Phase One, in which Porridge Gets Her Oats
If only incidentally I turned around & you were not watching Bambi. You were not
in the forest fire scene after Bambi’s mother gets shot.
If only incidentally you said
at least this means
you’re powerful. Bullshit
& you chose it.
“All bets” I signed our last
last accidentally. More power
to me, bets makes more
sense than best.
Thank god I didn’t proofread;
thank the other god I’m not
Prufrock, the mermaids better
sing or I’m good
I’m gone—hate to say it but
gone for good, sane enough.
*
Love to say it
but too much Bible
too much early
& the clean
flagging of females
never quite seizes
away, ensconced
long before King Solomon’s
concubines’ cucumbers came
out as the chosen ones:
Solomon was
very very wise
Solomon had
seven hundred foreign wives
three hundred concubines
Solomon was
very very wise.
*
Never a cuddler, always a cutter,
forget toddlers. Plus, to be true
many claim glossies do
it too. “Catalog” & “magazine”
said the same to us all
once, long before this shit
went down, ages before
your pink robe &
my sensational comedrops
said one.
One day, when you stop
running, you may infer
the best of all
my bowing.
*
Yesterday, the first summer day of a spring that itself still has not sprung, I bumped into Maggie—who works at egg—outside of Gap. Gap is far from egg, but Maggie, server at egg for nearly a decade, is well-estranged in the free-range. At egg, she serves eggs & eggs & eggs—the best eggs, anyway we like them. egg refuses to capitalize any of its egg letters: not the e & none of the gs. Part & parcel of an ongoing effort to give away nothing to the authorities. Maggie is not someone I know, well, well. Her face is stillworn soft, in cahoots with beauty, & we talk: she walks everywhere, never takes the subway, refuses to own a bike, believes there are twelve years in a decade, but who am I to say? These are the kinds I look forward to bumping into, nose-to-tail.
Phase Two, in which I Dig a Pinky
To make any girl lose her head move & love late night deli what a find. Not too many power moves—that was last night: thrusting bills on the corner ground, at the feet of the Pink designer, creator of her own underwear, curator of my ex's sweatpants stuffed up my nostrils. Folks need underwear, folks need sweatpants, folks need chicks. Sexy & soft soft & semi, it might be fun to live forever. More power: she did trick a man into carrying her on his back across the East River but does that count? No one would say he was sexy.
