TRIPTYCH CALIFORM
A Poetry Collection submitted to the faculty of
San Francisco State University
In partial fulfillment of
the requirements for
<2>(,
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the Degree
.T S M
Master of Fine Arts
In
Creative Writing
by
Natasha Dennerstein Tansey
San Francisco, California
Spring 2016
Copyright by
Natasha Dennerstein Tansey
2016
CERTIFICATION OF APPROVAL
I certify that I have read Triptych Caliform by Natasha Dennerstein Tansey, and that
in my opinion this work meets the criteria for approving a thesis submitted in partial
fulfillment of the requirement for the degree Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing
at San Francisco State University.
Associate Professor
Maxine Chemoff
Professor, Head of Creative Writing Department
ABSTRACT
Triptych Caliform is a collection of original poetry, in three parts
with intersecting themes. The three parts, or chapters are entitled:
“Cinema,” “Kink” and “California.”
May 17th, 2016
Professor Andrew %ron, Committee Chair
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
*Peroxide Hitchcock Ice Queen appeared in Fourth Floor, Whitireia journal,
2013.
*Marlene published in Landfall, 2014.
* Help! published in Red Light Lit vol 7, 2015.
*Hella Spiritual was published in a limited edition broadside by Northbeach
Press, SF, 2015.
*Noir and Serial Aileen published in Spoon River Poetry Review, 2016.
*Million Dollar Baby was selected by Quiet Lightning and Radar Publications for
a curated literary reading, February 2016 and published in Sparkle + Blink.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CINEMA
1
Faster, pussycat............................2
Peroxide Hitchcock Ice Queen.......... 17
How on the Silver Screen............3
Vertigo...............................................19
Marlene....................................... 4
Perfectly Groomed, but Disturbed....20
Harlow, shimmer..........................5
O, o, o ...............................................21
Ava: The Barefoot Countess........ 6
Basic Instinct...................................22
Gaslight...................................... 7
Love Me, I’m Fake...........................24
I’m Ready for my Close-up.......10
White Oleander.................................25
Noir...........................................11
Dead Man Walking...........................26
Get Out before I Kill You
12
Glissando.........................................27
Fasten Your Seatbelts................ 14
Running with Scissors.....................28
Butterfield 8.............................15
The Silence of the Lambs................29
The Misfits...............................16.
The Terminator................................30
KINK
31
Mistress..................................32
Slave...................................... 33
It's not a sin.............................34
Citro-o-kleen..........................35
crossdress...............................36
Count Backwards from Ten.. .37
Pinned.................................... 38
Fido....................................... 39
Golden Rain...........................40
Rope...................................... 41
High Arches........................... 42
Latex Ghazal......................... 43
Naughty Schoolgirls..............44
Switch................................... 45
Submissive............................ 46
CALIFORNIA................................ 47
Help!
......................................48
Heart of BARTness...........................50
Flores, Rosas!................................... 52
In this Neighborhood.........................53
House of Sticks................................. 54
Please Pay your Fair Share.................56
Diebenkom, Berkeley, 1959................59
“Joiners,” Hockney, 1982...................60
August, Venice, California..................61
Million Dollar Baby........................... 62
Give It Away....................................... 64
Rose Quartz........................................ 67
Hella Spiritual................................. ...69
My Chemical Days.............................. 71
Shadowcat........................................... 73
The House on the Hill..........................75
1
t
CINEMA
... is often visual adaptations of novels in which the plot is reduced
to its key scenes and images. The director and screen-writer
attempt to capture a condensed version of the novel, retaining
fealty to the spirit, tone, color and attitude of the original. Poetry is
a concentration of language, a bouillon of flavor, a soup cube that
contains - in concentrate - the flavor of a whole scenario which
has been boiled down to its essence. Therefore I feel that the
practice of rendering a movie into a poem is the practice of
rendering - in miniature, using only words - the spirit, tone, color
and attitude of an entire movie in 11 or 15 lines, a form of
ekphrasis. Plot elements need to underpin the poem but tone is
more important: the poem needs to smell like the movie. Cinema
iconography has entered into and altered the DNA of humans to
replace folk tales and nursery rhymes. This cinematic archetypal
symbolism needs to be in the poems. Dietrich and von Sternberg Pygmaleon and Galatea - are appropriate motifs: he created her.
t
Faster, Pussycat!
Go Varla, Rosie and Billie, go-go dancers in Russ Meyer’s
sexploitastic chickflick. Shake your swinging booties, Van Nuys
t
strip club The Pussycat, groovy man! Go, go, go! Show the
johnnies how its done. Take off and race those vehicles, let off
some steam in the desert, babes, salt-flats Lake Cunniback, Ollie
Peche's Musical Wells Ranch around the town Mojave. Stay at the
Adobe Motel, Johannesberg, California, hot and salty. Play
chicken, skinny-dip, race your engines, challenge men to a race
then kill them, pussycats, kill, kill! Wear those skin tight pants,
girls, heavy black eyeliner, big hair, push-up bras and tie your
shirts in a knot. Find The Old Man in the desert and his son The
Vegetable, tail them back to the ranch, lure them out to the barn
with promises of hot, steamy sex, baby, and if they don’t cough up
the dough then run them down, karate chop, stab them, pussycats,
(
reverse your engine then put your pedal to the metal. Risk it all,
race hard and fast, gun your engines, kill or be killed, baby, just for
the thrill of it, baby, just for the thrill!
3
How on the silver screen of her dream
matinee-idols in cloaks of darkness
swoop down like bats and do
unspeakable tiling^ to hapless maidens
in gowns of velvet, curtains and pelmets.
How warriors in helmets, sandals and swords,
wreak terrible vengeance, how Gods are invoked.
How she manages to be ravaged just out of frame,
how cads are to blame, the evidence
hovering in the corner: ripped bodice,
discarded scarf, dropped suede glove, bottle of hard
liquor lying on its side, contents leaked like tears.
How she pursues those bad, bad boys, those laconic
mechanics, those hard-working farmhands, those
dapper gents and sire-footed dancing princes, those
articulate diplomats and sons of captains of industry.
How she settles for chain-smoking clerks, unemployed
drag-racers and actors-working-as-waiters. How they
usually leave when the going gets rough, how she wonders
if there is something wrong with her, how she is
suddenly thirty then even more suddenly forty.
How the squalls of babies drive her mad, how
the smell of diapers makes her sick, how she
ends up semi-comatose, Xanaxed in front of the TV,
watching Ellen and Turner Classic reruns of Pretty Lady
and how she wonders what the hell happened to her life.
»
4
Marlene
t
Doch man sieht nur die in Lichte
Die in dunklen sieht man nicht.
(But you only see those in the light
Those in the darkness you don’t see).
Bertolt Brecht
In the country of cinema there is no rest
till perfection achieved, Father, in your eyes.
So amp up the key-light boys, that’s best,
t
kill that spot and light me from on high.
Encase me in a silk girdle, seamless, nude;
give me a silhouette svelte and chic;
pull in my waist so that nothing protrudes;
create me a statuesque physique.
Maquillage me over the bones of my face,
pan-stick me, give me mass lashes.
Max Factor my cheekbones and shoot me through lace;
dust me with gold and with ashes.
From primordial darkness I clamber all night
to be bathed and transformed in your glorious, morning light.
5
Harlow, shimmer.
The Great Depression, bleak and drab.
She drapes herself in ivory silk-satin
and egret feathers, an antidote.
Her meaty thighs give hope
t
to the hungry. They can watch her
slink and vamp on the Silver Screen
for a dime. A radiant, ostrich plumage
goddess with angel-halo-hair,
plump and juicy, a roast spatchcock.
