My Father Entering Me

Most successful poems
are about the ocean,
but he stands
between me and the sea
a huge, invisible shadow
that chills

And make me turn back
without thinking
zipping up my jacket
and kicking a coke can
as if it were my own idea,
As if I had a choice.

Everything all at once again

Neon. (again)
low riders to suicide to orgasm to manicures with sunflowers to biting and kissing to L'Oreal Blond number 9A
to double piercing my left ear to being in love with Vick to how cute the grey kittens to being in love with Rick to what kind of beer feels best for puking to the shine on the knife that night to bruises from the sidewalk to which green for my eyes to much ado too much
too much

Grammar

What is this thing called protocol?
What is the protocol for things.
These things have taken over.
They mill about
behind my back
and freeze
when I re-enter the room.

This fork, chair and
Nintendo game whisper
when the light is out,
catalyze strange chemical
reactions that result
in time lapses,
dream-like waking states,
and phone calls at 3am.

At the other end
there is only static.
Always at the end,
static.

The Wig

Once it's on,
its tentacles are in you
forever.

You must wear it neatly
every day.

No use pretending,
as with the myth of parental love
that we can just forget about
yesterday,
the blood,
that spasm and fist.

With the wig,
once they see the real you,
it can never be the same.

Middle-aged woman screaming at Faith
in the Hotel Lobby

Faith, get over here!
I said come here!
What do you think you're doing?
Don't you listen?
When I say come,
you come!

The Man with the Mile Wide Penis

Like Joan of Arc,
at age ten,
an Angel came down and gave him
a sword.

He was 12 when the first woman fainted
at the sight of him.

God has decreed he should share his gift,
but there are too many women
and not enough time.

With great power
comes
great responsibility.

It haunts him.
Sometimes he curses it, and weeps.
He wakes to find his sheets destroyed.
Sometimes they don't wait until he's asleep.

Women creep into the house.
His lock has been picked so many times
it hangs open, slack
like the legs of a virgin in his path.

He puts his pants on
one leg at a time
it just takes him longer.

Boy on the subway

Shaved head,
no shirt.
Dirt everywhere.
Black cut-offs suspended with dog chains.
His sneakered toes point delicately together,
like a ballerina poses when she is day dreaming.
He rocks.
He could be high.
He is probably 16.
He's definitely homeless.
He is the left handed side of the city,
bastard, squirming and hungry--
the Bed-stuy of the soul.
He is writing, endlessly.
Watches us all.

Bookstore

I always end up here.
Surrounded by people with similiar glasses.
Dizzy and vaguely frantic with the heat.
Considering and discarding,
like broken lovers,
or broken love.
I get a green feeling
behind my navel,
somewhere between nausea
and hunger.
My fingernails break.
My teeth crumble.
I fantasize continually about salad.
It happens every time.

Crazy boyfriend

I woke up one morning and Micheal was gone.
A stranger had moved into his head.
This trembling white mass of flesh
sat up next to me in bed,
rolled its eyes and said in a voice
I didn't recognize
that he was leaving for work.
I saw it wasn't Mike.
I didn't know what to say.
After he left, I called the police.
They told me to take him to the hospital.
Maybe to remove the new guy from his brain.
The day before,
I had told Michael to meet me for lunch
in Washington Square Park.
I don't know if he heard me.
He'd been really busy lately.
Writing stuff all night long, lists I didn't
quite understand.
And now this.
So the new guy did show up with Michael's body
at the right time for lunch.
I got him to come with me to the hospital.
It wasn't very easy.
I only hit him once.
He tried to touch me.
I don't let strangers touch me.
When he got out of the hospital,
he slept most of the time.
His hands and faced twitched
when he slept.
I watched him sleep alot.
There wasn't much else to do.

Okay, trying to work on the drafts of poems. So you will see.

My September 11th poem.

Last night, right before I fell asleep, me and the boyfriend started talking about September 11, and how the anniversary is coming up. I started remembering how I was being abused by my (now ex)boyfriend at that point -- I always connect the terrorist attack with my own private terrorist -- and it was getting pretty flashbacky.

But then we moved on to more pleasant topics. Such as how I was going to force the (now current) boyfriend to visit me in upstate NY when I move up there to finish my Ph.D. in English. Drugging, Kidnapping, Bribing, were all explored. In, of course, totally non-threatening ways.

