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Tuesday, March 2nd, 2010
1:01 pm - Why Do You Hate Fall?
Autumn, get off you are hurting me.
Autumn, I found August spasming, possessed.
Autumn, I suspect you are the proprietor of August.
Autumn, September is an awful person, a dictator, i fear it.
Autumn, with your yellow light fading.
Autumn, with your silent N.
Autumn, with your ruining of perfectly good oaks.
Autumn, please stop making messes on my street. Look at all this.
Autumn, clean up all these clumps of wet leaves you left here and also those twigs on the grass.
Autumn, don't force me.
Autumn, pumpkins are not enough to make a person glad for you.
Autumn, some people don't find sweater weather quaint.
Autumn, razor blades in candy apples?
Autumn, your kids were bashing jack o lanterns beating each other with shaving cream cans.
Or they were breaking out in hives waiting for the bus.
Autumn, I am never ready when you come up behind me and say pencils down.
Autumn, with your truncated days and ceaseless sighing.
Autumn, I will hire guys to rake you away.
Autumn, stop being so sick and not sorry.
Autumn, you're dying, get it over with.

(1 comment | comment on this)

12:46 pm - Long Distance
Finally next to the Pacific

I too am a breathing thing:

sobbing inside, absent so long

a rage

the last of it leaving
and heaving with gratitude

for the shore

its grooves not unlike muscles

under me

this hot sand is

the body of the man

I’m in love with

and the one I run to

when I’m tired and sad and white

I run for my life

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12:37 pm - Crash
I was manic and 18

and made a quick turn into a phone pole

on (no joke) High street.

Backbone jolted awake, sideview snapped off.

Seven years later, I didn’t see

him on the sidelines,

six foot three,

inanimate, shadowy

when I careened around the corner

of summer and fall.

He stood and stood.

Even when I,

singing radio ballads,

swung out fast

and wrecked myself on him.

What can anyone say?

I got up,

I remembered the damages--

tugging long splintery shards

from the blue body of that broken vehicle

and what it had cost to pry

the stuck-shut door open.

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Thursday, February 4th, 2010
9:29 pm - Pomegranate
A grayish quality behind the color:

this alone shows it’s wiser than you.

Here’s a thing more compelling

than any fruit before or since, and so

that hollow cracking sound

is not a biting into, but a wresting open

of the nest that would be undisturbed,

seeds scattering like nerves. And what’s this

bitter wall the rewards hide behind?

It’s humiliating to pick, dig, gather, and try

to get as much as you can

as often as you can

while forced to go slow.

It doesn’t feed you,

does it?

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Sunday, November 1st, 2009
1:59 pm - The Register
Noon and the schoolkids get released for lunchtime.

The boys all brunettes, their same haircut flicks upward

as they lop along, awkward as donkeys, and the chirping girls

with their own hair breathtaking, long honeyed hanks

bright as the glint and glare of parked cars and melting snow.

I am desperate for them, hungry to be thirteen

in fitted jeans, dreaming of prom half a decade away

and of the boy I like best, who, though I don’t know it yet,

will take me, shaking, in a lakeside cabin one parentless night,

the shy firsts of everything, the time of my life,

but that’s the future. Today just walking. Jumping to pull my friend’s hat

over her eyes, not wishing for pounds off, a pay raise,

I’m blind to this age, this place, and the woman in the shoe shop

who has turned off the radio to weep at the register.

(comment on this)

Monday, September 28th, 2009
3:35 pm - The Cab
The cab was driven by a black dude with cornrows and in the passenger seat was his woman smoking a cigarette and i said, grand central

and they were listening to power 105 and we were going over some really lovely bridges with looming twinkly cityscapes on either side, and you could see everything clearly it was a very clear night, and the driver guy said do they still have fireworks in midtown on 4th of July?

and I didn’t suppose he'd be talking to me so at first I didn’t answer

and then later I realized he’d been talking to me and we mused about fireworks and then the radio DJ said throwback to 2001 and Usher "You Got it Bad" came on the radio

and the girlfriend was singing it and at first i only mouthed the lyrics, then sang quietly, then just sang and the driver joined in

then all three of us were generally belting and everything that used to mattah / don't mattah no mo' / like / money/ or the cars/ you can have it all, like / FLOWERS CARDS AND CANDY!
and I doubled over giggling and the driver thought i was laughing at the lyrics and goes, no dat man speak tha truth right there.