Beneath her reclining lushness
her robustness diminishes.
Her kidneys fail h$r. She’s swathed
in bias-cut taffeta and bleached fox,
She laughs in white light, extinguishing.
t
6
Ava: The Barefoot Contessa.
t
There was less to me than met the eye,
a cracked porcelain belle from the South.
I had no refinement, as hard as I tried,
a spotlight of booze and all mouth.
Chiffon’d in the jungle, rouched, draped and gored,
styled and lit within an inch of my life.
Barbiturates and whisky to stop being bored
being Mickey’s and Artie’s and Frankie’s wife.
The most beautiful woman in movies, it’s true,
is a tenuous position to hold;
they’ll say it for fifteen minutes of you but one tiny crack and you’re old.
Tempted by surgery - thought that I might but just angled my face to receive good light.
t
I
Gaslight
i
1944, the film. Ingenue falls hard and
heavy for dapper, older, man: handkissing, spats,
gloves, orchids, tuxedos under the gaslights. He
tells her she is his only one; she
believes him. There are chocolates.
ii
You meet your Rofneo on OK Cupid: you
date; he pays. When it’s too good to be true, you
halfway know it is. There is subterranean
connection; you watch him study your buttons,
become adept at pushing them. It feels real.
iii
She is not alarmed at first, the Ingrid Bergman
character, at the scraping upstairs - squirrels,
rats? - notices the gaslights dimming. Light
from gas is notoriously capricious, she tells
herself, could be overuse elsewhere in the street.
I
iv
A few things don’t add up; you dismiss them - don’t
want to be paranoid, nagging - fear you’ll repel him
like opposite magnets. His stories are inconsistent;
he becomes distant when questioned about
his comings and goings; you hold your tongue.
7
8
v
The Charles Boyer character tells her she is
imagining things, has an artistic disposition,
a febrile imagination. The missing objects are
merely misplaced, the light from the gas is
regular; it is she who is not. She believes him.
t
vi
Parking tickets from the other side of the bridge,
receipts for unusual amounts - house paint? three hour delays: the evidence mounts,
pointing to some other life.
He is translucent; you start to doubt him.
vii
He pulls out his fob chain, but no watch!
Lo and behold, it is in her purse but she can’t recall
putting it there. He sympathizes, suggests she
*
travel to a spa for her hysteria, her nerves. Did she
take it: she is not certain either way.
viii
You startle him; his hand flies up in self
defense - a reflex blow, he says - he doesn’t mean to
strike you, yet it draws blood, says he would never
hurt you; you choose to believe him. After all,
it is your own fault, nagging him so, he says.
t
9
ix
Everything she seas feels unreliable. Just
when she’s convinced she’s going mad, suddenly
the denouement: stolen jewels hidden in the attic;
previous marriage to her murdered aunt; desperate
search for the treasure. Hell hath no fury.
x
You empty his workout bag to wash his
sweats: boxershorts, a deck of cards, socks,
a telescopic, steel truncheon. You realize you
don’t know him at all. His response is 5150.
Commitment: it’s what you’ve always wanted.
t
xi
When the murdering jewel-thief is lashed
to a chair, she says she will release him,
help him escape, avoid incarceration. But, no:
just messing with you she says. Or am I?
Maybe I am and maybe I ’m not.
xii
You get your purse, get ready to go
to Claudine’s. You need a friend. He blocks
the doorway: your friends are all against me
he says, you will make a fool o f yourself with
your false claims, your imaginings. You stay.
I
10
I’m ready for my close-up.
Norma Desmond, relic of a bygone era before
the pictures got small, survives in decaying grandeur,
deluded that a woman of - gasp, fifty - could still
be sexually attractive: a mature, decrepit ingenue.
Joe Gillis - the fly in the spider’s web (
sauntering, macho, screen-writer trouserman.
She practically devours him - that revolting cliche a woman-of-a-certain-age lusting for young, male flesh.
Deluded, unhinged, she plots a comeback.
There are no templates for an aging glamorpuss.
She reverts to recreating her former glory:
vaseline on the lens smudging an illusion.
For believing he can gull an ancient female fool,
Joe Gillis ends up shot, face-down in the swimming-pool.
i
11
Noir
Gangster guys in pin-stripe suits drive Oldsmobiles with white-walled
tires. Private dicks, retired from the force, world-weary,
crack wise. Pearl-handled Smith & Wesson revolvers are fired; purple
orchids or yellow roses are pinned to gowns of buxom broads
or icy debutantes, who pose under street-lamps, smoke from
their cigarettes curling blue in the full-moon midnight. Sensuous,
bluesy melodies insinuate their saxophone refrains. Temptresses
wear kid leather gloves and skin-tight pencil-skirts that hug
their figures in all the wrong places. Heiresses-gone-bad in lame
and feathers bare their cleavage as night-club torch-singers.
Secretaries turn wild, toss their curtains of hair and look up, seductive,
from under fringes of lashes. There will be tears before bedtime.
And whiskey. It is all usually the fault of the broad:
we are made that way.
t
12
t
Get out before I kill you.
a poem of the movie Mildred Pierce
“How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is/to have a thankless
child!’’Shakespeare, KingLear, Act I, sc IV.
Oh, Mother, why can’t I have a pretty pink dress for school?
This old one is too tight and scratchy.
Veda, darling, I will do anything to give you the things you
t
want. You will have everything I never did; you will want
for nothing. I will use the money I make from baking pies.
Even i f it kills me.
Mother! I discovered this pathetic gingham uniform in your
closet! A common waitress, how declasse.. .how could you?
Somebody has to pay the bills around here since your father
left. Trust me, Veda darling, you will will never have to
want fo r anything, but please don’t marry that rich boy,
please.
t
I told them I was “expecting” and they paid me off with this
check. With this money I can get away from you and your
chickens and your pies and everything that smells of
grease.
13
You are mean and you are selfish! Get out, Veda, before I kill
you!
Oh, Mother, don't be so naive. Of course Berrigan doesn’t love
you. It was always me he was making love to. Do you
really think a* man of his class could be attracted to a
restauranteur, a common caterer?
1 will take the blame for killing Berrigan if it means you can go
scot-free. I am to blame fo r spoiling you so. My life is over,
anyhow. Go, Vida, fly free. You will always get what you
can from life; the apple doesn’tfa ll fa r from the tree.
Oh, don't worry about me, Mother, I will be fine in prison. I
will do what 1 need to do to get by. I am your daughter,
after all.
t
t
14
Fasten your Seatbelts.
A poem o f the movie “All About Eve. ”
t
In the theatre, darling, youth reigns supreme.
Along stalks Eve, the pretender to the throne,
to study Margo’s intonation - like an actress to sidle her way into the inner circle. Margot’s
not giving up without a fight: the applause
is addictive; it sounds like Love. Backstage
flirtation, front-of-house intrigue: Eve will
do whatever it takes to see her name in lights
t
above the marquee. Margot fears forty is
a death sentence for an ingenue. The Wheel
of Fortune turns: you’re out, you’re in: there
are only a limited number of stars in heaven.
I
t
Butterfield 8
Elizabeth Taylor shines the spotlight of her 1000
watt sexuality onto various, hapless men, dripping her
ripe, peach juices from bar-room to motel to penthouse. No
Sale she lipsticks on the mirror. At least not for
two hundred and fifty dollars. He says he offers it
to replace the tom dress. The cash. She says she is
paid to wear a fashionable frock around and
about at swanky locales to attract interest. For
a designer. To flirt but not seduce. To incite the will
to buy. The dress. She is not a tramp, merely
flirtatious. She brushes her teeth with whiskey, not
water. Her promiscuity is worse than prostitution.
t
15
16
The Misfits.