So then I fell asleep and I dreamt that I was living in a homeless shelter for teenage girls in California. All the girls felt compelled to prostitute themselves in the most dangerous areas. Then the girls ended up being stabbed and sent to the hospital. Or just plain killed. The men the girls met lived under bridges, and carried knives, broken mirrors, and sharpened metal sticks to hurt the girls. In the dream I kept trying to counsel the girls so that they would prostitute themselves in safer ways; it didn't even occur to me to tell them to stop. Then I was woken up by a woman screaming, "No, NO! STOP!" and sobbing. I couldn't find the source of the screaming; it was very faint. I got dressed to get ready to go outside to find the woman, and call the police. But the noise kept stopping. I put my ear to this wall and that, and leaned out the window. Eventually I realized that I had imagined it, that sometimes the wind and the rain and the busses outside sounded vaguely like a scream. As soon as I tried to fall asleep, I would hear it again.

Did I mention how much I am looking forward to September 11? I nearly died on September 19, from something related.

Ugh. Hmm. words escape.

Somebody actually likes the poem below, which I find amazing. I also just found out that "Amorous Morsels" and "Spring", which are on my poetry page, got accepted for money! My first cash for poems. I am happy, thusly.

The Cul de sac Angel

with wings made of safety pins,
used tampons and bottlecaps,
softly swoops down
and kisses the place under
the left breast
of all the middle-aged single women
in Ohio
whose bras are too tight, who
get a little sore
spot right there,
on the fragile skin
over the heart --
every night before each
of those women
takes her last breath
before dreaming
of kisses she'll never have,
or had but never wanted,
she feels a tingle
right there --
like the start of a heart attack
or the glowing thumbprint of a saint
or how a thumbprint might feel
if a saint were to touch her
or anyone
to touch her:
Anyone who wasn't
coolly shaking
her hand
goodbye.

Yes, yes, yes!

I now have one of those cool trendy things. All the other kids have them. They must be necessary, I mean vital. Now. You. Can. Link. to me. with an. image.



Just right click on this image and copy the html and paste. Wella! As they say where they can't spell French.

That's a bit from a painting I made a few years ago, when I was in my Egon Scheile phase.

Ru Paul has a weblog. And if you send him a song about your favorite food, he'll post it there.

And this is my plan for teaching poetry!

My philosophy of teaching poetry, or what will happen in this class.

This is a class for poets at all levels.

First of all, there will be reading of other poets. And then there will be writing. Lots of both. I will bring in poems that I have found to be a catalyst for my own writing, in both style and content. I want people to forget about what they think a poem should be, and how it should sound or look. My philosophy is “make it new”. (Yes, Ezra Pound said that first.) I will focus on helping students create original and genuine language and ideas. I want each student, by the end of the class, to have her own unique definition of what makes a poem. Each meeting, I will assign three students to bring in their own poems and have them discussed. Students may tell the class how much criticism they want, and how comfortable they feel with certain kinds of critique. The class should feel safe enough so that each student can try something new and not be afraid of the class’s reaction. Don’t worry about what your mother would think or what is politically correct. I encourage to students to write about what moves them deeply, what makes them cry and then makes them feel silly. If students like, they can give me other poems in excess of what is assigned and I will critique them and bring them back the following week. I encourage all students to try new things, to write about things that scare them. And... I have a personal bias against rhyme.

Also, no sex between students unless I'm involved.

Okay, the last bit won't go in the catalogue.

I am teaching a poetry class, teaching a poetry class,

teaching a poetry class!

(Sung to the tune of "closer" by NIN, or "Mary Had a Little Lamb", depending on your preference.) It starts October 6th, which is a Sunday. And runs for 8 weeks. It costs $180, unless you're a member of the Women's Studio Center, in which case it costs less. It will be held in the Women's Studio Center, which is walking distance from Queen's Plaza/Queensboro Plaza in LIC. First stop in Queens From Manhattan on the N, etc. And it will be lots of fun, even though no men are allowed, because it's the women's studio..., so you cannot expect to pick up cute guys there, but, if you're gay or bi, you might get lucky. No guarantees.

Okay, that was an embarassing bit of hero worship. But I'm fine now. No more with the squealing.