(comment on this)

3:31 pm - The Arrangement
Mr. Oyen, my new friend, I scheduled this meeting

in hopes I could sell an idea I’ve been dreaming

will help with logistics. Forgive me my scheming;

I don’t want to manipulate, force, or seem desperate,

but we gush so much mutual praise, without respite,

and we want to have sex, indeed you’ve expressed it.

I know where you’re at, and it’s where I’m at too—

I dumped my wife, you dumped yours. Are we rude?

Might be, but we’re too young for long-term, it’s true.

At this point we want sex, we’re about our well-being.

In fact I have several young blokes that I’m seeing.

And men make fine partners despite all the fleeing.

See I am a woman, and it seems I’ve discovered

that things get lost, post-sex, and can’t be recovered,

and it’s over this issue I’ve oftentimes hovered.

I’d commit but I don’t want to limit my choices:

say X or Y comes down to New York and voices

an interest in kickin it. My whole heart rejoices!

If life is a cooking show, variety’s the spice—

you’re a man, so I don’t need to tell you this twice.

But a steady along with the options sounds nice.

Is that wholly crazy? You might later laugh saying,

“This girl wrote a poem to ensure sustained laying.

She made this whole offer but I was just playing.”

In that case you’re ign’ant, cause I’m playing as well;

we play; with no playing ‘twould all go to hell.

Let’s win all around is what I’m trying to sell.

(comment on this)

3:21 pm - Heading Home After Falling in Love
Came up on choir singers in the subway concourse,
gold aromas of their harmonies rang through that sooty cathedral
and I dumped out my wallet and felt richer than a sultan,
as love will do to you
and I stepped in gum, therefore literally was
a gumshoe. Stairs enrobed in mist,
had no umbrella and no clue,
undead, we could all be thrilled to see

black and blue grill smoke, crisscrossing crowds,
charcoal blackened chicken skewers piled
on a vendor cart. A man's first bite: That's lovely, he said,
the big red digital clock outside Penn Station
dim and fragmented,
broken since last year.
No barkers barking: Sunday, it's softer,
still the sparse throngs move.

Boots with broken soles
from trodding are soaked through,
I'm wide-eyed on the train, giggling at the very trees,
or the teen girls with a tank of baby turtles next to me,
faces pure as this day
when I looked around and saw us as: Born

current mood: enthralled

(1 comment | comment on this)

Friday, November 21st, 2008
3:36 am - Plaza Bootery
The whole khaki town lines up outside

before I come up, delicate

with coarse, ratty hair, having walked

on the churchless side of the street

up to Plaza Bootery

where I wrench the tall brass key

in its lock and shuffle in.

I fit Addisons, Hadleys

for communion Maryjanes,

see the branches flaking leaves

to blow through the doorway,

endless mothers struggling there

to steer the strollers,

saying Ashton sit down so the lady can measure you.

Then the fugue of my trips downstairs into disorder,

the boxes bursting from my arms

and scattering wads of tissue paper.

D’you want a lollipop? What color?

I’ll use a red one, a kid said carefully,

and there can be those moments

but at the end of the day I’m ticketed in the lot

and the metermaid is long off duty

and it somehow hurts, the word lollipop, and the idea of all

the families home at dinner.

I won’t forget the boy

who started sobbing when I didn’t have his size.

His father called him Little Bird.

(comment on this)

Sunday, November 16th, 2008
8:37 pm - The Machine Steals the Woman's Only Ten
Today she tour jetèd, she rushed last call last CALL and all the machines were taken so she stood in line anxious

and seething for one, wet with sweat and heaving and while there she saw six ex-coworkers including Noah

and they were like, "Ha ha! Whatta coincidence!"

