Fatboy Slim - Demons .mp3
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What a Young Man Learns from KW

Kanye said, "Why don't we play something these hoes would like."
and I think that's thoughtful of him
'Cause you know hoes, bitches and shorties,
they like to dance
they all shake ass and give good head
And Mr. West's concerns don't just stop there,
like: "Is it raining hard enough on them bitches?"
"What can I do to make it rain on them bitches?"
"Can I do more?"
and I think that's fair.
He doesn't want a gold digger
which makes sense 'cause we know
hoes bitches and shorties like money
and everybody knows the only way you give
a girl some money
is you throw dolla dolla bills at her
after drenching her with cryst-all.
It sticks better.

It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp

Cause at night, I was 'tasty' or 'bitch'. . .
but my real name is Carolina,
said a beautiful girl
almond eyes,
brown skin, wavy hair
never once
fully
realizing her potential
I didn't like being in
jail
for some dick-head
said a lonely girl
named Carolina

It must be hard, I told my husband,
for Milton Bradley to market
those same games.
Every year, a new commercial for
Monopoly.
Family Fun Night?
What about fathers who must be banker?
Mothers who shout from the kitchen:
"Give your sister her hotel back!"
My husband says that these issue
might just be mine. . . only.
I think it must be hard though.
Making a purse out of sows ear,
is what my mom would call it.

Things disturb me

my habit today is
watching
train wrecks

I don't even say
a thing
when they derail

"If you could only eat three foods for the rest of your life
what would they be?"
The adorable vacancy in Om's eyes told me that Tip
had fibbed about the English proficiency in this class.
He smiled.
"Three foods," I held up three fingers and
spooned imaginary soup in my mouth.
For all Om knew,
I could have said three favorite
General Mills Cereals
or three most despised Jello flavors.
His neighbor translates my question in Thai.
"Chicken. . ." he started.
It was hopeful. I sat on the edge of my seat
nodding like an eager child. Come on. That's it.
"Rice . . ."
Yes. . . Here we go. . . you got it.
"Coconut."
I let out the heaviest sigh and thank God he knew
three.
I didn't give a shit if they didn't make a wit of
sense. Or if Om wouldn't be able to make too many
combinations out of the three ingredients. OR
how much diarrhea poor Om would get from
all the coconut.
My dear sweet Om knew three foods in English!

The brother and sister duo

He runs everywhere and blows spit bubbles because he likes organic creation.
He spins around and arms spanning and knocking into things
He climbs on things and makes unintelligible noises with his lips and hands
She holds open the door for him.

Unsuspecting Things about Charish Roderick

I might be one of the worst dancers I know. I depend on a lot of standby moves in my arsenal. "Reckless Arm Flailing," "Aimless Shimmying," and "Awkward Shoulder Shaking." When I'm at home alone, I will "dance" to Bjork's Earth Intruders until I get a headache and the police are called because my next door neighbor thinks that there is a domestic dispute just beyond the wall.

My mother bought me a recorder when I was ten. I learned how to play Taps really well. I performed it everyday in a long somber key. No one told me it was a song for military funerals.

I write newspaper headlines on my hands so I can use them for conversation starts later. "Johnson Boy Falls Down Abandoned Mineshaft for the Second Time." I find it gets the ball rolling and gets people excited. That's how I got through the first few dates with my now unsuspecting husband. He talked with his hands and I read from mine.

I never proof read my work. My hope is that people will think I'm a literary genius that refuses to adhere to the rules of grammar. Though I feel like this will never catch on . So I feel a little embarrassed when people say, "You've spelled Tuesday wrong." or "this is the wrong usage of the word derby."

Someone said that you shouldn't make fun of people's smiles. Laughs, however are fair game. I'm working on making mine a little less wheezy. When I'm really going at it, I sound like I suffer from smoke inhalation. I'm actually thinking of taking up smoking to cover it up. And then I can finally be the first front woman for a Pearl Jam tribute band--- "Freeeeeezin', rest his head on a pillow made of concrete."

When I was a child, I lied compulsively, stole only what could fit in my pocket, and broke what I could fix later. I told my third grade teacher that I got a new dog, a mixed breed of mutt and mongrel and that I named him Trigger. When my parents found out, it .didn't help my case in getting a dog. I was six when I stole a pack of Juicy Fruit, when my mother found out, we drove back to the store so I could be scared straight with the threat of incarceration. I broke a kitchen cabinet door by swinging on it. I could not fix it.

I lose gloves all the time and I'm okay with it.
I lose pen caps and find it too devastating to live with. I usually take a moment out of my day to mourn the missing half a perfectly useful pen.

