Tag Archives: fabulous clothes

Regular Poem: Dusty Rose Isn’t Dramatic Enough

31 Jan

i’m a woman of
incidental carbohydrates
and accidental reputations
the same face but a thousand
facets
each as genuinely lovely
yet disingenuous
as the fake diamonds
weighing down a butterfly brooch’s
wiry wings
frozen in a tableau of false flight
attached to a cheap but well-groomed lapel
pretending to be
alive and glamorous

rage is an identity
as much as emotion
it’s much easier
to wear it
like lipstick
be known for it
coral garden
is my favorite shade currently
and it’s just the flush of pink
my cheeks go
when i’m on an ultimately nonthreatening and restrained
characteristic
rant

it’s me
that’s the me
i am
known to be

it’s much easier to wear that
than to access the visceral
live the visceral
wipe off the coral garden to reveal
the gaping bloody maw beneath

it’s not a fun rage
satisfied with flipping hypothetical tables
burning down hypothetical buildings
laughing with crazy fury as someone punches me in the teeth
and i shake the sweat from my hair and grin back and hiss
try it harder coward
even as i’m shifting my weight for a counterattack

it’s not a fun crazy rage
just mad relentless recklessness
such an agreeable portrait of me
strong and ready and unhinged and smiling into the sun as
my wings melt but i flap obstinately anyway

it’s a sane rage tinged with
melancholy and stagnation
that gets so tedious so fast
that to preserve my own life
twists itself into maudlin
self-loathing and then
apathy

turn it off
put it on
take it out
in increments
ration it
or
dump it
a steady stream of it
is poisonous
i’ve spent the last few years
building up an immunity

coral garden
topical rant
comically kicks a chair over
rights self and continues day

it’s me
that’s the me
i am
known to be

bare skin
cyclical intrusive thoughts
critically analyzes feelings
rights self and continues day

it’s me
that’s the me
i am
to myself

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Regular Poem: One Goal at a Time

30 Apr

the next thing is
finding a dry cleaner
or maybe grapefruit spoons
no definitely the dry cleaner
considering
how evening wear
rather too consistently for comfort
buys me a couple drinks chats me up
and ends up living in my spare bedroom

in my fantasy version
of the scenario
it’s a front for the russian mob
and the little old lady who runs it
also does alterations
she takes a shine to me
teaches me how to make borscht
and i accidentally get mixed up
in a crime ring for a while

the fantasy for the grapefruit spoons
is a lot less action
less ambiance
just magically
having all matching flatware
without the tedious step of
going through all my flatware
the fantasy quickly
devolves into boring children’s book
if you give a gal a grapefruit spoon


if you give a gal a grapefruit spoon
she’ll want butter knives with the same fleur-de-lis handles
and if you give her the butter knives
she’ll want a fancy butter dish

butter dish leads to gravy boat
gravy boat to tea set
tea set to good china
good china to crystal whiskey decanter

and if you give a gal a crystal whiskey decanter
she’ll surely
drink some whiskey and
if she drinks some whiskey
she’ll more than likely
buy more evening wear online

Regular Poem: NPR Is Going to Straight Murder Me

20 Apr

all things considered
i’m still listening to NPR
yesterday it was an interview with
a lexicographer

and i found myself
in sumptuous daydreams
about words
and their etymologies
and their first printed usages
an idealized version
of myself
sitting in a dark gothic library
scouring microfiches
i see the exact outfit i’m wearing
navy pencil skirt
cream and olive vertical striped blouse
cream cardigan
cream ankle strap pumps
a lot of rings
shimmery nude lipstick
i always feel like
a member of the bletchley circle
when i wear that
but

in this fantasy
instead of a murder board
i’ve got
word diagrams
in that phonetic alphabet
i wish i’d taken a course on
in real life
and then i’m spiraling
and wishing and regretting
instead of fantasizing

i swear
why don’t i listen
to a different radio station

Regular Poem: Secret Tuxedo

2 Apr

I call her Babe.

