Thursday, January 29, 2015

To Brunhilde, My New Cat

To Brunhilde, My New Cat
I understand
You needed reassurance.
You were being impossible,
Feeling insecure.
So I got out the oven mitts
Engaged a fist fight in the closet
With you snarling at me
On my sweaters.
I told you to get off them
And get real.
Now you purr wildly
Whip around my legs
Throw your lean body at me,
Demand attention, tail high in the air,
A true female, a hundred percent
Siamese lilac point, and I rueful
In the middle of a divorce
Watch you in slight envy
Nose twitching
Stand my ground
Desiring never be in
Your shoes again.

The Wife of All Husbands


The world and his wife came.

Oh no no, you are mistaken

His wife was his world.

The reins, she made sure,

Were in her hands,

All his contacts carefully

Screened, the sieve was a very

Tight knit, like her vagina

He believed. The sacred home where,

All heaving hearth and rarely uplifted joy,

He fantasized one day sooner than later,

A tornado would ravage the homestead;

He would become king at table awaiting his supper.

Super was never known to cook itself in a cornfield.

Menu planning was not the world’s strong suit,

He just fancied the maid.

Stepping Into My Old Life
It has not yet been a year.
This headache is killing me.
Same tired social setting: the party
At which again I found one person to
Talk to; the concert in which I again
Sang rather mediocrely; the dinner
Invitation where I again watched my friends
Spin in their own muck unchanged,
Trying to make the best of it. Spatter.
It, spatter, has not yet been a year.
This headache is killing me.
Dawning social setting:
Alone in my apartment I cannot
Simply read and sip ginger tea,
Coping with Brunhilde’s clingy attitude.

I told her I had formally requested
To round it off soundly at the lawyer’s office:
We’d officially separate the bank
Accounts on our fifteenth wedding anniversary.
She told him.
She told me of their plans to celebrate
Their first time sex anniversary. An ecstasy pill each,
The children farmed out for the weekend.
He told her.
Instead of giving her rapture he confessed
His three month old mistress, rounding off
The ten years they had slept together.
Maybe not such a brilliant idea after all.

Thursday, January 1, 2015

Habitual Resolutions

First Poem of the New Year
Fleas, these last December days
Regrets itch; there is little else to do.
Impatient for Opportunity,
Day Number One.
Plunge into the cold sea,
Prompt knitwear with blue logo
Issued by a sausage manufacturer,
Exuberant for publicity,
Appears on your wet head.
Confident, as portend scabs,
The money will roll in,
Victorious waves.
Are you still here reading about New Year’s Resolutions? It’s Friday, thus fish?
I tell you, I have never taken New Year’s Resolutions seriously, I must have always been blind to the calendar of martyrs.  Indeed I never understood the concept of a calendar, but I didn’t grow up behind a plow and Northern California was pretty much year round rain and mist in the morning, moderate sunshine in the afternoon. One simply had to change apparel between the seasons mid-day and wonder whether it would be sushi by the afternoon or at dinner, or perhaps whether the miso soup weather report would stick until 11:55 followed by waffles. 
Why not beat oneself up right out of the starting box, day one, and go take a salty frigid bath? Actually growing up in Northern California it was possible to do this every day. New Year’s Day over and over on the beach in July. We generally refrained.
Carefully considering the matter, rolling it over in my mind, I ask myself: What would I like to reprimand myself for and then make it a complex full of guilt and remorse for the coming twelve months should I prove faulty?  Lose weight? I’ve slowly lost weight all year round. I’ll probably lose more so I won’t obsess about it. Drink less? I’ve stopped drinking, and except for this holiday in France, I can’t see why I would like to change habits. Apparel! Now there is an idea.
“Every time a picture is posted on FB of you on stage performing, I think to myself that’s not really Persephone,” stated my long term friend, a woman with excellent taste.  Yes, every time I am about to enter the stage wearing Some Soprano Get-Up, I steel myself carefully to Make It Work While Ignoring the Fact That 93 Percent of the Time I Don’t Like What I Have On My Back.  This is an area that needs work, the clothes that is, not the attitude.  Continuing this matter onto daily life, having spent the last dozen years primarily in second hand clothes, I think it’s time to slowly weed out the crappy items that have retained their hold, things that fit or that basically work, while I continue to lose weight (knock on bouillon cubes) and replace them with more attractive and flattering options bit by bit per month perhaps a carefully selected item from a boutique would help.  First hand, not the second hand option with moth holes. New Year’s Resolution: Get the Crustacean Stew Together and Dress Better.