As a writer I am more than willing to whore myself out to the highest bidder in hopes that one day Oprah will endorse my books with a sticker and ask me how my writing pertains to her life. I want to walk on her stage, give her a hug and talk honestly to her about my ill fitted bras, my fear of food and how I too pretend to read Faulkner. I will make the suggestion that multi-colored cashmere sweaters from the Gap need to be on her list of favorite things.

I am This Man's Wife

I thought as I walk along the trail
He will run ahead in red shorts and black socks
He will leave those same black socks in the middle
of the floor with his underwear and
he will say it's his method
This man who will not clean after he cooks, but will cook,
is my husband.
He will drink "good" tequila and then scoff at the news,
correcting its absurdities.

I will get tired and he will wait on me.
He will be sweaty and smiling and ready to kiss
me.
Because I am his wife, I will kiss him back.
We will have dinner
He will cook and I will clean the counter
In the evening I will move aside those
socks with my toes and take care not
to knock those red shorts off the door knob.

Tonight
I will look into his eyes and ask myself: why
on earth did you marry me
I will kiss him again, looking for the answer
I will fall asleep in his arms
musing with a smile:
I am this man's wife.

When I was younger
I'd swing around on things
to test their durability
and my weight
the suspense of destruction
thrilled me.
The power to impose my will
to throw my weight
around
was a tease that faded with time
Tension replaced it all

careful to touch this
cautious to take space there

You brought pressure back
you made it fashionable
to press toes against the springboard
As I pushed against your space
and explored my own,
the voice that says
horseplay gets people hurt
fades with time
Recklessness replaces it all

Pants with change in the pockets
lay in the floor
a nondescript black sock sits
nearby
and just as dependable as the last,
sneakers that have taken
awkward steps away from one another
are in the next room
This is why
it is hard to leave home
there are no traces of you on the street.

When my sister and I were kids
we'd sit in our mom's car
in the parking lot
of Kroger and talk about life as we knew it.
I was seven years older than she,
I naturally knew more and so I out
talked her.
She liked to sing loudly from the back seat
I would make requests:
"Sing a Michael Jackson song."
Sometimes to be real jackass goof-offs
she and I would catch the gazes of
old white ladies walking past the car,
we'd act frightened, which wasn't hard for
my sister, the ham of the family.
We'd lock our doors to prove a point.
and then we'd laugh.
Oh how we'd laugh.

Welcome Back

I came home to a dream
an obvious american dream
my legs took me to the midwest
I met with a tribe of friends I didn't
know I had

We smoked a long pipe and bragged
of the ways we'd already been high

I could see that things hadn't changed
things were moving along
stagnate and compliant to the mores
that I'd left before

The angry lesbian says
she likes my hair
and I say thanks
it has cleared the air

It follows me around
like some cloud of soul
defying common idioms,
asking for acceptance
while lacking grace

Less calories will make us remember
Is that study brought to us from
the Swedes?
This is why I don't trust them
They are very fair and skinny
They gave us ABBA
and the clock
No--
That's the Swiss.
The Swedes are
super tall
and very skinny
and apparently have great memories.

fairness
against a door jamb
created sorrow and asked
praise

we can imagine
twelve pained steps

from the fridge to the stairs

you've never heard this song before
have you?

in all fairness
we can imagine

It's a pitiful substitute, a beer and D'angelo singing a cover of Smokey. Serving me the oldest line known,
music is made for love
It really is and I imagine music driving us, two forces with reckless steering.
I should have kissed you. . .
I've switched to something more somber
and for good reason,
it's a pitiful substitute, this song and these memories.

stretched thin as it is
his head heavy on my shoulder
and we sit in the dark.

Comma splicing is seen as a beacon
You know there are greater spotlights in the
universe.

I got nothing to worry about, she says to herself
In the bathroom, she shimmies to Diana Ross and the Supremes,
raises her hand to the mirror and protests a man sullying the name
of love.
Her man sits in the next room half listening to her murmur to the
acoustics of the bathroom, half reading his day's work.
She's got nothing to worry about, so she calls out,
"Hey babe?"
Yes?
"I love you!"
She imagines him nodding with a smile.
I love you too.
okay, nothing to worry about.

I Want to Write a Poem

Everyone knows that they want to write a poem
they feel it in the space between their eyes and hairline
They have lights to guide them in the right place,
towards the sign that says: "Emotions for sale!"
They write like sex shy boys fuck, in the dark against
their will and they finish very fast.
There are usually no takers.

When I thought we couldn't surprise each other,
it's three weeks into the fray and i barely know you.
That's not awful, no, far from it.
I don't need you knowing me just yet either.
We're allowed to love one another with secrecy and
a special kind of deceit.
I'm allowed to come to you wanting your affections
and not tell you why.
You see? Not all is said aloud.

