Ninety-Fifth Entry

Approaching the hundred poem mark, and this blog is circling the drain. You know what's gonna fix it? NAPOWRIMO! National Poetry Writing Month is very near at hand, and I for one and taking it as a clarion call to get some new work done. And I've already made some major progress, having finally started a manuscript project in earnest. Also, two readings are coming up. One is the Dick Pig Review reading on April 8th at Galapagos Art Space, with the estimable David Lehman, some Dick Pig regulars, and the cabaret magnificence of none other than Miss Harvest Moon. The second is a reading at the 440 Gallery in Park Slope. I'm forgetting the date, and the last time I went to a readinf there, I looked for the place for an hour and couldn't find it. Hopefully I will find it the night of the reading.

Here's my poem:

SKELETON

Worried about New Wave?
I can remember so many chilled white mornings,
the warm red of my sweatpants, the shine of green
glinting off of the wrapping paper. That convenience,
like that convenience store, disappeared and was replaced.
I go by the hair salon everyday and wail on the rubbery
glass and then run away. The hot air mixing
the tobacco cuts through the lung. Tiger
in display case, passive lips, a night
at the county jail, immobile like a fossil
with a grin on its face.

This imagination is more pleasing than flannel sheets,
in which I tangle. I’m not uncomfortable while sleeping.
I have a crush on the girl who hands out tickets
at the outdoor theater. The night is always brown
with geraniums bouncing out of the creek while she sheds her skin,
like peeling a chicken, slow and noisy, and sliding in.
I like when she glows in the water, like I imagine a radio wave.
Unhealthy. Something alien about seeing her bones in motion.
Once a fish has curled in her swimming ribs,
They shrink it into a crumble of scales. I’ve been trying
to talk to my mom, sagging and growing more pink and skinny.
I’m great at sulking. I break every matchstick
and put it back in the box. Someday
I’ll tell her when I hand in my money for the ticket.
You see, everybody I know is a widow.
Even my best friend smiles with a skinny widow’s grin.