Other People’s Journals: Poems 64 pages 16 entries x 4 pages hand-picked & uncensored
Other People’s Journals: Poems
Thank you to following friends and colleagues who shared selections of their private writing and art. There was more material than I could include in this iteration of the project, but I remain grateful for every contribution. Hannah Blechman, Brian Sherwin, Ann Fleming, Stacy Hsi, Carolyn Supinka, Brad Sherburne, Sharisse Petrossian, Kael Gillam, Tian Qiu, Brendan Sullivan, Briana Finegan, Brianna Kozior, Caitlin O’Malley, Adria Steuer & others who wish to remain anonymous. Dedication To my many silent collaborators and J.H., from whom I always stole the best pens Designed by Alexander Mostov
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I needed new source material. My poetry was getting repetitive, the same anxieties and excitements cropping up again and again. Though I think a lot, even most good poetry is mined out of obsession, I needed a fresh vein. It’s not uncommon for me to turn to my own journals for inspiration, in fact, to a certain extent, that’s why I bother with the scrappy catch-all at all. But that material was slowly beginning to feel stagnant, flat. If my journal was a map of my mind and soul, I was getting too comfortable on the narrow streets, or something. I wanted to look at other people’s brains for a while. My friends and colleagues were wonderfully receptive to the idea of sending me excerpts of their diaries, though many of them elected to change or white names for anonymity’s sake. I was overwhelmed with submissions, and the collection that follows is only a small excerpt of the material I received. When I sat down to work with it, though, I ran into problems.
It almost goes without saying that other people’s journals are private, and that reading them was a strange experience. Even with permission granted, I felt like a snoop, and I had to do something to claim ownership before I could really think about poetry. The journal entries I received felt very precious, which I think comes from a place of respect, but made it difficult to write poems. The material felt like none of my business. That’s where the collages, or whatever you want to call the second image that appears in each series, come in. Revision, that violent act of love, gave me a stake in the material from which I was drawing. In, short, I had to mess with the pages a bit, which meant cutting things up and moving them around or writing and drawing on and over other people’s work. Some of the collages look pretty cool; some I’d do just as well to recycle. But I think seeing that second, in-between step, is important in exploring how I made the thoughts of others mine. The poems themselves are an odd bunch: some look like poems I’d write anyway, others are quite removed from the subjects I’m usually inclined to discuss. Though this might not be my strongest collection to date, I’m pleased with the outcome.
1
discouraging cowboy songs
nothing free about the range; home is seldom more than a word in a song. watercolor buffalo, antelope, deer— don’t sing about the cattle, nothing but a day job, nothing but a long ride to chicago. don’t sing about mexico, homestead, sod, indians, your grimy irish roots. oh, billy! oh, jesse! sing of the baddies, the paper-faced robbers. don’t sing about your horse, the thing you own, your house, not a prattle-on-about lover.
2
Five foot seven, fish pale skin, combat boots and the most crooked smile I’d ever seen in my life. She was a goddess with her faded blue-rainbow hair, orange half inch gauge plugs and Batman wallet. I nearly dropped my refilled coke with ice from my shaking hands as she said my name for the first time. As she sat down, I felt that the table’s length between us could not have been vaster, that my being was so remote, so removed from the ethereal figure that just slid into the plastic booth across from me. I barely even believed that she was real, enthroned there between me and some overweight, grease-trap changing Burger King employee in all of her fuckthe-world glory. She was not just a figment on the internet, not just a really fancy page with decent HTML, but rather the princess I needed to rescue me from the banality of almost turning thirteen. But then there was me, this bland, oatmeal, wish-wash of a girl with limp strawberry brunette hair, bitten fingertips and some shitty grey tee shirt my mom bought me from the boys’ section at Old Navy. I was the perfect canvas for her four am guro movie fests, DIY wardrobe, medicine cabinet of Manic Panic hair dye and microwavable snacks. Somehow, I think she knew this the moment we met, and deep down, I wanted nothing more than to be molded into her miniature. She laughed at me as I stared wide eyed and open mouthed at her, “God, I’m so glad you’re not some creepy forty something looking to offer me candy and drive me home.” Lake took my hand and led me through the aisles of Rite Aid, across the street and down 69 to the ice cream store I frequented as a seven year old: I bought my favourite flavor and learned hers. We discussed, like snotty teenagers now do in the confines of Starbucks, music and the triviality of knowledge learned in school as compared to what she knew to be the Universal Truths of being almost sixteen. This rang sorely true when she dropped out of high school a year and a half later, proclaiming herself an artist, waiting to be eighteen to get her apprenticeship at a run-down tattoo parlor that seems to be on my way home no matter what route I take. She loved pirates, video games, creating herself from Salvation Army clothing that she would slice apart and suture to make perfect upon her skeleton. After sauntering through an antique car show in an empty parking lot, I found myself laughing
