Friday, February 29, 2008

Roman Ride

When he’s there, she sits and watches the man who drives our bus with a look of passion in her eyes, that suggests his hands don’t merely turn a wheel, but paint classics more stunning than Botticelli’s. I roll my eyes. She talks like a bird eats: quick suspicious movements, bobbing of the head, and staccato conversation. He looks in the mirror and smiles behind sunglasses. I roll my eyes. I wonder if he’ll get into a wreck because he can’t talk to her and drive at the same time. His constant hitting of the breaks, mimics what it might be like for the two of them to have sex: awkward and full of unnecessary stops. She laughs at something he says. High pitched and shrill. I roll my eyes. The entire bus is here to witness this intimate union every time he stops to speak. Our bodies lurch forward and back in keeping up with his jerking thrusts. I did not ask to be apart of this orgy. Stop go, stop go, stop go, stop go, stop go, stop go, stop go.
I roll my eyes.
Everything about you is unique and beautiful
From the way you dance with wit
and cleverness in our conversations, or
the quirky laugh you give when
you are saying something funny,
that makes me want to laugh as
well until flowers bloom around us
like a Disney movie or something.

Your manner of dress is
hip and sassy.
That is totally cool,
I think I need to start dressing
hip, like a vampire rockstar.
But you,
You already are a rockstar poet.
A vampire poet,
who seduces and . . . with charisma
and charm

Dumbfounded would be swashbucklers like
myself who are stopped in their
steps by your beauty and
brain liquefying smile.

Philipp Rejmer, 2008

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

What Do You Feel?

Abnormal amounts of serotonin.
A pinch of ecstasy.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Portrait: Phil

Although nothing aside from the anniversary of his birth happens in the month of October, it remains his favorite month. He has pants specially made for dancing. Did his tailor tell him that while measuring his inseams? They are brown with houndstooth checkers. I told him how handsome he looks in green. He agrees. He is a nectarine or a strawberry, he's not sure which. His indecisiveness shows how much he knows. He is a kangaroo paw or a bluebell. Again, indecisive. He'd love to be a roaming philosopher. Wouldn't we all? He likes the hearts and minds of women, although I pegged him for a breast man.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

High Five!

Teaching toddlers how to high five
seems high priority to adults.
Well not to me. I have realized how
unlike monkeys children truly are.
It's assumed children have an instinct
to slap others. Is that true? If it is,
What is the evolutionary purpose of
this? When can we expect to evolve
out of this? All I know is that I will
do my part to stop this. So from now
on, no matter how cute the child is, no
matter how much social grace I may
lack, i will not hold out my hand to a kid
and say:
"High Five!"

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

"Who is left to testify?" asks the temporary monk.
"Who can tell my tales better than I?"
The girl in the corner with a half bowl of
soup contests without support from the pulpit.
"I will pick up the pieces," says she.
"A soup spoon is expendable enough and I
never was a fan Campbells."

"Mmh! Mmh! Good!" says the pulpit
with an abnormal amount of gusto.
Where were they one minute ago?
"Who ELSE is left to testify?" asks the tempory monk.
"Who else can tell my tales better than I?

Monday, February 18, 2008

I Am Nothing

I have no interest in poetry anymore, said the somber poet.
My woman has left me, I can no longer create.

I can't flipping burgers any longer, said the boy in the
yellow smock. My best girl ran off with my best pal.

I ain't got no more mojo, said the gritty blues singer.
That damn she-devil of a woman, took it when she left.
With my car.
And my dog.

Friday, February 15, 2008

The Man's Guide to Lap Dancing

For phil

1. One needs the appropriate uniform:
-Drunken sailor
-Proud matador
-Corrupt cop
-Neutral colored sweaters, "cordoroy" pants, and mismatched socks

2. Make certain female is sitting in a stable chair. Things are going to get rocky, so let's keep it safe.

3. Say provocative things to female:
-"Can drop my anchor in your harbor?"
-"You are the heifer to my rutting bull. Let us dance the flamenco!"
-"You have the right to touch my buns, anything you fondle can and will be used against you in the bedroom. . .
-"Happy Birthday!"

