The Subtle Suitor

you lean over the boat's metal railing
and vomit the day's stale meal, canned

cherries, pickled oranges, the salmon
from another country, as you are distracted

I cut off your braid (a souvenir) then
offer you my elbow for support

we shuffle back to your cabin, you wiping
your mouth with your pink silk sleeve

as you recline on velvet pillows, I offer you
more brandy, this time I promise

the flames will not go out, fever sweat
coats your upper lip, I unbutton your shoes,

your skin grays like the sun, your eyelashes
lick upward, settle

what kind of woman lies so easily, I ask myself
your gold rings cold, small as bird hearts, in my palm

Her Water, Breaking

     phlegm, icor and
            sugar

    thick waves of chocolate and gasoline

                and electricity streams
        from my tongue to your thumb

above our raft of cotton sponges,  trees on their heads,
        roots swirling,
passing, cracking, shivering,
            shedding earth and worms

        silver spoons and knives caught
            in root joints, a squirrel skull

the little animals killed
        and lied about

    a velvet speculum
        old wooden machines, still grinding underwater

            the blue ribbons
        our mother stole and tied to twigs
                outside her abbey

            in the heat,
        our hair rises like wings

                a doll's table
    set with glitter and flames,
                turning, dipping

your ivory handcuffs, scrimmed
        with our mother's lost recipes

silk surgeon's scrubs
cinnamon scalpel

        built for our bodies

I made this for a friend's birthday party, today! I had to work really fast. Hopefully the paint will dry by the time I give it to her.

The Dance

alone on stage
except for the music,
a man in the shape of a boat,
in the shape of lava rippling
down the mountain, slow, lardish,
white as regret, we watch

because it's weird, because it's
nothing we've ever seen before
except maybe in medical textbooks

a handful of walnuts in each portion
of drooping skin, in each flap like
the flaps of a shark's gills, a whale's
gills, and he's a white whale of man

thighs, calves swollen into the shape
of rough buckets, the texture of lard,
the color of lard, the lard kept

next to the kitchen sink in a rusty coffee
can, lard spooned out to fry chicken, steak,
then scraped back into the coffee can after
the lard has hardened into its soft white
shape, dunes of it slapped against the side
of the pan like sand dunes, like it was built
by waves beating against the force of it,
the heft of it, and the flaps hanging

off the fat man ripple in waves,
and then he stops dancing and he picks
his dress up off the floor, and it's enormous,
the biggest one we've ever seen, green
as the earth in paintings, as the noon sky before

a storm, and he's fitting it over
his enormous arms, and he pulls it
down over his shoulders bulging
with soft fistfuls of fat, and the hem
falls softly like a sigh to his ankles,
and we see it has sparkles everywhere,
it's like the fucking stars on fire

Today I went jogging again and I still ache from it but I had the entirely joyful experience of reaching the nearby sculpture garden when I ran and seeing some really hot artists (I'm sorry, they were good-looking, I can't help it) work on finishing their sculptures for the big opening this weekend. One particularly GQ looking guy with a goofy grin was packing the earth around his wooden structure, which was kind of like a smashed house, and a mocking bird perched directly above him and sang all the songs of all the other birds. I tried to get closer to hear better but the bird flew away. However, as I left the park, the bird followed me and perched on a telephone pole and started the whole cycle of songs again, and even included the noises of crickets, which was quite cool, as I haven't heard a bird do that before.

Also, I heard Philip Levine read. His work was ab -fab. I didn't think I liked him before, but I definitely do now. I got to see him because my lovely friend Whitney with the beautiful hair that falls in her eyes got an invitation and invited me. We agreed that Philip was wonderful but disagreed about the fiction writer, who will go unnamed but who makes boring female characters with no real emotions.

One of the most interesting things about the reading was that the audience was comprised almost entirely of aliens -- excepting myself and my friend. They were older white people, the likes of which I had never seen before. They were all dressed the same, they all had the same body language, and I'm sure they were all semi-famous writers who were quite satisfied with themselves and their lovely work about men and women who are just too numb to feel, dammit, and who display their inability to feel in silence and thoughts about the light or street in front of their houses. They were frumpy in a rich way, and occasionally exchanged piercing looks. They moved slowly but significantly.

I think I will never end up that way, but I might end up in a roomful of "them" someday.