beneath a swing set at the park before the four-way intersection in the heart of town. We were screaming in delight at the metal bars sinking into the ground with each pump of our sinews, the cherry laces in her combat boots flying with the exhilaration overwhelming us. She sprang from her seat and made a perfect parabola in the twilight blanketing the playground, her waffled boot prints sinking into the warm sand ahead of me. I applauded her feat, and just as I was about to take a less graceful attempt at flight, my father’s phone rang from the depths of my pin-studded purse. My toes dug into the earth beneath me, the chain holding my petite form clanking with the sudden imbalance of momentum, the discontinuity that that phone call brought. She stared at me as she dusted off her knees and edged cautiously towards me, her drawn in eyebrows quirking at my shaky voice, trying to explain myself to my father. It was getting dark out, why wasn’t I home yet, where was my bike and who the hell was I with? My eyes began to well up with tears as I threw the phone into the scuffed out hole beneath my swing and buried my face in her chest. Something inside of me was screaming not to let her go, that she was the intricately fashioned expression that would place me at equilibrium. “Don’t worry, hun, I’ll see you again soon,” she whispered, protectively placing a hand on one of my bony shoulders. My watery eyes readjusted themselves to the illuminating street lights around us, the mascara running down my primrose cheeks drying at the sound of her voice. I nodded slowly, and she dug up my belongings quietly as I choked back my sobbing and tried to not make a twelve-year-old ass of myself. Placing my purse, again full of its contents, into my hands, Lake wrapped her lanky arms around my waist and pulled me close enough to memorize the Shea butter and cheap cigarette smell that would forever be my favourite perfume. My eyes were still closed as I allowed my brain to fully process every molecule of her scent, and suddenly I felt something warm amidst the riverbeds on my cheek. Her painted lips pulled away from my face slowly, unconsciously letting the sensation linger and become the ghost of so many fantasies I would create from that fleeting memory. I must have blushed immensely, because she laughed once more before pirouetting up Divinity Street, her tiny wrists waving a silent goodbye behind her.
un/grounded in suburban rhode island getting dark out/why wasn’t i home yet/where was my bike/who the hell was i with//toes dug into earth/cherry laces flying//something inside of me was screaming she was the intricately fashioned expression that would place me at equilibrium// waffled boot prints in the was sand//I applauded love, pirates video games, Salvation, clothing that she would slice apart and suture//across the street and down 69/the ice cream store I frequented as a seven year old/I bought my favorite flavor and leaned hers//she knew the moment we met I wanted nothing more than to molded into her miniature/God, I’m so glad you’re not some creepy forty something looking to offer me candy and drive me home/ the exhilaration overwhelming us/perfect twilight blanketing/four-way intersection heart. but me/bland oatmeal/girl with limp hair/bitten finger tips/ grey tee shirt my mom bought me from the boys’ section at old navy//perfect/fish pale skin/ combat boots/the most crooked smile/goodness// nearly dropped my coke with ice/my hands shaking/ she sat down/just slid into the plastic booth/ enthroned there between me and some over-weight grease-trap-changing burger king employee//needed to rescued from the banality of turning thirteen// wrapped her lanky arms around my waist and pulled me close enough/memorize the shea butter and cheap cigarette smell that would forever be my favorite perfume//scent, and/something warm amidst my cheek/her painted lips/my face slowly/ unconsciously//the sensation/ghost of fantasies//my father’s phone rang. the discontinuity that phone call brought//edged cautiously towards me/her drawn in eyebrows quirking at my shaky voice/trying to explain myself to my father/eye readjusted to the illuminating street lights//I choked back my sobbing/a twelve-year old ass/blushed immensely//pirouetting up divinity street/tiny wrists waving/the Universal Truths of being almost sixteen/waiting to be eighteen/at run down tattoo parlor/Don’t worry, hun, I’ll see you again soon/she whispered protectively/hand on/ bony/silent goodbye behind her.
3
Where the Arts Reside
Who builds the houses that the Arts live in? Believe! Believe! We’ve got modern-day temples— Hey, lo, they just don’t make ‘em like they used to.