4. Supply appropriate music:
-"It's Raining Men"
-"Macho Men"
-"I Wanna Sex You Up."

5. Generate sexiness with smooth dance moves:
-Hip thrusting/gyrations
-Breast cupping (this might get you slapped)
-Running hands through hair
-Pop and Lock it

Danse Russe--- William Carlos Williams

If when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,---
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
"I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,---

Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?


Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Nearly One of Them

To the girls and boys who aren’t black enough. . .
Trust me, you are.
It’s a honey complexion that under cuts your brothers
and sisters.
It’s the music you listen to that perplexes them
the clothes you wear
the rapport you’ve built w/whites
the speech pattern you’ve managed
the secular passions you seek
the power you’ve been given
This baffles them and it riles them up something fierce.

To the girls and boys who aren’t black enough. . .
Trust me, you are.
It’s a honey complexion that draws the whites around
They feel safe and secure with you because they know you
they ask you prying questions
they offend you with black jokes
they marvel your exoticism
they pick up remnants of your Kwanza
they want the general consensus from you
This empowers them and it riles you up something fierce.

The Young Actress's Villanelle

You’ve got a lot of spunk, kiddo
I’ve seen greener pups make an appearance
But you’ve got something, that’s fo’ sho.

In this town, one trick ponies, blow
Monotonous and uninspiring is their song and dance
You’ve got a lot of spunk, kiddo.

They think they’re the shit, all puffed up to crow
You’re plain and modest at first glance. . .
But you’ve got something, that’s fo’ sho.

When will they learn that talent must grow
Arrogance and humility must strike a balance
You’ve got a lot of spunk, kiddo.

Don’t give into their fad, don’t fall to their low
Let them fight it out so you can make your entrance
‘Cause you’ve got something, that’s fo’ sho

Come on stage, sell it to the front row
Bless the balconies, give them a deliverance
You’ve got a lot of spunk, kiddo
You’ve got something, that’s fo’ sho.

Feminist's Rondeau

I’ve walked since the beginning of time
I never needed anyone or their dime
When the world finally goes straight to Hell
I’ll walk there too, right through the Earth’s thin shell
Satan can get my cot ready; I’ll pay for my crime

I ain’t pretty and I don’t tinkle like a silly wind chime
I don’t got good grammar and I don’t like to rhyme
I’m about as bad as the chick that ate that fruit and fell
Don’t piss me off Adam, I’m PMSing

I’m brash and loud, not a damn mime
I’m young and loose, still in my prime
I’ve got the strength of an ox, I ain’t frail
I can spit and cuss, I ain’t a lady as you can tell

Monday, February 11, 2008

I'm here and i want to get there
You're there and you want nothing to do with me
I've got no more than thirty minutes to live
And the pressure's making me a little terse.

No one ever asked you to take up baton twirling
I've always given you the attention you've robbed me for
No one ever asked you to wrestle muskrats for a living.

Did the rain in the snowglobe throw you off? the thunder
in the valley---
was it enough to stop you dead in your tracks?
"the pale faces are coming!"

I never asked you for anything and yet you were
always over there
reminding i should, i can't make you open your
But i can make you raise your arms. Praise!

I've got ten minutes, i haven't told you a damn thing
Luckily you've taken notes. Coward.

Thursday, February 7, 2008

Beware the child that flinches inwardly.
A beaten creature can only cower so low
Before his nose touches the ground
And there's no where else to go
But up.
Anything he's held on to will only
Be used to cause distruction.
All those that rose their hands to him will
Back away in terror. Beware
A child that holds it all in.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Letters to the Little One

Dear Little One,

You're five and you're hanging on the whims of the adults around you. Kansas City, Mo and Ks aren't all that bad. You'll live in the rough parts but you'll see the nice parts later. It makes you closer to mom and you'll never forget it. You'll get the chicken pox, you'll miss your school pictures. Mom is going to take enough pictures to make up for it. Your bus buddy, Luther, is going to write you up for talking on the bus. The world isn't over, people just have to do their jobs. You'll laugh about being a gabber later.

