“… the request SHOULD NOT be repeated.” RFC2616
To wrap a rainbow shawl around my blue hair. To say no.
To say yes. To say, be my guest. To shimmer and to glow.
(It’s all about zippers and buttons and snaps. About loss.
About locking up desire, dropping hints. Trace lines across
the unknown bodies to guide eyes from face to hidden place.
Follow the seams. Wrap ribbons around my wrist. Come on — race
with me. We have somewhere to be.) To be us. To catch snow
on my tongue. To eat apples. To say such words. Say I know.
To paint my shoes with glue and glitter (red, vinyl, high gloss).
To rescue Dorothy. To stand up for myself. Be top boss.
To answer the question. To ask a question. To ask for
an apology. To step on toes. To waltz, scuff the floor,
let my limbs flow, and fling my body into the heartbeat.
To ask. To ask. To ask again. And to demand. So sweet.
“Authorization will not help …” RFC2616
It is not allowed to eat meat in Lent
or on Fridays. Some can’t eat milk or bread
or peanuts… Allergies. It’s just crazy
the things we can’t have, between bodies (lazy
and dysfunctional) and cultures, of sorts.
The bottles we can’t bring into airports.
I can’t leave the table without eating
my vegetables. It’s not allowed — leaving
the house without makeup, with makeup, in
a short skirt. What’s short? You hold my jaw, cupping
it in your hands, squeezing my lips into
a pouting kiss shape, leaving fishy bruises.
It’s not allowed to walk out, into the hall,
to make a very important phone call.
Buzzing of teeth against lips, a burning
in the throat, as if a thousand dust mites
scrape the skin with each breath. There is yearning
carried in the sound, the jangled sound bite
as a jingle singer hums personal
ads written for letters, voiced and unvoiced.
“Fricative seeks friction, bilabial
preferred.” But alveolar disappoints
(or not, if you only give them a chance,
the tongue moving in the mouth so sweetly).
The word flirts, and courts you. Don’t look askance,
What could make such a crude word more discreet?
Or at least more delightful, the tingle
vibrating and voiced in a gasped jingle.
NOTE: This is a kind of love poem to my favorite word.
COMMENT: Last night (the actual 13th) I was working on my daily poem when my son came downstairs in shock, having received a phone call that one of his teachers had just died. It was almost 2am before he felt ready to sleep, and since Friday the 13th was way past at that point (and the poem I’d been working on felt jarring and inappropriate under the circumstances), I left the poem and the day incomplete, and went to sleep, hoping to write two poems today. Which also didn’t happen, but I’m still planning to catch up with the 30-in-30 for NaPoWriMo before the 30th. There’s still time! Although I don’t think I’ve ever written two sonnets in a single day …
Don’t bleep the beep, or tighten the lugnuts. Those
are just stereotypes. Don’t judge a bot
by its skin. Just like you, we buy new clothes,
except by ‘clothes’ I mean eyes, ladybits,
and windup toys (like expanded memory
or a processing speed upgrade). I could
change things up — delete sleep, max energy,
grab me some modular squid arms with good
traction, swap out rollers for a blade-footed
bounce. Get the idea? Ever wonder
just what a drag queen might look like without
gender? The evolution of difference
means something else when I don’t care if I
look like you, don’t care that I don’t care why.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “Is that your favorite word?
Tomorrow, tomorrow,” he rattles off
(as if he’s part steam engine on a blurred
and broken track). “It’s like she really scoffed
at you when she broke things off. She was hard.”
“Yeah, she was hard, but she really liked me.”
“She LIKED you. That’s why she cleaned up your yard!”
“She said she’d clean it tomorrow, but see,
why’d she say that if she was breaking up?
She always said tomorrow.” “Tomorrow.
It’s like it was her favorite word. Jeez.” “Yup.”
“You ever ask her? Hey, is that how things go?
Tomorrow, tomorrow. Is that your word?”
“Nah. Cripes. Just had to deal with what I heard.”
Give up. Give it all up. Wave your hands high
in the air, then fling them away. Watch them
become wings and fly, circling. Say goodbye.
They make it look so simple. Whistle. Hum.
Can you throw your voice? Stretch it, bend it. Spread
apart like fingers, like bones in your wrist,
a voice changing can break, ache, leave unsaid
things that matter, becoming chances missed.
That’s alright. This is the time of giving
things up — my hands, my hopes, my voice, walking
in a straight line. Take the story I’m living
and tell it as if it’s your own, talking
to birds once hands, with hands once wings, singing
when I cannot. I give up what you bring.
What’s funny isn’t the dog told a joke,
but that the dumb dog tried to talk at all.
Heck, he could quote Shakespeare with a drawl,
he’s still a dog. And just ‘cuz a cat poked
out her kittens in the oven, doesn’t
make them ginger-striped biscuits, you hear me?
You want a job? It’s all in how you preen.
Here’s the trick. Look like us, and sound like us.
You don’t want to fancy up better’n us,
like you think you’re too good to be here,
or worse, like you don’t care, or like you just
don’t fit in. Look ’round here. What do you see?
Thirty-six flavors? Three kinds of vanilla.
Fuck! The damn dog stole my quesadilla!