Roslyn breezes through Reno
for a quickie divorce a chilled lemonade
on a sweltering afternoon *
joins a gang of losers
down on their luck, fits
in with their hardscrabble lives.
In her cherry-print dress
she brightens up the broken,
sashays her way to the rodeo,
a quivering jelly, but
Oh no! The animals!
It’s all too cruel, could The Good
Book mean this? Where is the love?
t
The men lassoo the wild
horses for pet-meat money, but
Roslyn will save them,
even if it kills her.
No! No! She untethers
the ropes stretched breakingtaut that bind her to
herself, the men, the world.
t
Peroxide Hitchcock Ice-Queen
t
In nineteen fifty-nine I was twentyfive and perfect in my platinum shell
of lacquer, crisp tailoring, impossibly
narrow stilletos, jetstream pointy bra,
a lethal neutron-bomb
of female destructiveness -
seductive but sharp luring men to their downfall
on my undulating, rocketship hips,
t
Now I'm just some old cow with
a Zimmer frame down Safeway
for a tin of rice-cream,
easily digestible. Oh, the tailoring
Oh, the hairdo torture!
Oh, the hours in makeup!
They sewed me into my cocktail
dress (shot-silk, ice-blue ) reeking
of Shalimar and bleach. Oh,
t
the posing, the three hundred exposures
to get the one pin-up money-shot of me
I
18
impersonating a highly desirable sex-doll.
Who was she, that starlet pinup that
used to be me? She looks like my grand-daughter.
t
19
Vertigo
I quit the force due to fear of heights. Hanging from a five storey
building was nothing compared to falling for Madeline from the very first
time I saw her. The emerald silk wrap framing her alabaster, nude back;
the confection of platinum hair like spun, white gold swept up at the nape
of the neck; the delicate posture: a classic painting.
Sure I did it for money - impersonating the sick wife - but I never
intended the plan to go wrong, to fall in love with the private dick Scotty,
that helpless, blue-eyed gentleman. It was me he fell for, me wearing the
tight, dove-gray skirt, the ivory winter coat. It was me he fished from the
bay, me he carried limp, me he undressed. When he didn’t take advantage,
that’s when Ife ll fo r him.
Just who did I fall for? Kim Novak as Judy being Madeline, the image
of Madeline? Or Judy? Or was it the idea of Kim as Madeline as
performed by Judy? I tried to remake her; tailor her right, get her hair dyed
right. It was all just wrong. The flesh-and-blood woman was not as
exciting as the parody she acted.
Take me to the bel[-tower, Scotty, make me retrace my steps in heels in
the Mission San Bautista, make me pose decoratively, wistfully as Carlotta
Valdes on the horse-drawn carriage. Force me, force me up the stairs.
Follow me and overcome your fear. At least my death will cure you. It was
always my victimhood that aroused you. Throw me o ff and let me plummet
down, down, down.
All I have left of you: a classic, painted portrait of a madwoman; a
recurring, rickety staircase; an old-fashioned bouquet tied tight with a
ribbon; a colonial garnet necklace. In my dreams I am falling, falling,
falling, Madeline.
t
Perfectly Groomqd, but Disturbed.
a poem o f the film Mamie
Why am I so afraid of the color red?
Why do I dream of three knocks on the door?
Why do I change my identity again and again
by dying my hair strawberry, brunette, blonde?
Why do I take jobs in order to burgle the till?
Why do I shrink from the touch of men
even when I am attracted to them?
Why does upmarket Mark break through
with his suave deportment and fast talking ways,
his Lincoln Continental and his Saville Row suits?
Why does he jump over all my hurdles?
Why does he persist in dragging me back,
back to my childhood, back to Maryland,
back to my prostitute mother
with her white-coated sailor john
who bangs on the door three times,
who touches and cuddles the eight-year-old me
who struggles and struggles with my lioness mom,
the sailor who I smash over the head with a poker
again and again and again
till the scarlet spurts right out of his head
till she’s carted aw^y after he’s dead,
the mom who limps back from custody to save me
and tries to love me as best she can,
the little blonde girl who never grows up
till Mark comes to claim me, to claim me, to claim me?
21
o, o, o.
There are not many blonde actresses anymore; Scarlett Johansen is one but
she keeps dying her hair; Sharon Stone had it going on when she curled her lip in
Basic Instinct and tortured Michael Douglas with her blonde superciliousness, but
there is no gelatinous, peroxided mammal of Marilyn Monroe proportions to
wiggle her way through the wet dreams of hapless men, no Mae West to jape and
t
jest her hips, twitching her curves in glorious self-parody; no ice-cold Hitchcock
blondes to Tippi Hedren through sado-erotic minefields and scream with wide
open mouths as they are being undone, no comedic platinum blonde Jean Harlow
to luxuriate on button-backed, upholstered chaise-longues in ivory, silk-satin
peignoirs and amusingly feed herself chocolate bon-bons and toss her silvery
curls, creating a dangerous, irresistible honey-trap and certainly no sang-froid of
the carefully articulated New England, Grace Kelly to poise precariously on the
arms of delicate French furniture and decorate tony drawing-rooms. Perhaps these
temptresses, vamps and seductresses of the twentieth century were merely the
fore-runners of their pornographic sisters of the twenty-first, the grandmothers of
their squatting, gagging, bottle-blonde descendants with their “ooohs” and
“aaahs,” making a large “O” of their glossy silicon lips, providing an entry point
t
for the lusts and juices of a generation bred with low attention-spans who need to
be instantly satisfied by the juicy passions of pneumatic, internet blondes whose
cri-de-couer is “fuck me, now,” always available, twenty-four seven and free-toair or pay-to-view.
Basic Instinct: The Novelist and The Shooter.
He is an impaired officer;
she is an affluent sfx-positive blonde vixen.
He investigates her for murder and availability;
she leads him on a cat-and-mouse.
He sees her intimate female friends;
she plays with him because she can.
His weapon of choice: a fifth of scotch;
her weapons of choice: the ice-pick and lurex short shorts.
He brings her in for questioning;
she icons a short M^hite dress without panties.
She is a misanthrope;
he is a misogynist.
His psychotic ex is a police psychologist;
her psychotic ex ends up dead in a smashed Ferrari.
She uses everyone as grist for her writerly mill;
he is interested only in his image and ego.
He finds out his ex is obsessed with the writer;
she finds out that people are vile.
t
He is punished by being dropped from the force;
she is punished by having to be naked with Michael Douglas.
He solves the ice-pick murders: his ex did it.
She will dump the shooter sooner rather than later.
Slow curtain; fade; the end.
t
23
Love me; I’m fake.
My hair is cotton-candy;
my skin resurfaced;
I have been mani-pedi’d and buffed.
*
My ensembles are designer;
I have a re-virginated vagina
and my nose is a job.
I live in a faux store-front
of Hollywood main-street facade:
absolutely nothing behind it.
This is California, motherfuckers:
appearance is everything and
good lighting the Higher Power.
t
t
25
White Oleander: Too much Love
i
My mom murdered her cheating-ass lover with extract of oleander,
mixed with some other chemical shit and the Santa Ana winds
blew hot. They nabbed me away to foster care: I was twelve.
My G-string, foster-mom Starr - reformed Christian stripper -switched
between blow-jobs and The Lord. Her Ray, daddy to me, loved me too
much, till Starr lost it and went berserk with a shotgun, wounding me.
