were rubbing elbows at a bridal shower. She wasn’t afraid of me and wasn’t off-putting in her boldness. She reached her hand out in order to put it in mine, as opposed to the thin, bony fingers always reaching towards me, palm upturned, sad begging eyes saying more than the meager “Madame??” coming from tight lips.
I took her hand and we walked along the allée. I told her there were no baobabs where I live. She giggled and skipped, and I wondered if she even understood what I had said. Her short life had all been lived under these trees, these monsters. They were as natural to her as daisies or pines.
We passed by her village. A little boy ran up to me and proudly pulled the wings off of an unsuspecting butterfly, lifting the carcass up for my approval. The little girl brushed him away, she was possessive, I was her vozaha. Then she started singing.
The song was like little bells ringing. It was a French children’s song, and the way she sang it with her soft Malagasy accent made the notes dance in my ears. “Will you teach it to me?” I said. She did, and we sang it together as we walked back down the allée. I got back to the car and looked down on her big brown eyes. “I have to go now, ma petite. I’m sorry.”
I cupped her face in both of my hands and just looked, just looked at her. She was so beautiful. I had seen so many beautiful women, bent over in rice fields, two babies tied to their backs. Beautiful women had sent their children out to me on the streets. “Un petit peu Madame? pour partager?”
She lifted her hands back up to me but she was too small to reach my face. She looked at me with pure love and acceptance. I wanted to give her everything.
I wanted to tell her to be good and study hard in school. I wanted to tell her to be strong. She pursed her lips and waited. I bent over and kissed her. “Au revoir, ma cherie.” I said. “Valoom.”
23 January 2006
I have spent the last several weeks clearing my mind and my bank account in the hills of Madagascar. Thank you for your sweet comments. I will reply when I have shaved and slept and drank tap water.
05 January 2006
i'm breaking your monopoly on my words/ breaking with a snap/ snap
morals like me lola,
you don’t even believe in god.
and (you’ll cheat on me, I’m sure,
when I am gone.
c’est pas toi, c’est moi. [international]
I wore my brown dress (anna said you could never leave me in that dress) she was wrong.
when you told me you don’t trust me I cried mascara streaks all over your shirt.
(history- what a funny thing, I would have left you too)
is it that you don’t ever want to see me again? ever? I sobbed -- now is not the time to correct my French, professor -- he thinks I am pretty when I cry.
holding in the hallway (I think you should go) you wanted to take me to my bed (one last time) I almost said yes
just to have you around
just a little bit
02 January 2006
I do not fit in a box.
Unless it is a really big box.
01 January 2006
open letter to law school
This is a swiss cheese application.
I am somewhere right in between, in the holes [the wholes], in the voids. I am that smudge on the corner. I am the paper clip dent. This is a swiss cheese application.
Enclosed are all the minutes -ticktockticktock- of everynight that I have lay awake thinking of you. The dampness is my pain and worry. This application is my 15 year old child and I can't stop my neurosis. She is out of my hands now but I hope that all I have done for her will lead her home at night.
It comes down to this: I will work hard for you. I will make you proud of me. When I leave your fine instutition I will make millions of dollars and give them all to you; you don't even have to give me a library or dining hall in my name. Just send me that letter now that says
we want you. we believe in you.
I promise you.
Look there. Look in the holes [the wholes]. This is a swiss cheese application.
Thank you sincerely for your 5 minutes.
PS I was eating babaganoush at dinner parties when I should have been saving children from burning buildings and then drafting new preventative legislation. I'm sorry.