The black men in Chicago would love you.
Oh?
Yeah, you'd go over pretty well.
Like prized beef in an auction.
You know what I mean.
I'm afraid I do.
They holla at anyone.
Yeah?
Yeah, I saw this real fat black girl get on the
train with a bucket of chicken once.
Oh Jesus, a bucket of chicken?
I'm not kidding. I watched this guy
give her the look.
The look? You sure he wasn't just hungry?
He was checking her out. Like I said, You'd
go over pretty well.
I know where I'm going on vacation.
Yeah.

"Untitled" for good reason

What if my name were no longer
Charish Halliburton? What if i
changed it or just never introduced
myself to anyone ever again? Who
am i without a tangible identity?
And is an identity ever tangible?

There's that girl. What girl?
How would they answer? i've
always wanted to know. What
other identities do i have that i
don't know about?
What do they say about Charish Halliburton?

American Girl

She digs mass produced things like
children and beef burritos.
Things that can be bought and sold
like souls and stocks and sofas.
She's bartered her sex and her
toaster oven for the people of her
community. Leases her life out
for pennies on the dollar, buys all
things she never needs. She's a
perfect consumer and projector.
An exceptional piece of work
manufactured by her exceptional
fore-mothers. God bless, she says
on ocassion. God bless beef burritos!

Create, Don't Find

I'm not located somewhere that warrants
my search. I don't need to be found,
I'm right here.
I need to be continued though, built upon,
and expanded. I'd like an exploded view
of my being to be put on display.

Windy Skirt

That is not going to work, I tell myself as we stare into the closet at a white, flouncy, cotton skirt. It will work, myself tells me.

If the sun is just right, it'll be
fine. The light will bounce off of it
and combine all the things in the
world right below your waist. Who
could ask for more?


If the wind is just right, it'll be
fine. The sly winds of the east and west
would co-mingle at a two mile an hour
breeze that lifts the hems above your
knees. Your thighs are caressed and your
hands move fast. How would you like that?

Sidewalk

I'm eating cheesecake
I'm washing it down with Earl Grey
I'm listening to Duran Duran
I'm easily waiting to grow up
And in my leisure time
I'm taking timed sophisticated sips
I'm forking down dainty fork-fuls of cake
I'm hitting the bridge with timed precision
Take me home British Pop Sensations
I'm going to gorge myself with time
I'm going to get a stomach ache
I'm going to regress to my former self.
Take off my sunglasses when I wake up.

Are you Mad?

You ill reputed emotion
anger.
I can barely harness you
w/o seeming amateurish
I sound shrill not frightening.
I'm disappointed, beat
and torn and waiting to
tell my therapist all about it.
The version I tell her will be
indignant and rational, not
annoying. But it's her job
to sit there and nod thoughtfully.
You're a shoddily used emotion
anger
To stifle myself I'll say nothing.
Being full w/you
is not satisfying.
I turn out only petulant not frightening.

Idle Chatter

I've told a thousand stories, one more mundane than the last. I'm getting responses, mostly laughs, all at my expense. It's expensive and it predictable, but I keep telling them. If I didn't, then I'd have to write them. If I write them, there's a chance that no one will read them. I don't want to tell you about the way oil slicked water runs down a storm sewer. I don't need to tell you that the geese in my front yard are freeloaders looking for scraps of bread. You didn't ask, I know you didn't, but it's my job to tell you anyway. You dig? If I didn't tell you, I might have to write it down and then you'd really miss out. Did I ever tell you about the time I fell down an oil slicked water fall, down a storm sewer and onto the back of a subterranean goose who asked about the pieces of rye toast sticking out of my pocket?

1984

Are you ready?
For the stations and your children to call
80's and 90's the oldies.
Jesus, my mom is such ROOTP!
(acronym for Really Old and Out of Touch Person)
Spears' burnout will have to compete with Joplin's
and we'll shake our heads and muse: Remember?
Oh yes, we'll say. "Hit me baby, one more time."
Are you prepared? Did you fire up the
teleporter this morning? Do you have pill-form
steaks on sale?

One Month

One month?
It made no sense when I first heard it.
There's no way I should feel better in one month.
I thought about you just the other day
and I tried to make myself cry.
I stood still for a moment and crinkled my
face up. Waiting.
Like a sneeze, it felt like it would come
and didn't. I willed salty discharge to
EJECT from my eyes.
I took a breath and tried again.
No go.
I want an iced coffee.
One month? Ridiculous, I first thought.
But it's actually starting to make some
sense.

The Biography of Six

I didn't learn anything in school, surprised?
I need to write this down.
Everything in my life is chance.
I was never brilliant at anything.
I laugh until i get sick.
Always in a state of discomfort.

Mary

I'm getting to be that age
where I have to call my mother "Mary"
and not "Mom" in public. If I see her
in the distance and call out "Mom!" she
and a hundred other middle aged women
are going to turn around and say,"What?"
This won't work because I'm not ready
to call her "Mary." Too weird.
I don't think I know her that well to be so
informal.

"Get Some Dental Floss!"

The note in my Marble Memo Pad reads as follows:
"Get some dental floss!"
I don't remember writing it and
I don't know what warranted the panic in my tone.
Was I eating steak? Or corn on the cob?
I haven't eaten cobbed corn in several years,
but I know this note isn't that old.
This must have been around the time when
I thought it was fun to walk around Wal-Mart's
health and beauty aisle, throwing toiletries in a
basket.
Maybe it's not panic, but sheer delight, in my tone.
I GOTTA "get some dental floss!" ASAP.
But there's still something uncharacteristic about
this note. I wrote it on a slant as well. An upward
slant that seems to shoot for the clouds.
I meant to write more important things in my
Marble Memo Pad. The slant is the growing
disappointment that reminds me of being a girl
who filled her purse with toys before leaving home.
Can't have an empty purse, now can you?
Did I ever "get some dental floss!"?
Only God remembers. I should ask him if I'm
still wanting for an answer.
Written on a slant, filling a whole page like a
teddy bear in a purse, it stands out blatantly.
I couldn't have forgotten this.
But somehow I did, I have blocked it out
and for good reason too.

N. Street

I walked a concrete catwalk
taking in the dragonflies that passed
by. I tried not to flinch.
I was barefooted and it was hot.
Had I more callouses I wouldn't have
felt how glorious the ground was.
I count small miracles as I carry
perfectly fine shoes. How can anything
ever be "perfectly" and "fine" at
the same time?
I carried fine shoes in my right
hand, hooked on two fingers.
Whenever I can, I take them off
and those creepy dragonflies in
without flinching at the warm
rocks I step on or the long stained
glass wings. Have you ever seen
a more perfectly primeval fly?
I have not.

I'm Good at This

What response can I give on the
inability to fall in love?
Never a good one, it's always one
that will only pass on basic appearances.

You're the Ben Franklin of love!
If that's what I am, I am.
6 scones and seven T's later
You've found my real aversion.

It's that emotional distance
between the kitchen tiles and
the left-over Lo Mein on the couch
The walk is longer than we think.

Just like I've never finished a
dripping cone---I'm not done
with my pretenses of loving
that boy, that strange one.

You can sit here and discuss
my inability to love or fall in love
What was the question? Whatever
looks best.