Not as a nickname, term of endearment,
whatever.
No,
that’s her name.
The kind of name
people don’t even have anymore
probably never had
outside of bad girls
in ’30s gangster flicks, the kind
of woman who carries a different pistol
to match every shade of lipstick, the kind
of woman who sasses the mayor not knowing he’s the mayor
but doesn’t apologize when she finds out. The kind
of woman who claims she was driving the getaway car at the bank heist
to appease her abusive beau
but really
she masterminded the whole enchilada
and laughs as her gang gets
sent up the river without her
and she ends up on the arm of the police commissioner
in furs drinking champagne.

Yes, that’s her name.
Every time
I go in the room
where she resides–
so elegant, so feisty, so
ready to cheat at baccarat
and abscond with the duke’s rubies–
I say,

“Hiya, Babe.”
and wink,
caress her lapel if I’ve got an extra minute.

I don’t care
that she’ll probably
implicate me in a crime,
manipulate me into giving her my inheritance,
ruin me.
For now,
we’re in love, and I’m her willing dupe.

“Hiya, Babe,” I say.
She winks back.

She’s trying to get me to take her out.

“Hiya, Babe,” I say.
She runs her tongue over her teeth.

One of these days I will take her out.
I don’t know how,
but she’ll convince me,
and I’ll think of something.

Regular Poem: The Clothes May or May Not Make the Person (II)

24 Apr

I’ve always been
this way.

It seems to become
more intricate
as I age–
as I gain
more insight into
myself
and other
equally bizarre
things.

Then
I had a hat
I always wore when I played Clue.
It was my detective hat–
some tweed fedora affair,
ugly
and never worn
at any other time,
thrown on
as an 11th-hour accessory
when the occasion arose–
kept in a specific and secure
location.
But now

I cull pieces
and rearrange
push together and pull apart
for every attitude
climate
activity.
Outfit
is a good word
and so is
costume
but
ensemble
fits better:
It’s assembled
or disassembled
from parts
meaningless on their own
ambiguous in the laundry
taking on
new connotations
new shades
old connotations
old shades
different connations
different shades

illuminated
highlighted
deconstructed.

The same
shirt
is suddenly
different

because
the attitude
climate
activity
is
outfitted costumed
in a different
ensemble

because
that ensemble
merges those
disparate pieces
into

a solution–
the solute
the individual article,
the solvent
the character
(or proto-character
for it is unformed
until each molecule
rests squarely on
the one beneath it).

Or perhaps
the solution
is more mathematical
than chemical
and solves for x
and the x is
how to walk
how to talk
what to do
where to go
how to
be.

I try
not to forget
what manner of woman
I am
and could be
should be
have been
am being.

Clothes never forget–
they may obscure
they may suggest
they may thread ideas
they may weave accounts
they may and
they may not
and they sometimes
do
what I tell them.

Regular Poem: Where Do You See Yourself in Five Years

14 Apr

When I’m super rich
the first thing
I’ll do
is hire a tailor

who’ll make me all these
beautifully draped
pieces
that will look
like an extension of myself

not like some bagain-rack jacket
whose sleeves
are too long
that I make work
by jauntily rolling them up

who’ll make me
slacks that are snug
and the right length
and a lot of
one-button blazers
with satin lapels
to wear with them

who’ll make me
gowns and skirts
and just all kinds of blouses
piping and sequins
and epaulettes and brocade

who’ll make me
gush and gush
as I thank her
and throw money at her.

I’ll make some tailor
very happy
when I’m super rich.

Regular Poem: Daydream

24 Apr

It’s a ho-hum humdrum daydream–
no glamor or excitement
no love or enticement–
just an outfit,
the way it’s put together,
culled from pieces,
woven and unwoven again,
yielding itself to vagaries, whims, caprices.

But it’s not just the outfit,
it’s getting into the outfit,
the bit before the outfit,
the primping, yes,
but also the search
through drawers and dressers and closets and piles–
flipping through mental files–
muscle memory, sense memory, memory memory, false memory, wished-for memory–
a clumsy catalogue
of everything and more
and less.

And the reactions
and repercussions
and opportunities
and possibilities.

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