Failed actress Claire, my second, struggling to keep her marriage,
loved me till mom ruined it from inside prison and managed to get her
to overdose on pills. Via letter. There’s no underestimating her powers.
t
They stuck me in Mac Correctional Facility where I met you, comic
boy. I went with the Russian mom bitch, hard as nails, ran
us girls like a business. No chance of too much love from Rena.
Mom’s feminist fan club hounded me to testify: Free Ingrid! At the
trial I wouldn't lie for her; she didn’t deserve it; she wouldn't do it for
me. I had to be let go in order to survive; she let me go.
So it’s you and me against the world now, comic boy, trying to love
each other, trying to survive our childhoods. We’re gonna need each
other, our art, our love and a heaping helping of luck.
«
t
26
Dead Man Walking
I, Matthew Poncelet, address Death Row, am writing to you, Sister Helen,
because you’re my last hope. I didn’t kill those kids, it was him that did it. We
was all hopped up on acid and speed and all the Wild Turkey we swilled that
night. I want you to help me get a retrial, a stay of execution, or they’ll kill me by
lethal injection in a month’s time and I don’t want to die.
I, Sister Helen Prejean, o f The World, help the poor and suffering; it is my
calling. You, Matthew, are an unlovely human being: racist; selfish; vain. I see the
little boy in you and the wgy you respond to me, despite your surliness, is full o f
love. I have never loved a man before - not in this way - and I realize what it is. I
believe you to be guilty, but also believe I am sent by God to assist you to accept
His Grace before the needle stops your heart. I f only I could give a tiny bit o f my
faith to you, Matthew: I have plenty.
You’re crazy to love me, Sister Helen, but I guess you know I’m locked up
and likely about to die so you’re safe from me. You may be a nun but you’re still a
woman. I never knowed what “Love” is. Sure I had sex with plenty girls but not a
one of them loved me like you. I can feel it pouring out of you like light and it
scares me and I can’t fight it. I just don’t have the words to talk about it.
The parents, Matthew, are suffering and will never hold their children
again. They are fu ll o f hate. Admit culpability, apologize, release them from their
pain before you die! Let your cruel and unnecessary execution mean something,
Matthew; don't leave this world fighting and hating; make your death mean
something.
I am sorry for the pain I have caused; I am sorry that I have to walk to my
death, shackled, in slippers and a diaper; I am sorry for everything. Forgive me,
Sir, I done wrong. Forgive me Ma’am, for my part in your daughter’s death. The
fluid in my veins feels cold.. .my blood is stopping.. .all I can see is your eyes.. .a
glorious light is shining from them...I love you, Sister Helen...
27
Glissando
a poem of the film The Piano
For solace, expression, companionship, that box
of ebony, ivory and mahogany has replaced
my physical voice. The logger transpired to be
loveless, cruel, yet his Man Friday when not busy fraternising with the locals did respect me, my daughter, my music
and played with me a passable melody.
A four-part chord was struck by Mr Baines,
Flora, my piano, me. So enraged by the love
excluding him, was my husband-by-law,
that he did disarticulate my finger - with
an axe - that I may have not even the solace
of making music. We embarked upon the sea:
Baines, Flora, the joiano, me. Our destination:
the South Island, for there were two. Baines
fashioned for me a finger of silver, like armor
plate, to replace the digit removed by violence the ghost limb - and music I am again
able to passably produce. We have fashioned
for ourselves a life tolerably decent, here in sunny
Nelson, this rough, port town. There are horse-drawn
carts, jacarandas, piano lessons, a school-house.
Fortune has smiled upon me: for the darkest passages
can be illuminated, it is said, and surely it is the truth.
»
28
»
Running with Scissors
I’m only a child, Dad, an only child, and I don’t
understand why you have to leave Mom and you won’t
let her be a famous poet, which is her destiny, or why you have
to drink vodka all the time and fall asleep at the table.
I’m only a child, Mom, and I don’t understand why
you’re giving me away to your shrink. Is it because
I’m not lovable enough? I can help you. We
were going to do this together, Mom. Please.
(
Why are you adopting me Doctor Finch?
Is it to help Mom? Why is your family so
weird? Why can’t I have normal meals, like
hamburger helper? Am I weird, too?
I don’t understand why it feels so good, Neil.
I didn’t know this could be so beautiful, between
guys, like this. Am I gay, Neil? I guess so. But
I don’t even like you that much. Is that wrong?
I’m only a kid and don’t understand what I did to be so
unlovable and not deserve a normal life. Maybe I’m just bad.
I don’t get why every single person in my life is
nuts. I only know I have to get away to survive.
Silence of the Lambs
All my life I ’ve battled against the big boys, to honor my Daddy’s
memory never taken seriously. I will charm the psychopath
cannibal, appeal to whatever shred o f humanity he has, but will not
let him sniff my fear as a dog does. I learnt that from my Daddy. I
know he will want something from me, but I will not trade on my
femininity, I will not. I will not.
Oh, Clarice, your length of bone, your Aviance perfume. At least
you are interesting in your anachronism, you tasty piece of tartedup white trash. I would adore to feed you slices of your own leg
muscle, sauteed in Gewurztraminer. People are so indescribably
stupid. I know what they want and will only drip feed it to them in
a fair exchange: quid pro quo, Clarice, quid pro quo.
You can help us, Dr Lecter, you can make your sorry life amount to
something, you can point your finely-honed intellect onto this
questionnaire, uncbver the killer fo r the F.B.I. Only you are able to
do this, to penetrate the mechanisms o f this twisted pervert. Only
you know why he skins them, the girls.
You want to flee the ignominy of your rube past, Clarice, your
small town mediocrity; to make it big in The Bureau. I want to get
a decent cell with a pretty view and access to reading and art
material. What does Buffalo Bill want? He wants female skin. Ask
yourself for what purpose, Clarice. Now you give me something.
The Terminator: I’ll be back.
t
The cyborg, created of titanium,
mechanical animatronics. His superior
strength and resilience masked
by a thin veneer of skin and flesh to
give the verisimilitude of human-ness.
Sent back in time from The Future
to kill the human female Sarah Connor
before she can birth her son John, who
saves the human race: he is trying to
change history from the vantage
point of the future. History is always
written by the victors.
He is programmed to be ruthless,
relentless, predatory, driven.
Stripped of skin, disarticulated,
eviscerated, deconstructed, he continues
on his quest. He will not be stopped.
He can not love; Sarah Connor can love.
Love is what makes a human human.
t
Hasta la vista, Schwarzenegger;
you’re terminated, fucker.
31
t
KINK
...is a form of adult expression playing with power, submission,
control, lack of control and domination: people come to it seeking
answers. There can be an almost religious tone to it: the language of
reverence to a Master can sound very much like the language of the
religious towards their Lord and Master. There is a theatricality to the
sessions conducted and a good Mistress/Master is as much actor as
therapist as skilled physical practitioner in his/her art. A poem of a BDSM
scenario/session should contain the atmosphere and dialogue of the
session plus the visual and other sense impressions. The reader needs to be
voyeur, secreted in the dungeon, behind an arras. The poem is an
ekphrastic impression of the session.
32
Mistress
Do you ache to relinquish power in a controlled environment
where you pay the*bills but I call the shots? If so, step in here.
Give me your Mastercard, then strip. What have we here, then?