And do the Arts have summer homes? Houses down the shore? Music in Avalon, Dinner Theatre in Seaside Heights, Craft-Fair Garbage in Rehoboth, Retired-Mom Painting in Cape May. They’ve got a boot camp, a bridge club, and their children racing kites in the sand, pink with Jersey sun.
4
Lars in Winter
It hasn’t snowed since Lars started porking the 9th Ave barista. Since May he’s been playing drinking black coffee and playing online poker at the 9th Ave Starbucks, and since June he’s been porking the barista after. Will the snow slow him down? Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. These gals. Seasonal. Like deer and ducks, like his teams. Baseball gives way to football give way to basketball, and a little overlap never killed anybody. 9th Ave is getting fatter, but he likes it— Something to hold on to, he snarl-smiles, but really, really she seems a little more honest with some meat on her bones. He could do with a pinch of honesty, and she, it seems, at least hasn’t gotten bored of him yet.
5
What Are We Becoming?
A euphemism for something terrible, no? But are the bad guys really that reflective? C’mon now. Chin up. Cynicism squarely in your jaw.
Or is it something about growing up, something, something, linear time, something, & something, we’re doing it together?
Can we steal a word a heavy as “evolving”?
C’mon now. Shoulders back. Wit in your eyebrows, your tongue. Align your heartbeat to the CNN news ticker. Deep breathing; slow motion; eyes up, out, everywhere: This how you brace yourself for whatever you are.
6
To the girl who wrote “I really, really wish I were pretty” on the wall of the library study cubical
Really, really.
Mumble-grumble patriarchy, mumble-grumble love, But what really gets me is where and how you wrote it— when graffiti isn’t art, it’s probably a prayer.
I’m no rat-faced god, got no answers, can’t turn your pumpkin into a carriage, can’t even spin straw into gold. No, but that isn’t what you’re asking. Pretty doesn’t fix things, it only greases the gears of this aching, tumbling clock.
7
Anonymous Hands
Three different fists, one open, one angry claw, one counting to two or signaling peace, a man looking at his fingernails. You artists and your anonymous hands. What’s a hand supposed to do without a body? Look long enough and they’re creepy, quivering, Buzzing, high off the freedom of dismemberment. Are hands gendered? Sexed? Jesus, look at all that energy, suddenly, when they were just so flat on the page. Do hands have names? Feelings? Souls? Do souls come in different sizes? Or, Like a shoe-store sock, does one-size-fit-all. Jesus, and what about feet? Noses? Knees? What would a knee do on it’s own? Are a hand and a wrist friends, or does a hand own a wrist like I own a leg? Can you smell my uneasiness? Hands should be attached.
8
Cathy dreams of the desert
1.
“Just let me get lost in the desert and sleep there until I am dead,” I thought, feeling the wobble as I drew another fat-legged horse under fat-nosed faces, my fat arms swaying as I penciled-in the staccato lines of the fat beast’s mane. Hadassah arms my mother called them, pinching the extra meat above my elbow and shaking her head, I’m sorry, you got them from me.
2.
My mother is finally getting old, ten years behind everyone else’s. Her olive skin is finally pooling, like wallpaper in an old house finally giving in. I’m getting old, too, differently, but I still can’t draw horses, my Hadassah arms unfair, the paunch between my hips and breast unfair, and this self-loathing, unfair. Shame on me, shame, shame, dreaming too often of a temporary shipwreck, a stomach flu, the stress of something adding up to less, not more.
3.
The desert would cure me. I’d adjust to the nagging cacti. “You are boring and we hate you,” they would sing, and I would cut out their hearts to swallow their secret water. I would have to. The buzzards, too, so comfortable naked they leave their heads undressed, would caw and caw, “Look at her fat fat fat arms, look at her, good enough to eat,” I would kill those birds and suck the gristle off their bones.
9
Sex Thoughts – December 12th, 2011
Where would we be without Sex in the City or our more vulgar, daring poets? Either way my mind is half here, (
at least a third here)
here with this sweaty tangle, the slanting light, and so forth, etc. (don’t think me disenchanted, but
)
Look, I can think two things at once: One all hips & hips & leg & mouth & tongue, And the other, back in Westendorf with Case, on top of the summer mountain, the big cross flying like on every tenth alp, him saying: How do you deal with the aftermath? — a difficult question because of course it varies, and of course saying so is a cop out, so I say, In some cases, we barely speak. In most other cases, it’s fine— we see each other casually or socially or not at all, & here, now, in the tangle, etc., what will this be? all bare and barely speaking, me, half-in-love, half-head-out-the-window.
