64 pages16 entries x 4 pageshand-picked & uncensored

Other People’s Journals: Poems

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

¶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.

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. Sent at 9:51 PM on Wednesday

1

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. Sent at 9:51 PM on Wednesday

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

Fivefootseven,fishpaleskin,combatbootsandthemostcrookedsmileI’deverseeninmylife.Shewasagoddesswithherfadedblue-rainbowhair,orangehalfinchgaugeplugsandBatmanwallet.Inearlydroppedmyrefilledcokewithicefrommyshakinghandsasshesaidmynameforthefirsttime.Asshesatdown,Ifeltthatthetable’slengthbetweenuscouldnothavebeenvaster,thatmybeingwassoremote,soremovedfromtheetherealfigurethatjustslidintotheplasticboothacrossfromme.Ibarelyevenbelievedthatshewasreal,enthronedtherebetweenmeandsomeoverweight,grease-trapchangingBurgerKingemployeeinallofherfuck-the-worldglory.Shewasnotjustafigmentontheinternet,notjustareallyfancypagewithdecentHTML,butrathertheprincessIneededtorescuemefromthebanalityofalmostturningthirteen. Butthentherewasme,thisbland,oatmeal,wish-washofagirlwithlimpstrawberrybrunettehair,bittenfingertipsandsomeshittygreyteeshirtmymomboughtmefromtheboys’sectionatOldNavy.Iwastheperfectcanvasforherfouramguromoviefests,DIYwardrobe,medicinecabinetofManicPanichairdyeandmicrowavablesnacks.Somehow,Ithinksheknewthisthemomentwemet,anddeepdown,Iwantednothingmorethantobemoldedintoherminiature. ShelaughedatmeasIstaredwideeyedandopenmouthedather,“God,I’msogladyou’renotsomecreepyfortysomethinglookingtooffermecandyanddrivemehome.” LaketookmyhandandledmethroughtheaislesofRiteAid,acrossthestreetanddown69totheicecreamstoreIfrequentedasasevenyearold:Iboughtmyfavouriteflavorandlearnedhers.Wediscussed,likesnottyteenagersnowdointheconfinesofStarbucks,musicandthetrivialityofknowledgelearnedinschoolascomparedtowhatsheknewtobetheUniversalTruthsofbeingalmostsixteen.Thisrangsorelytruewhenshedroppedoutofhighschoolayearandahalflater,proclaimingherselfanartist,waitingtobeeighteentogetherapprenticeshipatarun-downtattooparlorthatseemstobeonmywayhomenomatterwhatrouteItake.Shelovedpirates,videogames,creatingherselffromSalvationArmyclothingthatshewouldsliceapartandsuturetomakeperfectuponherskeleton. Aftersaunteringthroughanantiquecarshowinanemptyparkinglot,Ifoundmyselflaughing

beneathaswingsetattheparkbeforethefour-wayintersectionintheheartoftown.Wewerescreamingindelightatthemetalbarssinkingintothegroundwitheachpumpofoursinews,thecherrylacesinhercombatbootsflyingwiththeexhilarationoverwhelmingus.Shesprangfromherseatandmadeaperfectparabolainthetwilightblanketingtheplayground,herwaffledbootprintssinkingintothewarmsandaheadofme.Iapplaudedherfeat,andjustasIwasabouttotakealessgracefulattemptatflight,myfather’sphonerangfromthedepthsofmypin-studdedpurse.Mytoesdugintotheearthbeneathme,thechainholdingmypetiteformclankingwiththesuddenimbalanceofmomentum,thediscontinuitythatthatphonecallbrought.Shestaredatmeasshedustedoffherkneesandedgedcautiouslytowardsme,herdrawnineyebrowsquirkingatmyshakyvoice,tryingtoexplainmyselftomyfather.Itwasgettingdarkout,whywasn’tIhomeyet,wherewasmybikeandwhothehellwasIwith?MyeyesbegantowellupwithtearsasIthrewthephoneintothescuffedoutholebeneathmyswingandburiedmyfaceinherchest.Somethinginsideofmewasscreamingnottolethergo,thatshewastheintricatelyfashionedexpressionthatwouldplacemeatequilibrium. “Don’tworry,hun,I’llseeyouagainsoon,”shewhispered,protectivelyplacingahandononeofmybonyshoulders. Mywateryeyesreadjustedthemselvestotheilluminatingstreetlightsaroundus,themascararunningdownmyprimrosecheeksdryingatthesoundofhervoice.Inoddedslowly,andshedugupmybelongingsquietlyasIchokedbackmysobbingandtriedtonotmakeatwelve-year-oldassofmyself.Placingmypurse,againfullofitscontents,intomyhands,LakewrappedherlankyarmsaroundmywaistandpulledmecloseenoughtomemorizetheSheabutterandcheapcigarettesmellthatwouldforeverbemyfavouriteperfume.MyeyeswerestillclosedasIallowedmybraintofullyprocesseverymoleculeofherscent,andsuddenlyIfeltsomethingwarmamidsttheriverbedsonmycheek.Herpaintedlipspulledawayfrommyfaceslowly,unconsciouslylettingthesensationlingerandbecometheghostofsomanyfantasiesIwouldcreatefromthatfleetingmemory.Imusthaveblushedimmensely,becauseshelaughedoncemorebeforepirouettingupDivinityStreet,hertinywristswavingasilentgoodbyebehindher.

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- 4-

knowing 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. relevé, relevé, 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