Is it a fresh little body slave eager to serve at the temple of my
Mistressly body? Let me tie your harness tighter. You may
kneel. You may revere the Mistress’ shiny black heels. With your
tongue. Look at those firm buttocks, so pink, so smooth, such
welcoming pillows to accept the smacks of my displeasure,
should you fail to follow directions. I may reward you
as I see fit, for services well-rendered. Or not.
i
i
Slave
0 Mistress, I am not worthy to lick your Amazonian, muscled legs;
1 am not worthy to touch you. Only to please you; that is my wish. O
Mistress, feel free to punish me for infractions - by corporal
punishment, restriction, confinement - I will take it with relish, no matter
how harsh, how painful. I worship and adore the ground you walk
on. As a man - in control, standing upright, wielding my privilege -
I gladly give it all to you. Whether you’re acting or not, Mistress, I
hunger for a woman who can take control; who can treat me like
the slut, the baggage, I am. Thank you, Mistress.
i
33
34
It’s not a sin.
Take my body and soul. Be merciful, O Lord, I am in distress, I
give myself to thee, conflicted as I am. I am unworthy,
a sinner. Taking deflight in the flesh is sinful: I am to be punished.
Stroke, slap, stroke, slap, stroke. The harsh admonishments
of the religious teachers in the childhood of my mind intertwine
with the adolescent awakenings of the centers
of pleasure. You, Mistress, look like Sister Cecilia of The Seven
Sorrows. You hurt me so I may hurt myself less. Let me
expose my buttocks to you that you may give me the whipping I so
truly deserve. Thank you, Mistress Sister. It’s not a sin, is it?
t
»
35
Citr-o-kleen.
t
Silicon, rubber, plastic, with harnesses, buckles,
D-rings, O-rings: many crevices to trap
bacteria. They scrub them with warm, soapy
water, the Mistresses, standing around the kitchen
sink in aprons, in perverse parody of fifties house
wives - the irony is not lost. They chat companionably,
the Mistresses, washing the strap-on dildos and butt
plugs, then disinfecting them with diluted bleach
or a commercial disinfectant that dares not
mention its name: you can never be too
sanitary, because cleanliness is next to
godliness, they say, and slaves give themselves
to us, entrust their hearts and bodies totally, all
orifices, in devout reverence, a responsibility not
to be taken lightly. They wash, disinfect and dry.
t
I
36
D
C R O S S
E
S
S
Let me glue down your eyebrows;
let me panstick, shade, greasepaint and contour
you; let me spangleshadow and eyelash
*
you - top and bottom - my flirtatious slavegirl.
Let your Mistress line you outside your natural lipline for the appearance of a big, glossy mouth,
welcoming and wet, open and luscious.
I will now just glue down the lacefront of this
voluminous chestnut wig to your forehead,
my sexy slut, to give you big hair,
“natural,” tousled and ready for bed.
Ease into this elasticized slip - tight, firming and assist me to slither your long legs
into both these pairs of nude, flesh pantihose.
Don’t you look lovely.
»
Slip into these five inch heels.
Walk for me. Very nice. Slower. Provocative.
You are soo enticing, soo sexy, you little slut.
Let your Mistress zip your slender frame into this
vermillion, rouched, cocktailgown, skin-tight.
So inviting, you are asking for it, aren’t you?
Anyone can take you, do what they want.
In fact I think I will. Or not.
37
Count Backwards from Ten.
I love to hand Mistress her implements:
retractor, swab, toAiiquet, scalpel. I am pristine
in my crisp, bleached nurse’s uniform.
The patient on the gurney trembles in fear;
the surgeon/Mistress totally in control;
me, thrilled - all business - behind my gauze mask.
Scalpel! she orders. Will she cut or just
give the patient/slave the notion of
cutting? I have warned him: when you regain
consciousness - under restraint - it may be
with a scar and mthus a kidney: there is a high
price fo r black market, harvested organs.
The Mistress has expensive tastes;
The Mistress is capable of anything;
The Mistress may slice him open, a ripe mango.
«
38
t
Pinned
The panther women prowl the ring, circle one
another (lycra clad, thong leotarded) waiting to
pounce. Mistress emcees, umpires them. The men
watch intent, excited. The blonde puts the brunette
in a neckhold, drops to her knees. Lightning fast
the brunette’s back kisses the canvas. Mistress
t
bellows; the men rise as one, cheer. The blonde straddles
her, puts the brunette’s eye-linered face between her
meaty blonde thighs, squeezes her till she is forced to
retaliate. The combatants are on their feet to
encouraging shouts, their forearms grip each others’,
they circle, anticipating the next move. The brunette
spins, puts the blonde in a full Nelson, displays
her trophy, rotates her prey before dropping her
down - slam-dunk - face first on the mat.
i
Fido
I pant patiently at the foot of the stairs,
wait for Her to descend, collar and leash me,
«
mittenpaw and kneepad me,
muzzle me, take me walkies, sniff and pee.
If I am good - 1 will be, I will be She may let me jump and snap for a treat.
I smell the heels of her boots, roll over,
hope She will tickle my tummy,
pat me, pet me, treat me like her puppy.
I wait for food, affection, warmth and orders.
t
My job description is to be Her dog;
Her’s is to be my Mistress.
t
40
Golden Rain
t
I have been drinking though not thirsty;
my bladder is full to bursting; that I may
bestow upon you the gift of my Golden Rain.
Stay supine and still, my supplicant, stare
with reverence at my font of priceless
liquids. Here it comes; the dam has burst.
What a relief to splash you with my nectars,
you fortunate slave. I must staunch the flow
t
with my superhuman control. Open wide your
mouth, now: I have a special gift for you.
I will now squat above you, you
lucky slave. Here comes my gift: the Mistress’
Golden Rains, directly in your face-hole. Ah,
blessed relief! Swallow, slave,
drink of Me.
t
t
41
Rope
I am beyond excited the first time you tie me up, your hands
fast over serpentine red nylon and hemp. Your constrictor
knot restricts my chest, your daisy chain makes my buttocks pop. You
send me home to practise my midshipman’s knot, my fisherman’s,
my sailor’s coil. IVJy scaffold knot and figure of eight will be used
to bind other slaves, under your direction, of course, my Mistress.
My monkey’s fist and common whipping knots are clean, I
rehearse on my own thighs, rope up my own cock and balls
with a highwayman’s hitch, a clove hitch, a cleat hitch,
as instructed. In my dream you lash me up quick smart, hog tie
me in butterfly knots, distal hitches, the Turk’s turban in the center
of my back you attach to a hook, winch me up by ratcheted degrees,
suspend me in the f ye of the room - dust motes dancing in a ray of sun
a side of beef, slowly revolving in your power.
42
High Arches
Yes, slave, you may grovel at my feet, indulge
your stiletto fetish*sniff my patent midnight heels,
lick the toe of my Louboutin. Now remove one.
Smell my stockinged foot, boy, get a good whiff
before I unclasp my suspender, roll the stocking
down, expose my naked foot for your podophiliac
pleasure. Neurologists posit that the feet and genitals
rub up against each other in the sensory cortex,
slave, possibly entailing some neural cross-talk,
but I just think you’re a kinky fucker. Give that foot
a good tongue batli, boy, nibble and suck it,
get your tongue right in that toe-cleavage,
that’s a good slave. Worship that foot before I slip
the stocking back on, slide my foot back into its
black leather home and walk all over you.
t
43
t
Latex Ghazal
Mesmerize me as you powder up, Mistress,
delicate, peel it on: lacquer, black gloss.
You are a seductive serpent, shedding its chalked
pink skin in reverse, to veil its lambent pink gloss.
Awed, I gaze upontyour luminance, your suited
body: dipped in a pool of paint (black gloss).
Your impressive spinal curve appears statuesque soft, warm, raven-wing marble - lustrous, glossy.
What language is there for total adoration of
glowing, obsidian buttocks - how can this be glossed?
Inadequate words to praise my rain-slicked, tarmac goddess
is a problem over which I dare not gloss.
