a new poem still in its embryonic stages--

The Discount Afterlife

The dogs that eat us so sweetly
are telling us they love us the only
way they know how

with their tongues

we are beyond choke chains here
beyond leashes
beyond spilt garbage cans
accidents on Mom's best sofa

beyond chasing a squirrel to the middle
of the street beyond apologies
with tented sensitive brows for biting
the neighbor's boy as he held a tennis ball
just out of reach

beyond standing at their shoulders
as they strain forward we are
underneath now

it is slow this kind of loving
death it is the kind God reserves
for angels

you can see it as they lick their dripping
chins the sentient and caressing tongues
we are their angels

and we taste like presents like the ripping
open of presents to them

________

any and all comments welcomed -- spelling mistakes pointed out, hate mail, insults from PETA, etc.

Here's a draft.

It’s hard to diet.

It’s hard to diet. People are always—

chocolate caramels, bon-bons spattered
with vanilla cream, thin mints striped
with pink--shoved under my nose by
perverse hands.

No one likes to eat alone.
No one wants to leave me alone.

Lasagna haunts my steps, insinuates
itself onto my desk. Everyone congregates
in the lunch room. There the microwave sings
to me, beeps like a chick released from its shell.
Salad glistens with light, my boss curses
each staff meeting with Krispy Kremes.

The girl in the next cubicle talks with her
mouth full, she is loud, excited, full of juju
bees, she throws handfuls over the divider,
I am silent, sweep the sweets from my hair and
keyboard.

The James Dean from the mailroom takes me
to dinner, slices his steak in half, pads it with
butter, and slips it onto the blank plate in front
of me. I am distracted by the crab cakes
and peanut sauce, two tables down.

I decide to end it all. I row into the center
of the river, the swift, gray tumble,
but before I throw myself in I see it --
the water, sizzling with fish.


----
No one has bought a calendar yet, which makes me VERY disappointed in you people. Hmph.

Ivy sent me a very nice postcard. Scary and cool.

Sorry I haven't posted in a while. I've made a very cool calendar out of excerpts from my poems and various fonts. (see below)



If you would like to check it out, go here: www.lulu.com/sharpNpencil

It's great fun; I recommend that everyone make his/her own calendar on lulu. It's free to create, and only 12 bucks a pop to buy.

Today, on my birthday, I am hosting my very first poetry reading at a restaurant in Astoria. I'm very excited/nervous. After all, you only turn 40 once!

Angel of the Morning

Who are you?
You are “husband.”
What is “husband?”

“Husband” is made out of rubberbands
and salt. Husband floats in most bodies
of water, except for Lake Michigan, in
which he sinks. Husband flew to this
country, used a motor boat in the shape
of a swan when his arms got tired.

Husband has feathers for hair, slight
webbing between his fingers and
toes. Husband used to be
something else, something low and
scaley, but husband tried to reform.

Husband has teeth the size of
shoeboxes. When he kisses me
it hurts, a little.

----

I'm not sure about the title. I was also thinking, Swollen Angel. Got a couple rejections this week, one from the New Yorker. I think it's a good sign that now when I get rejected all I think is "great! now I can send these out to another place," rather than, "yes, I do suck ass, you're right."

This is a rather long winded post—

I went to the Lorber/Mesmer reading tonight in Brooklyn and was blown away. It was one of the best readings I’ve ever been too—the crowd was friendly and warm, the readers funny and weird enough to keep your attention, and for a least a few minutes, I was totally absorbed by the work. It’s hard to shut out the noise of the everyday to really listen to poetry (and not listen to the other internal voices: hunger, anxiety, the smell of french fries…) but this stuff really pulled me in. Plus, Brendan dedicated a different poem to each person he knew in the audience, a cool trick. Brendan knows I’m a therapist, so he dedicated a poem to me about camp counselors… who cut off kid’s hands. I’m flattered… I suppose? Sharon Mesmer, although I don’t know her personally, was also really great.

And second, it’s on! Wednesday, December 15th, I am hosting a poetry reading at Cup, Astoria’s hottest new restaurant and hang out spot. It features the fantastical poetic stylings of me, among many others. It starts at 8, and the open mic starts at 9. Contact me ahead of time to sign up to be a scheduled reader, or just show up at 9 for the open mic. Contact me at inktastesbitter@yahoo.com Cup is located right across the street from the American Museum of the Moving Image,35-01 36th St., Astoria,
718-937-2322.

Also, I want to thank Riley Dog for fixing the problems with the poem. I sort of got my knickers in twist over nothing, come to think of it. There’s a war on, for chrissakes. Why am I such a prima donna.

So, in all the excitement of being nominated for a Pushcart, someone decided that they could post parts of my poem without attribution. To you I say:

While I am flattered that you would cut and paste parts of my poem and present them
incorrectly, I must take issue at the fact that you left out my name. Please add my
name. Please. Also, I would prefer that you didn't choose stanzas at random to include. An excerpt is fine, as long as you indicate when a break occurs.

Who's with me?