Tonight, I plan to dream

Tonight, I plan to dream about walking though walls and
peering in on a secret meeting of the Masons.
I need to know what's going on there.
I'm going to get caught and there will be
a shoot out, a one sided shoot out
because the Masons still use Crusading Weaponry.
So I somersault through the air with two uzis,
steal back the Cup-o-Christ, and speed away on
jet powered rollerblades. In my dream
I will not be afraid of rollerblades.

I Can't Change

I would never eat black-eyed peas and cornbread if I could help it.
I don't need to get back to any proposed roots, I am not a plant
Have you ever been sick to death of pushed legumes and heritage?

Inside the Bookstore

The tinkling laughter of older women from the table next to us is able to distract me from my own thoughts that puddle around my feet. “He thought I was younger!” Their laughter peels the paint off the walls and sends the lead-laden flecks into the air. “He looked at me and said, “‘Forty?!’” “‘Four-oh?!’”

The next table has two theologians. One older woman, one younger. They are lovers. Interlocked and intertwined with their chairs close and studying, the sounds of their voices are hushed as they sink under the oak of the tables, folding themselves into tiny satin packages.

Bouncy Celtic music cocks my head towards my husband. I look at him and watch his eyes move wordless over the lines of a magazine. His knee bounces to the sound of a fiddle and drum without provocation and without shame. I want to reach out and lay my hand on his thigh, but private times are meant to be private.

The lovers whisper and glance at me as I pass to get water. The younger is kissed on her cheek
The laughing ladies throw napkins in the air to follow the howls of their guffaws.
The walls shake and separate, they lift and my thirst seems less of an issue.
The husband I left is quiet but bursting with unknown energies pulling at the strings of these walls.

Still.

And all that’s heard is page flipping. hums. and tap tap.

And then I said,
Where the words are, the actions follow.
I don’t know what I was talking about
It seemed plausible at the time
looking back, it doesn’t seem true.
It seems a little like a put on.

And then you said,
The nights are long and it feels like
I am falling.
I know you’re joking and I laugh
Which seemed plausible at the time.
We ran past the post of taking
you seriously.

A man with rose colored glasses
has no wallet but he stands in line
for coffee and scone.
I'm going to look for it,
he tells me.
He has people meeting him shortly.
He leaves to sit down.

My List of Grievances

have not been properly aired
nor have they been written and mailed
to the appropriate officials.
Nevertheless,
I have them.
You and I have not much time
left
After this
we will be done and there
won't be much left
I don't work well with
ultimatum. . . I've got no threats
You've got to make good on those
can't do that well
I've just got to say it, without the proper postage
without going through the appropriate channels.
This is it.

It Escaped My Attention

That we've been moving in the same circles that offer nothing but sliced butter pats
on the back
When the time comes to step off of the carousel my shoes will be especially heavy
handed was my approach to getting in
Please hand me my parasol quickly give me my dignity back
the laces of my heavy shoes are caught in the grooves

Someone is Without a Sunday

I asked what time it was on sunday there
and wondered if there was someone not familiar with sunday somewhere.

I Want Hair Like the Ronettes

Beehived and all shiny
with maybe like a curl in the back,
just hanging off my shoulder
all cute like, you know?

I don't like to talk about it.
It's my job and no one likes to talk about their job
My craft is secretive and frightened by strangers.
The words are just there
the ideas just arrive
in time for the lunch special
and they leave in time for the bill

Littered streets and deserted
sidewalks. I walk them
thinking of you.
The wind blows through
my hair, its fingers touch my scalp
and turn my head towards the sun.
You're in that direction
I follow the fingers that pull me along.

We sat down on the bed, taking a couple moments out of our day to listen to Kris sing. You were hunched over your shoes, pulling them on and I sat behind you. Kris spoke like he knew your woes and I reached out to hold you, to rest my head on your back. You stroked my leg and sang softly. And I wept a little against your back, blinking and silently asking you not to look at me. If anyone deserves a good cry, Kris would say, it's you.

No one helps the lame boy
get off of the bus
Knowing better than most,
he stares at the floor
and then gallops away
we watch
out of pity
in amazement
All by himself
he gets off the bus

The apologies are admittedly
halfhearted
gathered from the scraps
that hang around
the bottom of the barrel
you know it
and you make the grandiose acceptance
thank you for skipping
the middle man
let's not talk about
my steps
always my lacking
and my nothingness
and my loss

Remember that serious
discussion we had
about cleavage?
Who were we kidding?
We were in love then.

Basically,
says my friend
I'm ashamed to be white.
I nod
I would be too.
We laugh
It's raining on the way
to the airport.
Common is on deck.
My friend shakes his shoulders
to the beat
and sighs.
It sounds resigning.