I wrote a poem in five minutes

I am in a writing workshop right now that I'm really enjoying. Writing workshops always make me think of the Todd Soldonz film Storytelling. Which is a really effed up film that I adore! There is something so cute and community college-y about sitting in a circle with a bunch of middle-aged women discussing Sandra Cisneros short stories. I love it! I was supposed to write a poem "inspired" by Jimmy Santiago Baca's poem "I Am Offering This Poem." I forgot to do it and wrote this frantically at my desk ten minutes before the meeting.

So here you go.

I have nothing else to give you,
But a tiny one-bedroom house
With a shaded yard
Where your dog can run free and we can sip coffee in the mornings.
The front porch gets the best light,
But the back is quieter.

I can cook you meals.
Nothing that would be featured in Saveur or Food + Wine,
But I’ll buy the best ingredients
I’ll splurge on organic vegetables for you
And I’ll plan the menu for each night while I work during the day.

We can play hooky once a month
And go to the movies on a Tuesday afternoon
And sit in the dark with the retirees and unemployed,
And talk about our future with buttery popcorn and stale boxes of candy.

I will write bad poems about you,
That I will only share after a couple glasses of wine
And even though you might cringe at its earnestness,
You will think of it later and blush.

It’s all I have to give
And I hope it’s enough
But if not
I’ll find more.

Middle School poetry

I started cleaning out my school papers and old journals in the attic today. I found a book of really bad poetry I wrote in middle school. Obviously, I had some serious Sylvia Plath issues going on. I idolized her. I also wanted to be a beatnik in the West Village in the 1950s and wear only black and smoke skinny cigarettes. I guess it's not too late to make these dreams come true, except I really don't like New York. Sorry, youth. Dreams crushed.

"Teen Idol"
Leaning against some plank on the wall
Stiletto boots making my feet throb
Hands folded together on my stomach
Not knowing what to do with themselves
I am so uncomfortable.
Out of the blue
Our eyes meet
Forever it seems
For so long
I grow awkward
Wanting desperately to smile
Eyes aching to turn away but cannot
You always break it first
Moving on to play other girls in the crowd

"Waxing Winsome"
My fascination with fire
Playing with the soft wax
Until my fingers burn
Molding it onto my fingers
Pressing the soft warmth to my lips
Pretending it to be someone else
Shredding it to crumbs
When it is not.

"Self-righteous"
Consume me
I smell like tendrils of a wild bruised blossom
The sisterly song plays
One I am not a part of
Forlornly on the outside edge
Arrogantly proclaiming
I do not care.
The black void of nothingness
And empty emotions
And spineless awakening


"Film Idols"
Everywhere I turn
Black and white beautiful faces
Staring back at me
Only a thin pane of glass
covered with dust
separates us
I want to break the glass
with my clenched fist
Breaking the barrier of time and reality
So what if it cuts my hands
and makes it bleed bright
Red drops of blood
streaked across white tile

"Soapbox"
He's such a poser
she says
Aren't we all
I want to say
All of us sitting around
Pretending to be like
the one next to us
until we forget
who we were in the beginning


"Cliche's reflection"
Underfed
and overstated
Overrated
Tiny trite lines bubble forth
A frothy brown foam
from the mouth
of the one who has spoken
They do not notice
continue to jabber
senselessly
Until it runs down their shirt
and puddles around their shoes
until they choke and heave up
their own self

I miss

That horribly cold Saturday in Canton
The drive there
The disgusting bathroom graffiti in a small-town gas station
The solitude and grace of the numerous antique stalls
How I felt truly comfortable and not cutesy act-y when stopping to admire costume jewelry and Mamie dolls and framed family portraits of strangers
I knew you'd understand, talk me out of impulse extravagances, but give me time to linger
We walked in squares until we got lost
Hot chocolate
Concerns about a friend--advice--duly ignored
It was so bitterly cold
And then--
A discovery of true junk stalls
The stuff dreams are made of
No more glass cases or Art Deco period pieces
Just good, salt-of-the-earth people with garage sale prices
I flirted with the old man to get you a better price on a chrome dinette set
(How many men in the world appreciate a chrome dinette set with mustard yellow upholstery?)
And Jetsons-style glassware
And wooden silverware
It was one of those Vegas-style hot streaks where everything I picked up was amazing and cheap and looked exactly like him and for that reason it was the most beautiful knife and fork I'd ever seen
I had an intoxicating glimpse of domestic life that for once didn't sicken cynical me
The loading of our prizes in your father's suburban
The joy
The adrenaline rush of the shopper's high
The reward of hot fried corn nuggets in a cozy small-town burger joint complete with local FFA kids' pictures on the wall
(Emory Wilson: black AOB steer named grand champion of the 2010 Palo Pinto County Livestock Association’s Junior Livestock Show)
A quiet drive back
Perfectly content
Perhaps wine and a movie that night
Perfect
It was perfect

And

And

And now it's gone.