Category Archives: Poetry

The (Horrors) Nip Slip

I, like many of you, have been consuming the Olympics. I’ve been delighting in Mr. T’s tweets. I’ve grown a strong new respect for figure skating. And then…and then…and then someone’s nipple was exposed! Her discipline and focus prohibited her from stopping the routine to put the costume together again. And yet, if you have never heard of French ice dancer Gabriella Papadakis before, odds are pretty good you peeked at her boobie this week.

I think it kind of exposed that old Victorian (or worse, Puritan) attitude of many Americans. We want to flirt with the idea of nudity but we so want to judge the nude. I decided to take the opportunity to resurrect an old poem’s audio to try to re-teach this lesson. Everyone’s body is just variations on a theme.

Looks Blue

(6:28)

 

Yeah, I know. This is an older piece. Kind of makes me think of hippies and beatniks. Not quite enough to consider hep cats or zoot suiters.

untitled

The last time I saw you was February, 1969.
You surprised me at my apartment.
You were dressed in your white drug store uniform.

I don’t know if the tie was hung on the doorknob,
(or the sock, more likely since I didn’t own a tie)
but my roommates stayed gone that afternoon.

I had been watching you for three years.
You had the most wonderfilled lips,
with a muscle car boyfriend who had been around all the while.

You came in and we drank juice.
We talked in my hippy bedroom about Dylan.
We kissed to “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.”

We talked/touched on top of my tee shirt and your stiff nylon
Until your boyfriend sounded long anger in the street.
You looked afraid and pleaded for me to stay while you left.

I wondered about you for weeks – remembered.
The snow melted. I heard you were killed
In your car by a freight train at an unlit country crossing.

Quick Memory

A teaching moment.

If you could plant
neat rows of
honey clover
in red East Texas soil,
it would grow
full vocal chords and
lips to whisper at night
about gators and
water moccasins
in the damp bottom lands.
They would be Brenda’s lips.
The voice would be low and
quiet and
husky from whiskey.

smarsh