I just got this email:

"hey christine,

saw your writing on the web, think it's fucking amazing. was wondering if
you'd like to submit some writing to my ezine digitalhammer.com? we only
have a few interviews up right now, moe tucker, anya janssen (her art is up
too), tod a., maggie dubris‹diamanda galas is set to go up soon. also a slew
of writing should be going up when joe (the webmaster) has time, very cool
stuff. i would be honored if you'd be a part of it.

picking my teeth with the tongues of the wicked,

trish warden"

And I started screaming and nearly fainted.

Do you know who Trish Warden is?

Only Just About My Favorite Poet In the Whole World.

I read her book "Attack God Inside" so many times it's completely trashed. Most of her stuff is out of print, and I've spent hours looking for her other book, "brainlift" in all the used book stores in NYC. "Attack God Inside" has been a major inspiration for me, and was one of the things I read constantly when I really started writing poetry seriously about two years ago.

I've been horribly sick today and had to crawl home from work, and the excitement from this is making me worse!

The life of the blindness De Hysterical

My is full of the pain.
Those could have been a choice. They
are not absolutely
safe -- broad sveglisi to the patient to the morning,
nauseated from the whole light. My feet,
which go the mattress for giving the Plasterung forwards to suffering
that, which shoots in any place.
It could have been hipocondriaco.
I must ask
mine doctor, but
it stopped,
over of my calls to send back
the last month.
It said that it reached too much
intensively to us,
this whole spirit and exchange of the physical liquids.
Which had for látex.
Task, which shows a fear before segretezza.
We have the all day we were only twice kissed, those together.
In which case hour more rueber.
It does not renew my regulation for codeina.
And lasci with this jaqueca I and artificially
an inflation behind my the left ear.
My skin, sums at the times, during my Eidotter barretta.
They are sure that it is for the
safe code category
of the paralysis premonitory.
And the light, ah, the light! Escalda my eyes.
It constantly forms rasgón it. That cannot be normal.
Dígame, this cannot be normal.

Magic Trick

sometimes
when you fuck me
I disappear.

you touch my spine
and I become your fingerprint.

you hurt me
I become your teeth marks.

you bend me over the sofa,
and I become
a pink
neon
circle,
blinking,
blinking
on a
Tuesday night,
the last day of July.

The Reading this weekend in Astoria Park was cancelled. Twice. Saturday it was rescheduled to Sunday, and Sunday I didn't get the cancellation notice until after I had wandered around the park for twenty minutes like a dork. I was pissed, but it turns out that the woman organizing it didn't have my correct phone number, etc. Me and the boyfriend did not fight at all this weekend, which was sort of a choice on my part, but made my life boring. Instead of fighting I had to go rent movies, and they went near as emotionally moving as the real thing.

Sounds like I need a life, huh?
I'm all stressed out about the promotion -- so many new responsibilities, so much area to fuck up. Arrgh. I can't take a "sleep day" like a did in the past when I felt overwhelmed.

You know, I might be a little slow, but I just realized that I should probably not be posting certain information under my real name. Because then just about anybody could connect the dots.And I think I'm in trouble. The internet used to be such a small, anonymous place, nobody knew anybody, nobody cared, and NOBODY DID SEARCHES USING MY NAME. Which has been happening about three times a day. It makes me a little uneasy, ya know?

Anyway, I was offered the position right near my apartment, but I also think they're going to promote to my (ex-) bosses position at work, which would be muy caliente. I'm going to find out the details tomorrow. Monday so sucked, and today so rocks. It's like my life is a coin that keeps flipping back and forth, or to be more psychedelic, it's like through the looking glass, Alice.

I love how I can just change history by deleting blog posts. What breakup?

Okay, the last three search requests that landed people on my page:

Narcisstic Trickster

Penis Bouquet

and.. Mushrooms Tennessee Tampon!

I wrote a new poem, just this afternoon.

Hysterical Blindness

My life is full of pain.

This could be a choice.
I'm not quite sure -- I wake up sick
in the morning, nauseated by all the light.
My feet leaving the mattress
for the floor gives me shooting pains
somewhere.
I could be a hypochondriac.
I'll have to ask my doctor,
but she stopped returning my calls last month.

She said it was getting too intense
between us,
all that blood and exchange of bodily fluids.
She had a thing for latex.
I think that shows a fear of intimacy.
We only kissed twice the whole time
we were together.
Anyway, it's over now.
She won't even renew my prescription
for codeine.