She got to the machine she put her only money in the machine and it wasn't taking it and oh God Noah

came up and stuck out the slat of his gorgeous cheek for her to kiss and she did

and it felt like the nights in Brooklyn, and he was trying to say hi but she was jamming her ten

into the slot and saying "FUCK this its BROKEN!" he said no, relax—look it's taking your money---

it's gonna take it, just slowly. She watched it inch in.

Then he said goodbye.

That's when

the machine stole her ten.
Then she yelled "FUCK!" to the whole crowd watching, and she walked away with a deep frown,

disoriented sort of looking for customer service.

Then two people said Miss, Miss,

there's your ticket, there on the ground. And she heard them and whirled around and scooped it up in one

grand plié then pirouetted, took off running toward track 13 and jumped

into that train with the doors closing on her leg.

The trains take off so wobbly as if undetermined.

And she was too unstable to stand,

and she said "can I sit there" to this leggy man

and his legs started fidgeting,

overtly sexual like all men so she made the deep frown face again

(only slightly shallower than when

the machine stole her ten)

(comment on this)

Thursday, November 13th, 2008
3:54 pm - When I Come Home to Long Island
You better take me in your car with all its little lit up icons about adjustments.

you better show me a good time doing nothing.

you better resurface from my past, if you're only in my past, and say things like i miss those times in high school before all this lonely soulsearching. like why don't we go stand in the parking lot of toys r us and play with a shopping cart and make fun of samuel farters as we called her.

you better come with me on the long island railroad dressed up like pretty crazies. to pursue new york jungle and blaze in dude's loft.

you better make me laugh laugh till i pee getting out of the car in the cold wind and runny salt-ice on the lots.

you better get high with me and go to the stupid poetry barn for some old people poetry.

you better hollar at me till your hollaring device is like swollen.

you better be my best friend and hang out for consecutive days.

i remember being from small long island.

i remember tiana's laugh and beer and lovely science blather.

i remember my car full of stolen hallmark merchandise mostly vanilla candle items.

i remember christmas commercials on TV. the sound of the dog's collar and the back sliding glass door when i sneak in.

i remember boots in the black car when it was parked on Fairbanks.

i remember how late it can get, and text messages.

i remember beats on hot 97 when im driving home to bed, beats like dark chocolate so good, and me so high and not knowing who made them.

i remember picking up her and him. making andrew drive. do we ever actually go anywhere!!!! no never but we see everyone we knew since kindergarten. irishmen who wanna be italians. italians who wanna be thugs. seeing tacky men. seeing the black car by the pot spot and remembering boots.

i remember those blanched-out fall days near the pine barrens when the sunlight is so pale and the day depressing.

i remember feeling like a stuffed horny high lazy bastard, like a gluttonous holiday ham, when im home.

i remember feeling very much and yet nothing at all.

i remember how delicious the curves of north country road feel to my body. little road skirting the harbor all familiar after so long in a foot-to-asphalt city. how the yellowlined dips and turns have to do with physical memory. like it's the old track to my mechanism, a returning-to.

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Monday, November 10th, 2008
10:21 am - Some Fiction
i found some fiction i wrote last year, clik to readCollapse )

(comment on this)

Monday, November 3rd, 2008
10:56 am - Pillows
1

drool sponge.
faux torso.
shutter upper.
the biggest little bliss.
forgiving sphinx.
giant powderpuff to relinquish power in.
doughy cake you can't eat.
cool cat on the flipside.
taker of face-shaped impressions.
cushy slab smelling of soft.
lover to miss from a work desk--
want to call it on the phone,
say ohh i cant wait to hug you.
a vantage point.
the nucleus of a home.
sack of dried tears.
packet of salted stuffing.
manila folder--
file filling with information,
microchip encoded with the data of sleep.
nightly reservoir in which the ear's
collection of words
empties and forms complex dreams.


2


The sweet one I would soak seven years ago when I loved and you didn’t.
The sweet one we would hold three years ago when we both loved.
The sweet one you banished when i left because you love and I don’t
anymore.