Your breasts, my Mistress: burnished, onyx cantaloupes;
your waist an indented bay of midnight gloss.
44
Naughty Schoolgirls
Let’s put on our gym skirts, boy, ooh, they’re the same size but
your box pleats are crisper than mine, I bet your mommy steam
presses them. Your socks are so white, can I touch them. Oooh
your legs are so Smooth and I like your hair those braids are so
pretty can you braid mine the same? Are you ticklish Samantha I’m going to call you Samantha - such a pretty name. Shall I test
and see if your ticklish under your feet or in your armpits ooh how
gross. I hate my name Felicity, hate, hate, hate it. I am sooo glad
we have Miss Peters for gym, do you know what they say about
her? Do you know, Samantha? They say she is a lesbian! Oh My
God! Do you even know what a lesbian is? Girls kissing! Shall we
try it to see if we’re lesbians? Kiss me and see, see if I get all
gooey when you kiss me, Samantha, oh please do. I’m going to
touch you down there in your panties to see if you’re a lesbian, too,
Samantha. Does this feel nice when I stroke your panties? You’re
getting all swollefc down there, Samantha, does it feel good? I
know I like it, mmmmm. Isn’t it lovely, just us girls here together,
no boys, just girls.
Switch
t
She prowls around, a panther, caged,
examining me, taunting me, humiliating me.
I take it all, humble, penitent. When She
strikes me I thank Her, waiting patiently;
patiently waiting. No hint do I give of
what I feel inside, the better to dissemble
when it is my turn to take control. She
is so full of power and strength. She
raises Her gloved Aand in the air; I grab
the wrist; twist it up her back, the serpent
mesmerizing the mongoose. She is as if
deflated: I hear the power hiss out of her.
She becomes meek; I order her to call me
Master, she responds yes, Master. Head bowed,
back exposed, she takes my crop, my slaps,
my lash, willingly, ecstatic. Now I will show
her who is Master. Only the trace of a smile
reveals Her to be tfie actress I know She is.
t
46
Submissive
Take my lips, my guts, my heart
and do with me what you will:
I have been your creature from the start.
I've given up fighting; it was tearing me apart.
I'm exhausted; I've been through the mill,
so take my lips, my guts, my heart.
In this melodrama I took the wrong part
and this fighting and fighting has made me ill.
I have been your creature from the start.
I put the horse before the cart;
I did stupid things just for the thrill.
Now take my lips, my guts, my heart.
To tell the truth, I ^vas a stupid tart
and if it wasn't for you I'd be carrying on still.
I have been your creature from the start.
Then you told me you had something to impart:
I listened and am listening still.
So take my lips, my guts, my heart:
I have been your creature from the start.
47
CALIFORNIA
is a huge state, settled much later than the East Coast, after the
discovery of gold. Vast fortunes were made quickly in the
rich and limitless terrain. The motion picture industry
started, blossomed and exploded here from 1925 - 1935,
irrevocably changing the entire planet. With the cultural
power came wealth and overabundance which has
manifested itself in different ways: in plastic surgery; in
excessive creature comfort; in crazy wasteful eating
behaviors; in computer “science” which has permeated
every nook and cranny of earth. My California cycle
documents and imaginates some of the elements of this
“lifestyle.” The hapless maiden lashed to the railway tracks
is an apt California archetypal image. So is the California
poppy.
t
48
«
Help!
i
Help! I feel vertigo, falling
irretrievably into the me-shaped
space inside your arms.
ii
Help! I can feel myself - like
The Fool - following Lust
over the edge of a precipice.
iii
Help! Find this message in a
bottle. Read it,
but don’t act.
iv
t
Help! I can envisage myself
lashed to the railway tracks,
silent cinema maiden. But I love
the ropes, the tracks, the train.
49
v
Help! I am falling into the shape
inside your arms. Send a search
party. No, don’t.
t
I
Heart of BARTness
t
end carriage
ten car train
west Oakland
tire factories
junk cars rust cars
dirty beige olive drab
smoke stained cream
break down graunch halt
perch above semi-industrial
desolation
«
transitory station
somewhere between
two somewheres
the lurching motion
of a stop-start heart
apricot goldcoin sun
aquamarine sky
edgy wind
lemon-juice light
oxblood jeans
midnight sweater
disembark
descend to the street
I
51
ambulate
red white and blue
laundry bag
tough and serviceable
urban poor mutation
stars and stripes flag
hungry tired huddled
on-edge masses
jangled as a cat
on a hot tin roof
muted I-pod hip hop
squealing metal
honeyvoice announcer
burning electricity
one dollar deodorant
aluminium armpit
synthetic pines fabreeze
transitory enpassailt
shadowland nowheresville
BART train starts up
crisis averted
52
Flores, rosas!
The flower-lady sijs on her upended bucket
and sings out “flores, rosas!” as you are drip-fed
into the liquid human stream pouring into
the maw of the 24th Street Mission BART, down
the 57 stairs into the train which comes in two
minutes to whisk you to your destination
and as you angle into the breeze that bird-song
t
tintinnabulates in your ear: “flores, rosas,”
to remind you of what’s ephemeral yet important.
t
53
t
In this neighbourhood.
En este barrio.
Girls with big tits
Muchachas de tetas grandes
say “hey” to pretty boys
dicen “jhola!” a muchachos bonitos
with dogs on heat
con perras en cela
on the leash,
tirando la correa
in this neighbourhood.
en este barrio.
t
If you want something to eat,
Si queres algo a comer
on the street,
en el calle
have a hot tamale
tome un tamal picoso
or something sweet­
o algo dulce
like a fried donut-
como un bunuelo
in this neighbourhood.
en este barrio.
Don’t look down at your feet,
No vas a tus pies
just walk the streets
solomente camina las calles
of this neighbourhood.
de este barrio.
54
House of Sticks
Yes, I’m lying on a flattened box outside the BART.
Handle With Care. Product of Vietnam. This Way Up.
They call me homeless but I like to think of it as
electively residential address free.
Yes, my legs are mighty swollen: pitting edema slash
compartment syndrome, not elephantiasis, caused by
a worm in Africa. I learnt about that
when I worked in Admin at the County Hospital.
That was before I got laid off.
That was before I got a bad credit score,
before my boy Mikey got himself killed
in Afghanistan and before my husband
hung himself in the garage
one Tuesday afternoon in bare feet
«
and his suit and tie.
One minute I’m working at County Hospital,
the next I’m a patient on a gumey,
the dirty lady in curtain seven.
I can’t afford any shame.
I built myself up on a scaffolding
of grade score average and credit rating illusion,
but those stats don’t mean Jack.
i
55
Those stats are cotton candy,
sitting on top of a house of sticks.
Pull one out at*the bottom
and the whole damn thing comes tumbling down.
House of sticks, house of sticks,
the whole damn thing’s just a house of sticks.
I don’t need your pity. You can put it back
in your organic, cotton backpack, honey,
I’ve busted out of this house of sticks.
I’m gonna spread my wings and take off
and soar over this city, shit over Nob Hill,
float out to Marin County on warm undercurrents.
I’m gonna be free as a fucking bird.
t
I
56
Please pay your fair share.
i
Civic Center:
I display little civility;
feel uncentered. You text me twice:
you don’t want to see me any more
»
after tonight, after tonight.
ii
Van Ness, my hair is a mess.
Can’t stop thinking about you
with that woman
with the perfect hair.
Bitch.
t
iii
At Church I receive your text,
a hallelujah message from above.
My heart sings
57
when you call me baby, baby.
You play me like a violin.
iv
t
Castro: what to wear?