And I'm left with this migraine
and an unnatural swelling behind my left ear.
My skin, it tingles
sometimes, along my fingertips.
I'm sure it's the precursor
to some sort of paralysis.

And the light, ah,
the light!
It scalds my eyes.
Makes them tear constantly.
This can't be normal.
Tell me, this can't be
normal.

Notice how much I'm writing again? I wasn't writing so much in the past couple weeks, was I? You know why? Cause I was happy, dammit!

Without anybody telling you what to do at the end.

Kind'a like a cross between confession and phone sex.

I could just blog all day long. It's so soothing.

Found two really good blogs, through Andy, of course: Uffish, and gregunderwater.

I also thought I was like the daughter, Tabitha, on Bewitched, and I kept twitching my nose, hoping things would change.

When I was little girl, I used to think I was Charlie Brown. It seemed like fate was always against me. I was a happy child, you can tell.

Plus, I'm pretty sure I didn't get that job that's two blocks away from me. Sigh.

I dreamed last night that I had super-powers, and I had to keep fighting this evil force that was threatening everyone. I had to put my hands together in front of my chest and squinch my eyes really hard and a silver ball would appear and shatter on the bad guy, weakening him. I was a guest or distant cousin to this really nice, church going black family. I had to keep protecting them from the evil. All this happened at my grandmother's house in Saratoga. I had very long, strong fingernails. I worried a lot about whether or not I was a racist, and if the polar ice was melting.

Next Job Interview at 1pm. I've just given up on going to work this week. Think they'll notice?

This is just so wrong. But I couldn't stop laughing. Plus I'm hoping to buy some big glass vases...

Next job interview at T-minus 180 minutes.

Consider the nectarines of the field. They toil not...

i'm doing a reading in Astoria Park on the 17th.

So he forgot.

Must think about nectarines. Nectarines are the best thing in the world. Not only are they beautiful and sunset colored, but they combine the best tastes of a lemon and a peach. Plus they dribble all over you and make a mess. I like messy foods. Food that demands a lot of attention, and makes you laugh awkwardly.

Have two new job interviews Thursday and Friday. In case the nun takes a closer look at me and gets the willies. But the Catholic job would be fun. And not just because my commute would be two blocks of walking. That very fact thrills and astounds.

This is kinda' embarrassing and yuppie, and so counter to my usual counter-culture self, but it's a big deal to me, so I have to announce it -- I joined a gym. And working out is, like, fun, dude. Except for the part where the walls are covered with mirrors so I have to gaze at my puffy, pasty self. But it's fun to think that I'm actually doing something about my horrible body image, since I don't have the cash for plastic surgery. Also, surgery hurts, I've been told. More than just a tattoo.

I saw Yes, or was it some contemporary offshoot, in San Francisco 20 years ago. I remember the opening act, some guy in a black body suit who juggled lights, better than I remember the music. I fell asleep during the concert. I fall asleep during most concerts. Really loud, ear drum shattering rock music has a way of lulling me to sleep. It must sound like my mother’s heart beat. Not that she’d ever admit it. I slept through Peter Gabriel, Talking Heads, Blue Oyster Cult, Grateful Dead, to name a few. I was a real wild teenager. Sleepy, tho.

Because Ladies’ Choice is a bunch of losers, they will not be playing at the Remote Lounge any time soon, like a I promised my friends. However, the owner/events manager at the remote, Matt Somebody or Other, wants me to bring in my portfolio of paintings, so he can start to display them. I believe they’re going to be part of a video display they run on all those hundreds of “Man Who Fell to Earth” TV sets.

I’ve been writing a lot of drafts of poems, nothing too great, although I might post something called “The Guest” up here soon. All my poems seem to be sprouting weird subtexts lately. The Guest keeps trying to be about death, when that’s not what I meant at all.

Looks like I’ll get a job working for a nun. As a social work supervisor. It’s a much more stable place, the director is actually a social worker, and has been there for five years. At my current job, no one has lasted more than 2. My boss-that-I-hate has been there 9 months. I’ve been so bitchy to him lately that he’s gotten less lovey-dovey and more nasty. Eeh. Every time I speak to him, I end my sentences in my mind with, “and you can kiss my ass.” I don’t think I’m the only one that does this.

Sorry I haven’t written lately, I’ve just been so busy and it’s also been dawning on me that it might be a little self-destructive to be the narrator of my life, rather than the protagonist of it.