Driving with the Top Down

You're touching my waist, my hips, but it's not you,
it's the guy who looks like you and we're climbing

the stairs between rooms of warm pink light, complicated
wallpaper and soft, soft gray couches.  One of my

friends -- the long-haired one with hand tattoos --
is trying to teach us guitar, but we can only watch

each other's lips and tongues.  Your words have a
feel, they feel like felt or a wool skirt and everything

is just a little too hot so I take off my skirt and I'm
wearing my knee socks pulled all the way

up and some high-heeled boots which catch on
the rug while we leave the noisy warm room with

its guitar music and lacy pink drapes, but you catch
my hand, you grab me by the elbow and haul me

up and you say, next time, I'm driving.

Swimming Lessons


We went down
to the grey river that
runs through
the middle of the city
and I decided to take
all my clothes off
and go for a swim.

We had to climb
down a chainlink fence
and over some rocks
and push a baby
stroller and toilet
seat out of the way.

The police came
while he was trying
to follow me
into the river.
He had his shirt off
and he hadn't shaved
for three days,
so they were sure
he was a terrorist
or at least some kind
of marginal street capitalist
with too many parking tickets.

When I pulled myself
out of the water,
my teeth were chattering
like ice in a glass,
clink, clink,
and I had to comb
a condom out of
my hair. I was
mad he left me
alone like that
and I haven't seen
him since, though
sometimes he sends
me letters and asks
me why I won't come
visit him in jail.

Sunday Night And

I imagined that you
would be sucking my
toes by now, but I'm
alone with my cat
who just stinks
and puts more stink
in the corner,
and I think about the hour
I spent sitting on
the edge of the bathtub
trimming my toenails
and painting them
with that new
cheap polish that
I got at the drugstore
where they always
look at me funny,
like I'm going to steal
a Mother's Day Card
or a Birthday Card
or a bottle of pills, and
my toenails sparkle
like flaming batons
as I wave my foot in time
to the music of the TV
commercial and
isn't it funny
how a room can
seem so empty
even when there's
so many things in it.

Year 12

A yellow wall full of framed photos. In the center
frame, a pair of scissors. Underneath the framed
scissors, a row of three carving knives with neon
green plastic handles. Underneath that, to the
right: a smiling, plump woman with short gray
hair holds up a very large triangular knife. She
holds the knife in a fist raised above her shoulder.
To the left: a simple serrated blade with a wooden
handle on a dark blue background. Next to
that , a small pair of pinking shears, ornately
framed, a cherub dancing at each corner.

Dating a Drunk


    the perpetual present tense and lists
kissing an ashtray
    kissing a gin bottle
inserting a wet thumb into his neck,
its neck, getting stuck at the knuckle

        give up
            the idea of a cure,
the talking cure, the wincing cure,
the cure of rose bushes and long thorns
used for whipping, cold water, then hot

think of the physics, suction, vacuum,
gravity         blood flow
spills necessarily climb up the headboard

small bodies are drawn
to large bodies of water      
        thirsty around midnight you open his
cupboards while he's sleeping, the spigot stuck

the cupboards of his lungs
a wheeze of old lacquer and small slow beetles
something knocking irregularly
                       against the back wall

at 2am you take out his organs,
try to clean them with paper towels
          they curl and sigh in your  palms

the different shapes that glass can take:
shards,      shots,       windows,       globes,       cups,      pints,
bottles,  the different shapes this argument can take

the old accident, the spine knocked along the concrete
motorcycle treads along his scalp  

weaving feelers in the air, saturated  
    shoes on the wrong feet or in the wrong century

lips like a sloppy fist but still you
push      less resistance to your fists

I'm not in this week,
    he says as he looks at himself
in the mirror of your face, leave a message

you can smell him from the next room

the lights multiply and shout     you enter his skin
            through the cracks in his armpits
    the color of bronze paint, dirty dishwater, hotel room carpets

drowned ship
        full of old pocket knives, costume jewelry,  
full of diet coke and whiskey,   sour

Landscape at Night with Bed and Fire

Hair caught on my tongue, I sing into
your ear, my lips so quiet, so close,

they are signing with my breath the language
under kneecaps, under ribs, under fingernails.

The room shudders, a bedful of red snakes;
the room stills, a bedful of drowned plates.

Low murmurs from our palms, as if we
had throats in our wrists, and you drift towards

the ceiling, splayed, smoky, while the curtains
flutter and blacken, break into iridescent

loose sparks, spill out our window onto the dead
in lines out on the lawn, waiting to enter.

Evidence of The Divine


the way a woman's hair feels
when it hangs over the seat
in front of you on the bus

the way the leaves taste
when you lean over the fence
of your neighbor's garden
and steal from the mint bush

the first time you see a girl's
naked calves on the subway
this spring

the way you can
tell your lover's dancing
in the other room when the door's closed,
the way the light shifts in patches: dark then bright

Obscenity: a User’s Manual

    A blue gap-toothed comb.

