The Mad

I feel like Betty; bedding with secrets and lies.
Only, she had a shot gun and cigarettes.
I only have whiskey and a pen.
I look more like Veronica, anyway.

To Mr. Pennywagon, 11/7/2007

To The Future Mr. Pennywagon,

They say that everyone has a soul mate created just for them on this earth.  If this statement be true, then we have no way of avoiding each other and you should be prepared.  If you’ve succeeded in gaining my attention and engaging the pursuit, regardless of my awkward demeanor and cold shoulder, you deserve all the truths of all of me.  Let me provide for you a “proceed with caution” .

I analyze words for a living and a passion – your flattering lines and love struck promises will be dissected, digested and disintegrated.

The name game is nonnegotiable – I cannot simply erase half of my identity.

Your romantic Italian dinners and dusk time dancing will be reduced to burgers and beer in an old man bar.

Love making is preferred Sunday mornings- Saturday shenanigans are reserved.

I am tougher than I look and more emotional than you can fathom -  I will go down swinging each and every time.

I always drink from a glass half full and will make you sip with me - stop crying.

I find humor in everything and will laugh at you all of the time – when you’re angry, anxious or attempting to be intimate, I will be a constant reminder that it is truly not so serious.

Never interrupt me when I am writing- you risk becoming a character in a poem or chapter that inexplicably combusts and decays.

I do what I want and I say what I feel.

I will be constant in my listening to you – just be prepared for my retorts as they are seldom sugar coated and often sarcastic.

I am the glue of my family and frequently called upon to paste things together- your patience is deeply appreciated.

I buy seventeen dollar toothpaste, maintain three feet of personal space, I like animals more than people, am frequently cold, I will make you watch countless hours of scary movies, make you smile, make you trim your nails, make you frustrated, make you make the bed and when it’s all said and done and we’re under the covers and there are no words to be spoken – I will take you for exactly what you are if you take me for all I am – no changes to be made, no regrets to be had. I’ll never be your beast of burden if you’ll never be mine – no frills, no labels, no compensating or commemorating- just the genuine acceptance that I was made for you and you for me. The only guarantee I make is that you will fight hard and lover harder with me than you will with any other agent of femininity.

Until Then, 

M.P.

Repeat:

Love honestly. Live simply. Pick your battles; it's not always a war. When it is, choose the battle ax.

A Table

I want us to be a table
(Or, on a table I’m still deciding)
Straight lines, no guesswork
Interlocking pieces
An assured fit
It’s ok if we shake a little
After all, my side is chipped
Yours always had a wobble

Alice Is a Pussy

I was born in the rabbit hole.
I never had the luxury of falling in.
No psychedelic free falls for me
Just harsh landings. On my ass.

I sipped mad tea out of a baby bottle.
With a side of scribbled rice paper.
Then, vodka.
I smoked my share with ugly slugs.
Before frying them with my looking glass.
Stole it from my dad.

Speaking of looking glasses…
Mine lied to me.
Reflections were discussions of deflections/restrictions
They said: play the cards you are dealt
My cards articulate. We debate. Negotiate. Not simple.

I’ve been given Cheshire cat smiles from men since twelve.
I now uncoil my own.
Around linear teeth and up considerable eyes.
I, too, change spots. I have to. I will.

I’ve met characters of renown.
Danced with many a bitchy queen.
Sat on a throne. Been tossed off. Again and again.
Round, dumb men have cycled after me, past me, behind me.
I trip them- nefariously.

I open my eyes.
Still here.
A croquet ball ricocheted off locked doors.
Into my lap.
Bruises.

Poem After Attending A Late Night, Monday, Writing Class In Harlem, Before Commuting on I- 95 Back To Connecticut

Fuck.

Christmas Card

Until you I never liked kissing.
I thought my words were the best of my lips.
Just one kiss; you took the letters out of my mouth.
Then all my words were better told pressed on yours.