The revenge dress,
the seduction tank top
with the hooker pants
or the irresistible halterneck?
v
Forest Hill. I take you hostage
i
in the concrete bunker
of my mind where
nothing grows and
put a ring on it.
vi
Westportal. Feeling
barely mortal.
I
58
What if you change your mind?
What if you change your mind?
t
t
Diebenkorn, Berkeley, 1959.
Out my studio window I fly, swoop
upwards - a red-tailed hawk - a vision
laid out below, patchwork aunty quilt of fields,
farms, now acr^s of Victorians resolve back into
meadows, com, grazing land in sheets, paper-thin
lemon planes of abutting robin’s-egg; eau-de-nil;
a strip of blur where bay smacks land and there are hills,
fences: all ironed flat. It’s about perspective
and mine is from on high - the snowy egret’s - above
The Bay Area, splayed, and from its splintered components
reconfigured back into a tablecloth, all gathered up,
squeezed into tjwo dimensions and spread back down,
like salt pans or trays of Northern Californian
grapes, transmuting into raisins in the sun.
60
“Joiners,” Hockney, 1982.
(
He moves through the rooms of mansions in
the Hollywood Hills in the golden, late
afternoon light, seeing all from multiple
perspectives, takes it in and breaks it down
- like a Cubist - reassembles it in collaged
prints: drawing with a camera. He doesn't
like the distorted result of the wide-angle lens
so takes multiple Polaroids - snap - from different
angles at different times and Frankensteins
i
them together with glue, creating
a composition with narrative, allowing
the viewer to move through the room
or across the pool, approximating
the manner in which we humans see,
but in two dimensions instead of three.
i
t
August, Venice, California
Sun sets slowly over Venice Beach,
every body tinted with an amber filter:
the midget on the knee of the bearded lady;
the two-headed turtle; the roller-bladers
and Dr Green, the medical marijuana man.
Sun sets slowly over Venice Beach,
sugar-coating every body with a toffee light:
outdoor weight-lifters; the ghosts of The Doors;
the tie-dyed, fringe-flipping,
bong-smoking, bare foot
hippies of the seventies;
the Russian-accented store-holders
trying to make a dollar
off of Israeli backpackers good luck with that.
Sun sets slowly over Venice Beach,
everything is tinted with a Budweiser filter:
glass bongs and com-dogs;
vape shops and funnel-cakes;
Native American artifacts;
i
Mad Max, pimped-out trikes
for rental by the hour.
Sun sets slowly over Venice Beach,
the same lambent light is warming all,
melting the soft-serve, fat-free, frozen yoghurt
of my hard, hard heart.
61
62
Million Dollar Baby
I stand here before you the result of six figures of cosmetic
procedures,
appearance medicine and surgical enhancement - yes one million American dollars and worth every cent, every
cent.
For their sweet sixteenths some kids got a vehicle
but my mommy and daddy gave me
a new nose: I’d always wanted one.
The sound of the surgical trolley wheels squeaking along
the waxed lino floors,
the kindly surgeon’s eyes above his green gauze mask,
the sharp odor of the alcohol swab where the needle went
in:
I entered a new world where everything was clean. I had
gurney fever.
I woke up and it hurt like hell; I looked like a monster;
it was kind of gross with all the snot and hella stitches:
but the transformation! The bruising turned from black
to purple to green to yellow and I emerged a butterfly
with an almost-perfect profile. I was a convert.
By twenty-one I’d had my boobs done three times
- around the aureole - saline C cups the first time, then up
to the D’s.
«
63
Pick your surgeon very carefully girls, that’s all I can say,
for legal reasons. I have recently had butt implants
that have given new meaning to the phrase
“shaking what your mamma gave ya.”
I see and hear the results daily, walking down the street,
the appreciative glances, the wolf whistles.
I have really good self-esteem.
I don’t need no therapist. Just my aesthetician
and appearance medicine surgeon and I’m sweet.
I’m an advocate for preventative Botox and fillers, y ’all.
I know it’s hard to believe but I’m almost thirty. It happens
to all of us.
I am standing testament for girls who want to take charge
of their own bodies, their own futures. I want to inspire
young girls.
Like me, you can be exactly who you want to be.
My own grandparents don’t even recognize me
and I see that as a sign of success, wouldn’t you?
I
Give It Away
I don’t want my Mercedes sports coupe - ice blue or my three bedroom condo with ocean views
you can have it, too.
I’m giving my designer clothes to you
my Versaces and my Guccis that still fit:
t
I don’t want any of that shit.
Take the lot at bargain basement prices: free.
Take my designer shoes, my Jimmy Choos
my Bed, Bath and Beyonds
my curling wands: I’ve got two.
I’m gifting a signed Warhol print - condition: mint
and an artisanal, macrame wall-hanging or two.
Do you know what, I’m giving away
my titanium hips, my silicone tits
my microchips and all that shit.
I don’t even want the skin I’m in
t
it’s been inked and lasered
to within an inch of its life and
resurfaced, burnt, cut with a knife.
All the sunspots have been burnt off:
take it, use it, feed it to the dogs.
I don’t need it anymore.
I’m stripping my assets down to the core
to reveal my authentic self
in a yogic gesture of Buddhist rebirth.
You can have my diamond engagement ring
three karats, no inclusions, clear as a bell
t
and lots of other stuff as well.
I’m not going to be a collector any more,
I’m going off to a mountain top
to survive on granola and a bowl of rice
an occasional apple and chamomile tea.
I’ve got a whole lot of books I don’t read
I’ll pack them up in boxes
or give them to the library.
I’ve got a set of bentwood chairs, Viennese:
If you want them, they’re yours: take them please.
Want some Lefca cameras, designer watches,
Russian nesting dolls, Japanese lacquerwork boxes
a microwave, a crockpot, an I-pad
a set of six fucking steak-knives?
I’m getting rid of my hair to a good home
also my acrylic nails, my reconditioned liver
my kidneys and various other organs,
one eye and a heart, in good order, pristine.
I’m going to dance around in my bones for a while
then totter off in a skeleton boogie
to the graveyard club or the mountain top.
i
I won’t even need the granola or rice
the begging bowl or the saffron robes.
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I’ll be stripped down to nothing
and I’ll be leaving only footprints
and you can have those, too.
I’ll be fashion-conscious ashes to ashes
and dust to dust. Dust or bust.
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Rose Quartz
Never fear, cupcake, I’m still here;
I’m not dead - as such - just
gone to another place. Come
visit me here, get up from your
laptop bed, put on your boots,
walk to the end of your street
and up those steep steps, through
the hills. Keep going till the path
gets narrow and turn right
i
at The Elephant Rock and
through the pine needles till
you can see the Quink ink
sea. Come down the steep slope till
you get to the glittering white sands
and here you will find me
under the de Kooning sky. Sit
down with me, hold my hands.
t
They are neithlr warm nor cold,
are they, but my skin is smooth,
isn’t it? Look into my tourmaline eyes let our Venn diagrammes intersect -
and let me look into your tourmaline
eyes. Feel the sparks from my
lapis lazuli heart jump to yours.
t
We don’t need to talk, cupcake,
the easy camaraderie is still here,
the jokes and myriad anecdotes
of our shared stories. You can
feel it all, can’t you? I know
you can. Let our energies commune.
I never really logged off, cupcake;
t
I have always been here, waiting for you
to log on. Access me whenever you like.
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Hella Spiritual
Namaste. My name is Petal. Delicate Petal.
I am a very sensitive soul. I feel a lot of auras right now.
I’m getting magenta here tonight.
I have a lot of allergies and sensitivities.
That goes with being a super-sensitive soul.
But yogic breathing is really helping.
My throat chakra is really open right now.