3

Last night I didn’t need any.
I have your pajamas
plus two cotton teeshirts belonging to men I’ve met
since I tucked you away.
All in my bed, heap of other people’s laundry.
Your pajamas have migrated toward the wall
in favor of these.
The younger guy’s shirt continues onto the sheets;
gym sweat, cologne.
The older guy's is so clean it smacks of fabric softener.
I gathered it about my neck at bedtime
and pulled it off this morning,

waking up to a white sky, worrying
about power loss.

(comment on this)

Thursday, October 2nd, 2008
1:03 pm - Worried
Can't get up, can't eat, can't speak.
I'd stammer it all out to my mother,
but she'd worry.

Always a "her" to worry about:
like spun-glass Aria who sobbed at Club Love,
wailing she felt ugly
as everyone shimmied around,
or gorgeous, jobless Angelica,
who cursed out her boyfriend
and friends for no reason,
then took benzos as a bandage.
and Anna, who had given her the benzos
cause they're chump change in her trove,
well she has this voice telling her to drive off a bridge, or
crawl under a bus.
Plus her mother hates her deeply.
My best friend Alaina's MS forced
her to move in with her mother
who actually tried to kill her.
"And I have pneumonia," she croaks on the phone.

And I'm worried, yes, about all of them,
but most of all about you,
who puked so much when I quit you in July,
and who still writes to me saying
"You're not my baby. You're not
a poet. You monster. You sad little girl,"
You whose birthday is today,
and whose old, soft green scrubs I stole
for my bed
for the coming cruel year.

(comment on this)

Monday, September 29th, 2008
11:07 pm
Syntax-
Parataxis
Hypotaxis
Diction
Tone (poetic)
Enjambment
End Stopped lines

Here's one for the terms..

(comment on this)

Wednesday, May 23rd, 2007
11:43 am
aw. good people friended this journal. i should update it. jake still comments on it saying i should update it. i find it hard to write stuff, too much attention from my dad turns me off from writing stuff, plus i only want to listen to tricky and be on my grind in new york. i'll write it though i promise.

in adriana-as-poet news, i was featured reader at Cornelia Street Cafe downtown. i hate doing readings. first reading in manhattan and the crowd is just as old and weird as all those dusty shlong island poetry venues. im coming to realize that if i write traditional poetry, that's my audience. for a younger one i'd probably have to resort to detestable slam or spoken word poetry. i refuse to.

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Wednesday, May 10th, 2006
10:01 am - here's a prose i wrote about my neighbor
goralczyk and meCollapse )

(5 comments | comment on this)

Wednesday, February 22nd, 2006
10:09 am - FWT Poems 2006
Here are all the poems I wrote for my independent study this FWT/winter term.
They average roughly about 2 per week for the entire 8-week period, though I wrote about six of them in one afternoon.
I am turning them in to Chris Miller today
Comment and tell me which ones you really liked and which ones are wretched
note: some is reworked material, but you probably have still never seen it
so here you are.





Rather be Dancing

I like to write poems
but sometimes you'd really just rather
be dancing with that one man
or even standing there spacing
with him to liquid beats

when you hear a good liquid
beat that's broken
and the percussion, those drum shards
pour like light from a barrel
and the bass flows too but more like
the heels of tribes in africa
stamping holy ground
well the poem is there
in the form of sounds -

sometimes id rather dance
than sit writing
I don't sit there knitting
so I really just hate sitting

but when you don't pull your reality down
and press it on the page
it's like oven heat with no cake batter
I can't feed you oven heat




What Makes a Woman Beautiful

To men
in order of importance.
They want these things
to make them want.
Not just one night, but a real
wanting want.
First the ratio between hip and waist-
the bigger the ratio, the prettier.
Soft-looking,
soft hair around the face.
inoffensive eyebrows
and emotional eyes.
Someone rumply-looking
to remind them of rolling
in bed. Someone who knows
how to take care of.
Clean with their own nice smell,
always half mysterious.

They want you wild
with your hair blowing
and skirts flowing when you're
standing thinking alone
feeling faraway as fields,
not exposed, not showing off in
tight clothes
because despite
what they say,
they like you better
well-concealed.




