Sleeping in with Saturday

Wake up and try to recall;
forget, and go back to sleep.
Hopscotch back to the starting line.
Hold my hand and I'll show you
the precise angle of my foot when
I took the first step, but let's not
count the ones I retraced--not yet.
Days like this never come.
I break the zipper on
my favorite pair of jeans.
I rip out the pockets
and constrict my wrists with the
suspended belt. Smile,
and call me mad.
Night comes with cold. I pour
wine from a box, wishing it was
whiskey, and trace the rivers
on a map of India with my bare
ring finger. I'm careful not to spill.
Morning is late again. I pretend
I had never really woken up,
wrapped in a new weekend,
sleeping in with Saturday.
My breath is damp, thick
with fermented conversations
I had never spoken--not yet.
Days like this never come.

I watch from the porch

I watch from the porch as he laughs indoors. Almost night--lies don't count in the dark. The dog catches flies in the light from the kitchen with broken teeth; I catch only what I can--sometimes, rare fireflies in the jar he dropped and nearly broke last year. Tonight, I catch my breath, and I catch his words when clear and desperate. Some are lucky enough to not be careless, not to be netted by the screen in the door, carried by whatever impulse carried me. I haven't swept this threshold in four angry weeks of almost night, and he hasn't left his room. But he's laughed.

So I'm in a Poetry Workshop...

...and it's pissing me off. My poems are not well-received, so I decided to compromise, and tweak myself to the expected with each assignment. In the name of getting a good grade, and for the sake of updating, here are the results of the "riddle poem" exercise based on one by Sylvia Plath, and the "sensory poem" exercise:


(Riddle Poem)

A pride of tomboys
The bane of peaches
A sensitive stain that spreads into yellow
A sallow reminder
A painful regret
The tender kiss from an angry fist
A crocodile shadow in a still pond.


(Cute, right? I hope you can figure that out.)


January in a Dark Room

I smell your skin as you come in
from the rain, clothes heavy
and constricting. In my bed,
You smell familiar, chemical,
clean in the way sweat cleans.
Pouring from pores, in your hair,
into pooling sheets, it seeps:
signature, sweet, nostril-deep.
Damp, close, and smoke-rich,
you smell as incense might--
at night, alive and breathing calm,
after sex, before you wake--
incense burned as autumn falls
into place after a wet-dirt summer.

Heat rises; so do we.
You leave, and leave me drenched.



So there you have it. Concerning important matters: How 'bout that fire?

Independence Day

Flares in fireworks
Over summer skin and tables:
Glare-screened bravery
Spreading like a window-cat,
Spidering in veins
Of darker legs,
We anchor the noose
To an unstained ceiling
(a new disease,
afraid of healing)
Soon hands retreat
Into sweatshirted shyness:
First palms, then knuckles
Curl into silence--
A dull, sweet static
Approaching dogmatic--
Familiarizing logic
With assuaging return;
Now we count minor keys
At a slower speed.

Happy September, Blogger Slash Novelists

Don't pretend you haven't fantasized about Random House publishing your blovel.

We Swing In Earnest

A heavy load makes little progress:
slow courtship marked by the constant toll
of the self-promoting Nostradamus
who decodes the end of the exceptional
as ineluctable amnesty swims through the door.
We swing in earnest,
asking questions like embroidery,
blowing kisses and chances
like incidental pollen in a faltering accent--
You spill your drink all over me,
I spill myself all over you, holding your head
as we fold and join the nervous herd.

Dear Jenny

Jenny, instead of simply whining whyyyyy? to all who know me, I would like you to understand something: In the very small world that I populate with many a young wannabe, you're my hero/inspiration/idol/god/only woman to make me question my sexual orientation. I aspire to attain your style and apparent comfort in expression, and would volcanically sacrifice kittens to channel your voice. For Christ's sake, I even attended a party with the theme of "What I Want To Be When I Grow Up" dressed as you.




But I went to that party as the Jenny I know and love—the Jenny with the adorable freckles left over from Troop Beverly Hills; the Jenny in a politely-sexy red dress and flanked by the grown Shining twins; the Jenny so desired by the third party in this love triangle; the Jenny with a sweetly ferocious talent to make me smile while crying, and vice versa, and all the while, feel infinite.

But, oh, Jenny. What have you done?



Since when did the words “money” and “maker” repeated ad nauseum with a few poor rhymes a song make? And even if the room I occupied did start to get a little warm while watching you, why all the dark glitter and suggestive shadows and seductive pouts? Do you want your musical acclaim disintegrating into a vulgar moan or two while Pop Warner teams masturbate with the music muted, further twisting the image you’ve already begun to tweak into the realm of the pathetic?? You’re better than that, and a frighteningly better songwriter… at least, I thought so, and would still hope to believe that your gifts haven’t dwindled down to a portion that would leave foxes hungry.

My love for you persists, yet I’m not sure what to think of this new you: Is this a snide little joke of yours, a sly dig in Mtv’s ribs that only your pretty little red head gets? Or perhaps a cry for help as the indie- and pseudo-indie-kids drown in pre-packaged-Hilary-Duff-bubble-gum-porn? This being pondered, I honestly await the new Rilo album with a little fear, and a tad more anxiety, wanting to believe that maybe, as usual, I’m just being the cynical post-adolescent girl I’ve come to be while clinging to your footsteps.

Until that fateful day, know that I love you, Jenny. But, if the next time I see you, you’re living in a mansion house and wearing a rabbit fur coat, a break might be the best idea. I hope you sort yourself out, Jenny, for everyone’s sakes. Because until you do, I might have to pretend to be somebody else—or, God forbid, me. So save yourself, Jenny, and save us all.

Listening with love and fingers crossed,

Kait

Adventure in Apathy and Summer Solitude

For the four of you who check this on occasion, you and I are quite aware of an accute absence of updates since June. Unfortunately, I don't have any adventures abroad to share, no exotic stories, no pictures, no poems... you get the idea. There has been productivity, sure-- but very poor progress, and very little, and the results are hardly worth an obscure posting on the internets. Thus, the lack of excitement or work in my life translates rather easily, and without surprise, into a parallel lack here. So, my apologies, and I promise to try to get on top of things at some point before the summer ends. Maybe.

We'll see.