You're eight and St. Louis is full of adventure. You're going to cheat on a math test. Trust me when i tell you it's the last time you pull a stunt like that. You're going to be taking those pictures now, you're going to country line dance. you're going to hate it but you're going to thank mom and dad. Our sister is going to annoy you and take your toys, but you'll deal with it. She's not so bad now.

You're ten and you live in Noblesville, In. You think it's in the middle of bumfuck Indiana, but know this: It's the nicest place you're going to live and you'll end up missing it when you're twenty. You're going to cheat again, but this time it's on a book report about "Pecos Bill: An American Tall Tale." You're going to be thoroughly embarrassed when you're caught. You'll get your shit together later when you realize you want to write for a living.

You're thirteen and you live in Indianapolis, In. The big city. You're not going to fit in. I'm telling you that right now, so you can save yourself the headache. You're going to try and change yourself to blend in. But you and I both know you're not the blending type. You're not going to be welcome by either side, so when you get to the cafeteria, find an empty table and sit down. Open a book, eat your food and enjoy some solitude. You'll learn to cherish it later.

You're sixteen and you've hit Long Island, Ny. You're going to start slow and pick up speed when you find you're really kind of cool. You're going to find some like-minded friends, I swear it. You're going to write like speeding locomotive. you're going to learn how to fight and you're going to like the feeling behind your punch. It's going to make you drunk with power. You'll join fencing because of your crush on the new coach. Our knees will not thank you later. You're going to graduate highschool at seventeen but not before two planes hit two towers only two hours away. You'll be scared and you're going to cry. You'll want to leave New York, but you've got so much more to do. So much more to see. So many more people to meet. You're going to be fine.

You're twenty two. You're back in Illinois. You're going to get fired for the first time. You're going to feel like a failure. Mom isn't going to let you forget it either. You're going to write a book, though. It's not going to be that great but it's a start. You've taken a break from school too. You'll regret it later. But I won't hold it against you.

I can't finish this letter because there's a lot more i don't know. I can't tell you everything. You're not suppose to have all the answers, it's going to make you feel powerless and a little alienated, but you've got to get past that. You've gotten this far, I have faith in us.

Sincerely, The Older you.

Monday, February 4, 2008

Girl, you'll be a Woman, soon.

When i was five, i knew i was going to lead a life that only rang in minor key. i wasn't a somber kid, but i kept things real, if you know what i mean. i knew i would prefer beethoven to mozart. i thought the child prodigy that michael jackson patterned himself after was just too lucky. i wanted 'fur elise' to wake me up; i wanted wanted the symphony no.5 to send me to bed. it's only a minor thing, i'm sure. When i turned twelve, the world was laid out like a rotting corpe left by the spanish inquisition. i could poke it with a stick, expecting more, but it just stunk all the same. Here i am now, in the prime of someone's life and not a dime to my name, not blind but considerably lame. It wasn't until i met you, i fully understood the other notes on the scale. i can't appreciate them without you. you've left an obscene impression on me, like carpet lint in clay. I can never get the shit out. and when you've left you say to me, "smile" it makes you happy. I can't help but revert to old habits. I know how to keep it real, i keep it real very well and i don't think i can forget. i'll hear something in major, but i'm not listening. I'll continue to act like a five year old until womanhood is less subjective, much less major, a lot less involving you. I'm sure it's a minor thing.


The woman played the cello naked in a dark room.
I always found it a curious sight, I considered the
cello to be a man's instrument. To finger the curves
To hold the long slender neck in shaking hands.

She played it beautifully though, her legs were
astride, riding a horse not meant to ridden
bare back.
Her bare feet planted to the floor. Solidly.

This woman's back bent over an instrument not
Meant for her. Her eyes are closed and her breast
moved to the movement of her arm. An arm that
sawed the neck of a stationary figure.

The woman played the cello naked in a dark room
Her notes were graceful and her song honest.
I thought if she were a man the instrument would sound
more lovely. She tamed it though. Bare back.