Real Religion

The last month of each season
feels like the next season
February feels
like March is standing right behind it
laying its hand gently on the arm
of the third week and saying
it's time now to cease these evils.
Everything should take
the shape of spring instead,
treebuds tighter than roses
pointing at the sky, a signal
for the intricate designs
of rainfall. Rainfall
and the conspiracy of growth.
We all want these gifts,
ballooning blooms and clean light.
Spring is the real religion,
the banishment of the darkside.
The people can't escape it--
catching spring inside them
like a spiritual flu,
they want its inventions,
to be born again.
The people cry hallelujah
at the cold clouds clearing.
It is February
and they can hear pretty sounds
outside winter's womb.



Vacationing

My girlfriend takes her vitamins.
Her eyes are bright glass gems,
glinting palest blue.
I mistake them for lakes
between the Eyjafjoll mountains,
flat and deep in early spring
when ice is melting.
I love her season, her dewy
blushy flush, the details
of her features
like precious stones embedded
in the ground, that geographic
woman-body with
its arrangement of circles.
She is a tiny island, warm sand
and pale shores just big enough
for my own form.
And you might envy me
because for years
I have vacationed here,
this eden, mother country
flowing milk and honey.
I travel her distances
and find the curve
in the road
where so many people have died.
By no means
have I survived.
I sit cooling in the hills
of heaven, breathing in,
murmuring at the sternum
of a single angel.
She gives me each day.
When the night falls down she lifts it.
When the world's eye darkens
she lights it.
And when I distill a lake of eyewater
her seven-sun power dries it.




Layers

It is midday and she reads on the bed. Her
curves are clothed, she lies on her stomach:
Copper strands strewn over a black blouse,
a line of purple shirt hem under the first,
next a gap between clotheslayers--
a strip of skin, a narrow expanse
for kisses to stick to. Magenta
lace pantywaist, its scalloped
edge wrapped up in thick
denim stitched with pink
thread. The thread is the
same dusky rose of her lips.
Another woman's universe has
condensed itself to a focus on this.
Such a nagging question: separate?
They hesitate, cannot remove the last
layer: the slim-bodied second, her other's
limbs draped around that back, those hips.




I Loved London

I loved London, I loved my flatmate Alex
and how he'd stare into space, chewing,
with his arm shoved down the cereal box.

I loved pound coins, small and heavy,
grey-gold and found in pockets, handed
to polite men selling fish and chips in Camden.

I loved the silly indie rock bars full of girls
with fringe and ballet shoes. I miss the four-floor
clubs, pulsing, filled with people, people

I loved navigating a bad part of the city at night,
Fear and shadows, figures in black who smelled
like drugs as they passed,

I loved the European alley cats padding around
and staring while we smoked. The European birds
overhead, how they don't flee England's wet winter

instead cawing in the trees, the ones lining
Jerningham road, black spidery bursts
like the articles chimney sweeps carry,
and I loved them too,

I loved a whole country that felt like you could see
a chimney sweep walking down the street, easy,

walking home to washing-up liquid and tea mugs,
thanks I'd love a cup, how they say it half-hushed,
the Rizla rolling papers and silk cut cigarettes,

The aubergines and courgettes,
spongy puddings, fishy mixtures I wouldn't touch
and the fruitcakes and trifles and toffees

I loved the jolly formalities, the british reserve,
are you all right, well done, nice one,
restating a friend's name when receiving their phonecall

I loved the blondie Louise with long hair, a fairy
from Devon originally, I pictured magic forests

I loved the sweet land-protecting laws and the police
in black bullet hats, blond women cops with ponytails
looking preoccupied

I loved the men I met, their gentle vowels, how
they held me up to dance, how my dance was all
about them
as my wine rushed to the floor,

I loved sitting with a Thomas V. Felton,
both of us poor and people watching, telling him
what I learned by living, then listening,
on oxford street one night after not shopping,

I loved the youths, record-store rifling students,
clubgoers, party boys with buzzcuts, cider,
chaps and chavs, and inversely the businessman
I chatted to coming home at 8 AM, I found

