Don’t Be the Bunny

Tags

Easter, NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Month

The Easter Bunny has seen some shit.

Their bones are brittle, like those of a greyhound.

A violent insomniac (hazard of the job)

They lay awake at night 364 nights a year,

Thinking about the putrid pastel plastic egg corpses

Swirling onto the plastic island in the Pacific Ocean.

They worry about the reach of Big Sugar’s sticky fingers,

Reflect on the suicide rates of dentists,

Yet have their reservations about parents

Putting coins instead of candy

On the insides of eggs.

They are absolutely opposed

To those who hide actual eggs.

THERE’S ALWAYS ONE YOU CAN NEVER FIND.

Tonight, they’ll drink vodka and share

War stories with Mr. and Mrs. Claus,

The Tooth Fairy and the other assortment

Of immortal beings who slowly disintegrate

In the imaginations of children.

They disappear earlier and earlier every year.

The Easter Bunny has seen some shit.

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intensate

I pretended to be a criminal, which no one expected.

To me, it was a natural evolution.
I take comfort in hidden corners,
shoplifting pieces of conversation
stuffing them into pockets
and later placing them on my mantle.

I saw the gumshoe
and made off with his magnifying glass,
securing it within my garter.
Ensconced there,
its weight felt appropriate.

This wildcat racket,
more senseless than scandalous…
Wiping my prints as I went,
I left no trace,
not even a smoking gun.

I pretended to be a criminal, which no one expected.

The Circus-less Clown

I.

I’d like to propose a toast
to the boys in high school
who agreed to me applying
their eyeliner before our plays.

I loved every one of you dearly.
I wanted to wrap myself in
each of your costumes
after curtain call.

II.

Here’s to the liquor store
clerk who pretends to look
at my ID when in fact she
just glances. She knows
that bourbon is my vice
and just smiles and nods,
slides the receipt over
the counter for me to sign.

III.

Hedwig—
you were the first piece
of art that helped me
come home to myself.
To this day, I let
my eyeliner linger
in the corners of my eyes
at the end of a long day.

A badge of honor.

A profound reminder
that no one can

tear
me
down.

Someday, Someone

My parents were married at a courthouse.
I’m not sure if there was even a dress,
or a suit, I don’t think any family
attended. By all accounts, it was a
perfunctory affair. They never talked
to me about dating. Or sex.

No one has
ever taught me about these aspects of
relating to other humans in a romantic
way, so my knowledge base is primarily
middle school sex ed delivered in a
Midwestern classroom, paired with tropes
from all the PG and PG-13 rom coms
I borrowed on VHS at my local library.

I
feel
damaged,
like a bird
with a broken wing:
I can still hop around,
but I can’t fly.

The thing I want most in this world
is for someone to see the full brilliance
of my entire being, to see the brilliance
and the scars, and the parts that scare me,
to see all of that and say,
“That’s my person.
That’s who I want to wake up to every morning.
That’s who I want to whisper all my hopes and
fears to, that’s who I want to pack a lunch for
and hold hands with and tell them,

‘You are exactly who you were meant to be
and I will love you just as you are
until my lungs can no longer take
another breath.’”

I clutch this dream of my someone tightly,
hiding it under my pillow at night.

Someday, I keep telling myself.

Someday, they will find me.

Only Her Hairs Remained

Somber seascape
clawing at the cliffs
of a lost love:
shadow of a
chocolate lab
who once was
(partially) yours.

Her saliva-filled kisses
a balm strong enough
to heal any injury.

There is no love like a dog’s love.

You will comb
ten thousand beaches
before you find
the bone
she once buried,
and use it
to summon her
back to your heart.

Cigarettes & Candy

When we were kids
we used to have contests
to see who could keep a
candy cigarette going
the longest.

We’d puff
elegantly, pretending
to be James Dean or
Marlene Dietrich. We
wanted to be more
sinister and cunning
than we actually were.

In the aisles of the
Ben Franklin arts
and crafts store, we
reigned like bloated
tyrants with our
allowance money.

(In those days, dignity only cost 75 cents.)

We were never more ourselves
then when were were seven:

listening to the cellophane
crinkle as we rolled the
package of candy cigarettes
into the sleeves of our
thrift store t-shirts.

Ellis Bell

I saw you standing there,
six foot two
glorious sideburns
swagger that you
didn’t know you had.

And I couldn’t decide
if I wanted to fuck you
or be you.

I turned the question
over and over
perpetual motion:
two sides of a slick coin
hidden in my corduroy pocket.

You are a wicked saint.

One to which I would gladly
bow down and pay obeisance.
I would wash your feet
with my hair,
if it were only
long enough.

I imagine you whispering
things sacred and profane
as my lips quiver,
yearning to crunch
the wafer of your body
drink the wine of your blood.

Instead,
I will keep you
at arm’s length,
praying to you
intermittently.

It is unwise to touch a saint.

From the archives: 9/3/2006

 

swinging on a broken hinge
you find me
singing of flavors long since tasted
erased in
the hollowness
of an empty passageway.

echoing memories
bounce off the hardness
of oak paneling
the rich sweetness of wood—
intoxicating

come in,
enter,
you are welcome here

Charcoal & Chiclets

2016 was a samovar filled with
indifference, intolerance and
a myriad of other self-boiling
elements that took us far away
from tranquility.

Unbeknownst to us, palpable walls
began to rise at a preternatural rate,
built of pepper and spite.

A mouth cannot make
another mouth
understand
if it is
intertwined with
brazen privilege.

Listen: we may tempted
to dump Benzodiazepine
into the waters of 2017.
Rewiring our brains.
Sedating us.

Or seek to terraform Mars,
creating a peace-filled
escape hatch, 54.6 million
kilometers away.

Here’s hoping we instead
have the prescience
to envision a better year.

To live it with zeal and grace.
Choosing gemütlich over schadenfreude.

2016 is done.

In 2017, new work begins.

 

Casting Directors

After G.P.

 

I was in an acting class
where the teacher had us
perform an exercise:

we were to
consider each classmate
and write what “type”
we thought they were.

4 people wrote down “mob boss’ wife,”
2 wrote down “alien queen”
and not one person wrote down

Hamlet.