My patent
    leather heels, dark and vicious as mirrors.

Cabbage roses, faded, stretched.
    The hem unraveling.

        I attach
            the leather cuffs reeking  of
    saddles and silverware to my bed posts.

After dark, the women with hands
        tucked into short fur coats
clack up and down the street.  They
    carry the reflected light of neon
in their hair.  It is your job, he says, to envy them.

    In the store, the women’s faces
        behind the counter.   Very pale,
        attempting to smile.  Often they
are busy in one corner
            holding an instrument
    and explaining its use to a customer.

There might be a key somewhere.  If
    there is, I swallow it.

Stuttering, whispering.  A small start when
    the bell on the shop door tinkles.

        I stuff
    the contraption in the bottom
            of my closet.  It has a stinging
                        smell, like a lemon
    rind held too close to your nose.

A spot on the center
    of the chair cushion.

A tug on my earlobe with his teeth.

A row of recently cleaned slippers
        by the bed.

The way he wants me to
    talk while we’re at it,
    to tell him things that happen on fishing ships
when the men have been
        at sea a long time.

The fishscales,  I say,
        get caught in their beards.

        A cup of old coffee,
    reheated, red letters on the rim.

Things that Give a Queasy Feeling

        meatloaf

    ants on the shoulders of coats

men walking closely behind me

    the wet spot

        tangled hair on strangers

cherubim on postcards

    women laughing as I enter the room

        the smell of
            public bathrooms

videos of white children at parties

    waking up with a dry mouth

        bumping into pregnant women

climbing four flights of stairs in a narrow stairwell

        algae stuck between my toes when swimming in a lake

    frozen strawberry drinks

    the taste of vodka on someone else’s tongue

accidentally squashing a roach as I slip on my shoe

    the smell of the monkey house at the zoo

            the color yellow

a sink full of wet silverware

    a pile of old mattresses on the curb

                day old sushi

the crash of one car hitting another

    too many antihistamines

        the sound of
        a bottle breaking outside my window

sucking someone's fingers and getting a distinct and salty taste

        the sound of my cat retching

    a nurse
        missing my vein twice

a CD stuck on the same three notes, over and over again

an old woman smiling with gummy teeth

How to be Hit

forget there's another person in the room,
forget there's a room

turn into a naked animal
in the desert outside Jerusalem,
outside Las Vegas, in the flower
bed outside your mother's house

feel your skin burn as if
you lie under boiling water
in an old pink bathtub

forget how to open your eyes,
how to use your tongue, hear
someone breathing louder, louder

hear your mother yelling
somewhere downstairs,
calling you for pancakes
though she's been dead for a decade

be five years old, curled in the dirt
under your favorite swimming pool,
be ten years old, beaned in the face
with a fastball and knocked to the grass,

stare at the sun without your glasses
and don't blink, even as the pain
reaches through your retina to your brain stem,
even as the sky goes black

Color Theory for Beginners

let us start with the shade of Beth,
which some might call
blue, some ochre

she has shins that shine
even in daylight,
even in the yellow grass
as she shuffles the ball
to the other girls during field hockey,
even as she shouts and shows
her crooked teeth, her dark small
tongue that darts a little strangely
to the corner of her lips
when she thinks no one's peeking

she has short hair that ruffles
against the palms of teammates,
of impulsive teachers,
that blends into the sky when she leaps,
that is almost pink,
almost blonde

and no one can tell
the color of her eyes
as she squints against the sun
and shades her face with her hand,
her face deep pink, fierce,
full of some kind of light
(both particular and waving)
bent then bent again, refracted,
until it forms an incandescent,
truant hue
____________________

I apologize to everyone who's been patiently waiting for another post, or a reply to his/her lovely comment, but I have been backlogged/overwhelmed/sunk/busy/etc.

I'll try to be better. Please don't leave me.