I loved the men’s lack of mustaches, the black cabs
and double deckers,
the cracking concrete street, hedgerows
and rubbish bins, I loved it all and missed it

even before I left, packing for home in the morning dark,
lifting my load of luggage and longing,
the feeling of something
being ripped from me as I rode the tube to Heathrow




These Kind of Men

Square-jawed short-nosed blond cheetah people.
Cute cat guys with fair skin and angular chins
who might stretch out
on a scratching-post type couch displaying paw hands,
straight-tooth grins and curvy bicep arms.
Soft messy spikes of champagne hair. Coral lips
like a gift. Body a stack of rectangles, 3-D
parallelograms torqued just so. Blue-eyed and fair
but for the sunkissed look, and I said thick hands,
heavy hands, light and laughing eyes. Big and solid,
Mid-prowl, mid-growl, gold armhairs, halos,
rough-and-tumble blond cat men.

Or ski-jump-nose pointed-face pony people. Men.
big-eyed, dark-haired, shadowy coffee-colored,
looking down from taller heights.
Tawny and sinewy, wild, cheekbones showing.
Beautiful, all shy with a tan chin. Narrower.
A skinny torso to cling to,
to spread hands over, hard hips some distance
below ribs. So thin. Untamed, gentle
as a female deer about to run off,
one hoof testing uncertain waters. Sexy,
sleek and lanky, to whom does he belong?
Delicate, delicate face facing down, eyes up
And glinting. Delicate.




Modest City Lodgings

The bathrooms are all the same.
Crumbling plaster, white walls cracking.

The kitchen; the sink with its two taps
trickling with a metallic sound.

The complete lack of counterspace
and sticky dots of dried liquid.

The angry pile of cutlery, butterknife
and fork tine, serrated edge and dirty spoon.

The dishwater smell, untouchable towel.
Mismatched cookware and drinking glasses.

The inexpensive couch that slumps,
extra fabric coming loose, needs tucking in.

The walls and outlets iced in white paint.
The little rugs that never get cleaned.

The bunch of brass locks, the neighbors.
Do you have a corkscrew?

The heavy windows lifting up
to car horns, walkers and asphalt, big things

The resident rodent rustling
when late-night sounds fold up into silence.



Homophobic People

Stop biting your nails
and pointing your fingers
what is it you're afraid of
is it your past, your family,
your own unsafe secrets?
Oh no, don't cry
it's all right, you'll be fine
you'll get it all worked out
I know it's scary but be aware
the Universe loves you
nature loves differences
society hates them
but nature is bigger
you are not above this chaos circus
of rainbows within rainbows
where everything’s fluid
don’t be scared, bully babies
you are included in this gorgeousness
come waltzing with it



Impromptu Meeting of The Dead

A moth vibrates at the window
stamping itself on the January pane
flickering, an old movie reel
two of them now, they flutter gray
against black glass
they want the bare bulb
of the lamp on my nightstand
the wall barely functions
to divide this room from the season
the drafts would make you weary

outside, inside, windowbox, bed
the things within them move
but are dead
crisp leaves cling
to a dried-out vine in the planter outside
they move, uncertain
this disturbance
mocks the moths who quiver
with a violence similar
to shaking, tear-torn people

and they keep coming back, flapping
open wings and wanting, searching
it’s frigid out
shouldn’t bugs be underground now
instead of wanting sixty watts to see by
shouldn’t they be spared
or are they just ghosts of the dead
like old books say

I have eight lamps and twelve candles
in this room
to séance-invoke my own spirit
if I could speak to the moths I’d say
what is this we suffer through
did all the freebird souls fly south
leaving the half-dead
to their lesser suns
and am I a fellow ghost you visit
am I as desperate, with ugly wings
of chalk

it is certainly a question
I’d ask the moths if they could talk



Eclipse II

Girl in space. Opalescence, bits of waste. Some light years away
Through the galaxy’s dusty distances
a small star sits. Entranced, toward it she orbits.

A bright ball too familiar
to be some star in a sky of stars, stars…

now its quite clear up close, fiery surface
yes that’s the sun’s face, pearl-pale
his yellow hair like comet tails

This time no words, just one smile as he shimmers.
And with that he sets off summer to burn the husk of winter.