10
Krakow is the poet city but they moved the Dodge Poetry Festival to Newark, NJ
I’ve never been to Krakow, but I’ve been to the Krakow section of the Polish-American Festival at the Shrine of Czestochowa, a campus of a church behind a horse farm in a Philadelphia suburb— Labor Day: the priests dancing, the church ladies manning tents, One-eighth, one-sixteenth, the Eastern European mutts all claiming heritage, $4 paper baskets of pirogues, red approval of the penned chickens, the crafts for sale, but turning their eyes from the Pro-Life signs, and we, we teenage-labor paid only in free kielbasa and embarrassing pictures, are sneaking the plum wine by the mouthful, are stomping cabbage and dancing fake drunk polkas.
And perhaps Krakow is the poet city,
But I’ve been to Newark, and Amiri Baraka is from there, Allen Ginsberg, and someone told me Walt Whitman, but that might not be true. All those Jersey boys riding the train over the boarder to coolness. Newark that lives in the shadow and steals the sound of the real City, that the train rolls through, that starts you dreaming all the right gray dreams.
11
three-fifths of a thought
i like to think i’ve paid my moral debt, that no hell more hot and more private and clean is coming down the pipes.
theres at a least fifty ways to fuck up a morning. i tried at least twenty, at least a dozen of em involving frozen cat shit, my abuse of cigarettes and cnn.com, or my fetish for exploring pitfalls.
a guy put his cock in a cement mixer and i’m not that guy, i swear. now, my stinger fell off. now, i go to the kitchen to whine and dine on orange juice and dog food, dying with a giddy slowness.
12
Historiography “the principles, theory, and history of historical writing”
– Merriam-Webster definition of historiography
Truth is an old flame you follow to Mexico, knowing already she’s changed her name, dyed her hair, and turned your letters into rolling papers. But there’s nothing to do but keep searching, with nothing but the scent of context and a library card to guide you through the drug lands, the sublime desert.
13
Things That Matter
pain, in it’s many poison flavors nights, and their cliché endlessness lovers, sorted by decade and seriousness some conversations, but not others games, the social ones, alas they add up busy work, which also adds up the drugs you do when you’re nineteen, though less than you might think most events after 2 am heirlooms, and what you do with them yard sales, and how you feel about them knowing when there’s a war going on knowing how to drive in snowy weather knowing what year it is & if it’s a weekday knowing your p & q’s, minding them good spelling, when it counts counting- 2- 3- 4knowing when it counts
14
Questions for a Mathematician
The numbers and letters I think I know are made suddenly foreign, directions listing street signs I cannot begin the sound out. We ought to exalt these wizards, who juggle with imaginary hellfire, who’s brains are cities like all of our brains are cities, but who’s streets and buildings are laid out in different shapes.
Whole neighborhoods, I must imagine, of clean directness, potholes, like anywhere else, and fuzzy suburbia at the edges, sudden marketplaces where business is conducted in symbols and nods and like the pursuits of my city, my mind, I imagine, the soul must blow through, a breeze or a hurricane, when the page turns exciting. Does a water main blow when he senses something magic? Can he taste the tininess of exited electric air? Like any city worth it’s weight in pencils, do a few windows stay lit as the city slinks or slumbers?
15
Paideia
Paidedia, a good name for someone’s perfect sister: Nice hair, keeps the faith, smart as whip. I read that in Ancient Greece the word paideia meant the perfect education: rounded as river stones, wrestling, rhetoric, poetry, love, arithmetic— the polished traits of a well-rounded Greek. Well-rounded, no corners. No corners, no niche, No niche, no job, no crackers, just wine and wine, Don’t drink the water without taking the pills. Perfect sister Paideia, open yourself up, spread your expert legs. Bring on the boys for their mediocre rides.
16
The Terrible Necessity of the Ballet Badger, et cetera
The ballet badger lives in my stomach, vacations in my liver, and dances on the stage of my tongue. The ballet badger, aggressive and unkind, feeds on the grubs worming in the rotten parts of my soul, burrows in deep, gnaws the roots of my unbrave spine, and licks and sucks the fallen fruits of my brain. Drunk on this, the ballet badger finds his bravery, ties up the ribbons of his womens’ shoes.
on pointe the ballet badger is graceful, elegant and poised, et cetera. all the right ballerina things, et cetera. relevĂŠ, relevĂŠ, up, et cetera, precision of a badger trained by a slim Russian with a cane, lifting from the head chest nose, et cetera pointing of the paws, match it the teeth, et cetera dancing to make language out of filth, et cetera