And my hips.
My Reiki Master told me to tell my Yogic Masseuse
to go really gently when adjusting my aura.
It is Rose-Quartz right now.
I am vibrating on an exceptionally high frequency.
Being Vegan helps.
I wash all my organic fruits and vegetables
four times in fresh rainwater.
By the time the gentle rains descend through the Planet’s atmosphere
the Goddesses only know what’s in it.
Pollutants and themicals, no doubt.
Still, on the karmic balance-sheet
I do a lot of good works, volunteering,
to counteract all the toxicity.
I am well. I am balanced. I am well-balanced.
I raise money. For the dolphins.
We give it directly to the dolphins,
no middle-man getting fat on the contributor’s funds,
no yummy mummy power-shopping on the dolphin-dime.
My spiritual development took a bit of a set-back
i
last night when you said I was a fake. Fake?!
I am one of the most spiritual humans in the entire Bay Area!
You don’t get ijiore authentic than me.
I am connected to my Community, ass-hole!
I was profoundly disappointed in you.
My therapist told me I project inwards when I’m angry
and take it out on myself.
That is why I smoked the whole pack
of Camel non-filters and ate that mac and cheese.
And the choco-cherry cheese-cake. Damn it was good.
It was really all your fault,
but I’m SO much about not being in Self
that I took it out on myself
and drank those nine Southern Comforts and Coke,
but there was little comfort there,
Southern or otherwise.
But it is all alright; it is All Good.
I meditated this morning
and went to Vinyassa yoga this afternoon
and really committed to all the poses.
My downward frog was on point.
Some of us are really spiritual, you know.
Just not you.
I will be the calm in the eye of the storm,
the delicate stamen of the flowering bloom,
the center of my own mandala.
I am rainwater j I am fern.
I am Delicate Petal.
Namaste.
t
71
My chemical days.
I love to be heavily medicated
from my dextroamphetamine dawn
up until my barbiturate bedtime.
I like to start my caffeinated morning
with a Ritalin or Adderal kick,
continue till I need to take the edge off
i
with Ativan and donuts at ten or eleven, or
Lorezepam, Oxazepam or Clonazepam,
Serepax for my Halcion days or a Xanax, perhaps.
Just the right dose of Diazepam and
I feel the universe still has a plan.
I don’t need to experience any pain,
there’s a pharmaceutical for every feeling;
no need to ever feel uncomfortable;
- physically, mentally or emotionally just take Roxycodone or hydromorphone,
oxymorphone or oxycodone,
and if I feel a little down 1just up my Wellbutrin,
my Mirtazepine, my Fluvoxemine,
Paroxetene, Duloxetine or even my
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Reboxetine if you know what I mean.
And when it all gets a little too much
I can knock myself out with a subtle touch
of eszopiclone otherwise known as Lunesta,
«
or zaleplon sometimes known as Sonata
or zolpidem also known as Ambien or Stilnox.
These industrial strength pharmaceuticals
are in my hair and under my cuticles
and I can pee them out into the water supply
and not be worried that they end up in the Bay
out by San Bruno or up in Monterey,
medicating the dolphins: they get off on it.
As 1 drift off into my well-earned sleep
I repeat their names like a prescription psalm
or a medication mantra:
pentobarbital, phenobarbital, secobarbital;
cloroqualone, mebroqualone, methaqualone;
Lunesta, Stilnox, Sonata,
Lunesta, Stilnox, Sonata,
Lunesta, Stilnox, Sonata.
t
73
t
Shadowcat
You can always choose to go into the way of the Light
where everything is illuminated, bathed in a glow
or retreat into the shadowlands where objects are hazy
and sketchy forms dart in and out,
obscured by solids where you can hide behind
the shadows. You are pulled both ways,
magnetically to the light of Love and
t
simultaneously to the seductive Darkness.
Head for the Light, little pussycat, lick your fur
and prance about. Follow the instinctive animal directives
known only to you.
Cough up your fur balls onto the floor:
let them be housewife vacuumed up
and discarded in the trash
or caught in the shower drain
until they are corroded and degraded enough
to be swilled down the drain hole
with the shampoo product water
and negotiate the S-bend of Home
and gurgled into the water supply
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mixed with the storm water
sluiced from the streets of this City.
Let the syringe caps and used Kleenex mix
with those semi-decomposed fur balls,
the Kleenex of^Hope,
the Kleenex sodden with the tears of the jilted lovers
the juices of the masturbating lonely guy,
the Kleenex dabbed with the blood of the skin-picking tweaker
and the zit-popping schoolboy.
Let the fur balls mix with the Kleenex stained
with the lipstick kiss of the aging Beauty
on her way home from the Appearance Medicine Center
where she is regularly injected with Restylene, Botox
and other fillers.
t
Let it all be sluiced out to sea
under the seagull-squawking sunset, where
the air pollution smudges the sky apricot.
Take several breaths.
Breathe Life in; breathe Self out.
Watch as the salty wavelets french-kiss the shore.
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The House on the Hill
t
i
Same waves lapping at the Seal Rock feet are
the same waves eddying Alcatraz, Pacific,
same waves heart-beating systole/diastole
as the same waves of the blood of the beating hearts.
The same waves bother the Embarcadero,
the slip-streams, the underground waterways,
same waves receiving the mountain runoff:
Sierra Madeira; Yerba Buena; Sierra Madres.
t
Same waves, same water, same flushing
of toilets/ restrooms/ Honeybuckets,
the Nieman Marcus ladies powder rooms,
same waves as the the Sherriff’s Department,
the County Jail, Baker’s Beach, Barbary Coast,
the same waves below the Cliff House
that beat a congo percussion below
on the Seal Rocks on that foggy night.
t
I
76
ji
Strange and darkling things occur.
The horses know, they snort a fog,
hear the same waves, know there’s
evil afoot that night, that foghorn night.
t
Harnessed they canter in three-four waltz time
and echo the same waves in just-shod hoof
and shivering mane as she whips them,
he crops them, speeds them on and on
to the taverns and bagnios of Telegraph Hill
where the gas-lit, torch singer bares
her blackberry, velvet breast
for him, for her, the woman in the
dove-gray frock-coat, the checkered
waist-coat, the(tartan ascot, his cane
in her hand as a prop, an affectation:
an accessory that doubles as a weapon.
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iii
In his convincing male attire the lad remains
the woman he was bom, property of powerful
brother: landowner, millionaire, mayor. Brother
keeps him hidden in the house on the hill.
Clandestine assignations with bar-girls
provide relief but are not enough for the lad.
He wants more than to be taken as a man:
he wants the power and status.
Frustrated beyond endurance in the house
on the hill, he devises a dastardly plan.
There is a shipwreck on the rocks below; t
here is dynamite; there are explosions; there is a fire;
there is human wreckage. The house on the hill
explodes and burns to the ground. The carriage speeds
away at dawn, four horses moving as one, responding
to the whip of their raffish master.
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78
t
iv
Washington, DC, 1912, the power couple
entertain lavishly in their Georgetown brownstone.
He smokes a Cuban cigar; she powders her white
shoulders; he repositions his top-hat whilst
holding court delighting the gentlemen and
thrilling the ladies with his colorful talk of
the glory days of the gold-rush past. Polite
society does not know of their questionable past,
t
of his youthful follies in the House on the Hill
and her beginnings as The Barbary Coast
chanteuse, wiggling by gaslight for prospectors,
Chinese opium merchants, nouveau riche ingenues.
There is talk of them running for political
office and who knows what heights they can achieve:
they are the most popular couple in Washington ini 912.
John Singer Sargent is to paint their portrait in oils.
(