Events

he opened the day like a box and inside it
was itching powder, it got all over him

the day was an understocked novelty shop
even its moon was missing one crescent

then he closed the cloud-grey shade of day
and stubbed his mental cigarette



The Taming

It’s the wild animals who catch eyes,
particularly mine,
I hadn’t even looked yet
when he kissed my hand hello.
There was no edge, though.

Now he has cut an edge out
for me. I’m thrown
by his words and ways
now the precipice
is miles overhead
marking the distance
I’ve dropped.
It resembles the line
of his impossibly broad shoulders,
that place I took off from,
when first I held him,
clutching at his long limbs,
galloping at ground level
under late-day skies.

I want to go back to the fear of falling
before the fall itself.
The quick thrill that shuts the eyes.
The feeling of maybe pervading.
The beginning of the game.
The taming.



A Woman, a V, a Violet

I am a young woman a V a Violet with a rectangle pelvis and an arc of a hip. I am thin limbs, elongated, angling, pointing toward you. The carefully wrapped package you instructed to wear sexy clothes. There is a scalloped lace edge on this top, do you like it, what do you say? And my legs are awkward but my hands want to touch so I try, I let them, I try, I try. I am a woman a V a Violet a curve a half-lit moon. Panicking when you look away quickly I look at you with green eyes get into me. An insecurity breathes chokingly from lungs and forms words for this mouth, this one. I was born from a womb and live my life waiting to be taken to a moment. Thinking now am I beautiful enough, feeling like water inside. Need you touching my back my waist, not just me picking up the rubber glove of your hand and placing it onto my thigh. I am a woman a V a Violet an unfolded flower for you to feel. You need petals pressed to your cheek you need the one that comes after U you need to wrap around these leaves that could break if you look at them wrong.



When He's Done

And when he's done with me it will sound like this, it will sound like saxophones spiraling down, like hollow sounds fading out, like a forgotten voice moaning in an arc over drums which keep saying trap trap, trap. It will be like feeling trapped in that, in that utterly sad. Inescapable sound, inescapable fate. I have already paid the money for a ticket in, and once out I can't be shocked when I don't receive a refund. It will look and feel very dark like this, it will sound very dark like this, the dark sparkly end of this black track which is last on the mix. It has already done, I feel it filtering out. Broken drums are being mixed in, the heavy bass line begins to pound and punch, I predict the crystal ball reflection where I'm a small black smear in the world crying Love Me, I see all that coming and the drain is drinking.



What Are Men Anyway

And what are men anyway, at least the kind we like? Lean and smiling all wry, we want them, for some reason, all ten of their fingers, both their eyes, each lip, a swatch of hair to swirl as we grin at them, resting our chins on our palms. We want them like things in shop windows and we want them to want us like things in shop windows. We want them to pick us out of hordes of women, bop us on the head and carry us off, caveman clubs dragging. We want to feel like we've earned it-- with something we said, the way we cut our eyes at them, something we wore, what we're standing for-- we want to redeem these things like coupons for the best model of Man. "Did you see Sarah's 1982 Lamborghini, 'Matt'? I want one like that. Just ten more pounds off and I'm qualified for an upgrade." We want to try them on like shoes. How far can you carry me, O New Man? We want to take them out for test drives, measuring things they say on the Scale of Fabulousness, go on red alert at one bad statement, close it out, catch a new man like a cab and try again. We want to feel when they're on alert so we can hurriedly take back whatever was said that made his face shut like that. That terrible turned-off attitude gloom that makes us lay in bed staring and questioning ourselves with every breath. We want to have a few drinks and start over. We want to meet one who smiles the right way, knows how to craft a perfect verbal gift to make us sigh and squeal, back to the door shut against the night with his cologne still floating in it (as he walks away hopefully sighing too, but not TOO much) and we don't know anything and we love it and we want to own the unknown. We want men. To kiss every inch of our bodies and tongue-probe us slow and tell us not to be ashamed of dimpling fat, say "I LOVE your too-thick ankles", kiss our too-thick ankles. We want a Man to take us by the arm and smirk smilingly at our questions and lead us out to somewhere dark. The sinewy-limbed, strong-handed. The ones who make us stew in secret turmoil. We want them for something to think about when it's a dull moment or a car ride and there are passing lights and sexy serious music. Otherwise thoughts of what? No nothing. Because what are men anyway but deliciously frustrating mysteries? From the outside only a landscape of skin and fabric. Emitting short cryptic statements from a blank face. Instead of saying "Do you have a man?" One should say "Do you have a mystery?" "I want a mystery to come my way." "My mystery John and I have been together three months." "I'm having trouble with my mystery....I just DON'T understand why he'd--" yes, the joy in not knowing! We want the headspin, we want the anxiety, the conflict and resolution. We want him to say nothing on the way home, want to have a fight about something, want to complain to our girlfriends sniffing and snobbling into kleenex, or calmly over Starbucks mochafrappalatteccino drinks. We want Men to tie sterling strings between their hearts and ours. Just some preciousness. We all want this. If you are a woman I suspect it's true of you. You do.