Monsoon Season

the way the night air
suddenly turns thick like milk
spoiling, rain everywhere
at once, hot wind in the dark,
water washing warm through
the palm fronds, water creeping
in under the front door,
all the towels soaked, knotted
into fists, pushed against the windows

upstairs, something falls over,
we can't hear our own dialogue
but someone may be singing outside,
we don't know where the dogs went,
one cat crouches next to the stove,
lifting her paws, disgusted by the wet,
your hand on my shoulder,
damp through the cloth,
your mouth near my ear

no one can hear us,
our shoes overflowing with mud,
with roots, the window
in the hall flings open
with a roar

I can't find the edge of your skin
or this wall, but I feel
your lashes against my palm,
wet as grass, close as a wave
knocking me over, taking my breath

How to Take Urines

Melissa says you have to stand outside the bathroom stall with the door open, sometimes you have to hold the door open, pressing high up on the chipped pink metal, because they often swing closed on their own. Some of the stalls have strips of torn fabric or pieces of clothesline to fasten around the corner of the door and keep it open. Then you try not to look at their faces and just watch what they're doing with their hands, make sure they're not pouring in anything from their pockets or underwear. Usually you don't have to talk. Sometimes they'll say something, but you don't have to respond.

I'm doing some poetry readings shortly that you might be interested in. I just got written up in Time Out NY for the Poetry Brothel: http://www.timeout.com/newyork/articles/museums-culture/27440/vice-verse

But I'm not going to do that character again -- this time I'm going to be a bad secretary, not a dead hooker.

Hope you can make one or the other. I need to put you on the guest list if you want to go to the reading on the 18th in Williamsburg, so email me and I'll give you the address and send the curator of the series a note.

March 13th
The Poetry Brothel will be performing once again at the Jonathan Shorr Gallery (109 Crosby St. @ Prince) on Thursday, March 13th from 6pm to Midnight. Come hear Dottie Lasky, who's coming in from Philly, read with her troop of dancing harlots performing alongside, and, of course, enjoy all our poetic temptresses in private readings as per usual. Don't forget the blackjack, tarot readings (by our Poet Prophet Robert Cunningham), The Baby Soda Jazz Band will be performing, and Anthony Zito will be doing live painting. Also, keep an eye out for Edgar Allan Poe; word on the street is he may be paying us a visit this month.

March 18th
writers salon march 18th 7:30 pm
three fabulous poets for a night of fun and frolick
four bucks donation
7:30 pls try to be on time will start at eight promptly!

and theres an open mike with a three min limit pls bring something to read....thats part of the fun

Here's something about the readers:



CHRISTINE HAMM is a PhD candidate in English Literature at Drew University, where she was awarded a Caspersen Scholarship for Academic Promise. In 2007, she was a runner up to Queens' Poet Laureate. Her poetry has been published in The Adirondack Review, Pebble Lake Review, Horseless Press, Lodestar Quarterly, Blue Fifth Review, Poetry Midwest, MiPoesias, Rattle, Snow Monkey and Exquisite Corpse, among others. She has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, and once for "The Best of the Web". Her book of poems, The Transparent Dinner, was published by Mayapple Press in October '06. Christine is on the editorial board of several literary journals, including Vernacular. She teaches English at Rutgers University and poetry writing at Women's Studio Center in Queens, NY. She has three chapbooks, Children Having Trouble with Meat, published by MiPoesias, The Animal Husband, published by Dancing Girl Press, and The Salt Daughter, by Little Poem Press.

Mary Donnelly was born in San Pedro, CA and received an MFA from the Bennington Writing Seminars. Her work has appeared in The Brooklyn Rail, Crowd, The Hat, Hunger Mountain, Indiana Review, and The Iowa Review. She is Poetry Editor for the online journal failbetter and Co-director of the "Reading Between A and B" series. She lives in Brooklyn and teaches through Gotham Writers' Workshop.

Marty McConnell
Marty McConnell transplanted herself from Chicago to New York City in 1999 to pursue her MFA in creative writing/poetry from Sarah Lawrence College . In addition to completing three national tours with the Morrigan, an all-female performance poetry troupe she co-founded, she competed in the 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003 and 2006 National Poetry Slams with team NYC/louderARTS and appeared on the second and fifth seasons of HBO's Def Poetry Jam.

Also, a gratuitous glam photo:


courtesy of Matthew David Powell

the 6th time

you burned yourself on my lips
flaming coffee pots at 8am
elevator music outside the hospital
bits of toilet paper trapped in trees

it starts to rain
no one curses, lifts an umbrella
flaps a newspaper over his head

the stop lights continue
red light, green
bus left running with the keys in the ignition

garbage pails overflow
with plastic bags, half-eaten
tacos, dirty coats
the sound of something rippling,
snapping, the sound of wind

the sidewalk speckles then darkens
no one sidesteps puddles
no one watches the rain shattering
the clouds on the street
rings within rings
water breaking, regrouping

Christmas presents left out on the curb
in case someone wants them
before the water soaks through