current mood: lazy

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Monday, January 9th, 2006
9:09 pm - i hate winter
Impromptu Meeting of the Dead

On a lonely night rife
with winter's bitterness
a moth vibrates at the window
stamping itself on the january pane
flickering, an old movie reel
two of them now, they flutter gray
against the glass
they want the bare bulb
of the lamp on my nightstand
the wall barely functions
to divide this room from the season
the drafts will make you weary

outside, inside, windowbox, bed
the narrow things within them move
but feel dead
crisp leaves cling
to a dried-out vine in the planter outside
they move so uncertain
this disturbance
mocks the moths who quiver
with a violence similar
to shaking, tear-torn people

and they keep coming back, flapping
open wings and wanting, searching
it's frigid out
shouldn't bugs be burrowed underground now
instead of wanting sixty watts to see by
shouldn't they be spared
or are they just ghosts
like the old books say

I have eight lamps and twelve candles
in this room
to seance-invoke my own spirit
if I could speak to the moths I'd say
what is this we suffer through
did all the freebird souls fly south
leaving the half-dead
to their lesser suns
and am I a fellow ghost you visit
am I as desperate, with ugly wings
of chalk
it is certainly a question
I'd ask moths if they could talk

disclaimers and self-criticismsCollapse )

but there you go, that's my first FWT poem. I need to write one more before I can send it to chris miller. I thought of yoinking an old poem from my computer, but it's about indian summer and what it looks and feels like, and it feels archival, and this is supposed to be a challenge so I'll write more, so im writing a new one, a;isaiugrgh.

I also painted the cover art for my book and i'll take a crappy pic of it with my camera phone and whatever, but later, cause ive got to go out and destroy myself for a while.

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Wednesday, January 4th, 2006
3:36 am - hi
I guess this is where I'll post my poems because I am a poet and I've been loving and studying poetry since I was a child and I've been published in places but no one ever sees it because I don't really show them. once in a while I'll post a link to somewhere my work is printed but I don't like to post poems in my other journal (cupcakefairy) because I feel like it bores people. I may bore people in general but i feel compelled to throw everything out there in case someone is starving for a kind of truth they might happen to find through me or something.

and i may as well put my poems and myself out there. poetry is always there for me but we don't hang out that often because of personal impasses plaguing me at this time. and I don't spend enough time with my words so I'm trying to. poetry is what I went to college for, and it's how I define myself in the career world (insert long visual sequence of fear and poverty and horror here)

I have very many doubts about it but it's important to push on through the doubt.

here is my google if you care to read some of my stuff that's on the internet.
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=Adriana+DiGennaro&btnG=Google+Search

Also,
i'm in an anthology and i recieved it todayCollapse )

here is the full poemCollapse )


I just want to thank everyone who had an interest this journal. It makes me really happy that you're interested in reading poetry, especially mine. i feel so small, and it all feels like an attempt to make a noise above the din of things. It's okay as long as someone's listening.

current mood: contemplative

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