I remember when you first said my name.
It was like any other person saying it.
Which each passing time
It became more and more like a secret.
Something only you and I shared.
You would look at me,
In the eyes
Blue locked on blue
And say “Emily”.
And with each passing time,
Your mouth turned up more and more.
And then less and less.
I remember the last time you said my name.
It was like any other person saying it.
I had never wanted to be called anything else
More than I did in that moment.
So I've been thinking lately
he's on a journey out to find himself
reading Hemingway and Emerson (his namesake) and roughing it at Walden Pond
smoking foreign cigars
and staring deep into coffee
to decipher the meaning of the swirls of smoke
that rise from it in the morning?
he's asking ChaCha! the meaning of life
or trying out a new brand of shampoo
or attempting to set a high score on Tetris
or out burning down bridges just to see them ablaze
or doing volunteer work,
reading to disabled children at the local library?
he's decided that this is all too much,
that he'd prefer to live in anonymity
trading his celebrity for secretarial work or carrot-harvesting
or breeding exotic fish
or renting out those inflatable jumping-castles?
he's tired of all those books in Technicolor
all the paparazzi out to get him
and commercialize his favorite beanie
just because he's on vacation because he pulled some strings at the office
thus catapulting him into some movie set halfway across the world?
What if he's sick and tired of them hunting down his girlfriend
that random wizard mentor guy that's a deadringer for Dumbledore?
What if he would rather sit at home and watch the Game Show Network
and change his name to something boring like John instead of living up to a thinker's expectations?
Or maybe just the opposite, he's just watching Family Feud to pass the time because he WANTS to be a thinker
but doesn't know how?
Or maybe Family Feud just makes him lonely because he doesn't have a real family,
just that evil guy with funny glasses and facial hair and an awful Hamburglar taste in clothes?
What if he's decided he's on the wrong path
and needs to turn his life around?
What if Waldo doesn't want to be found?
They gave me a name that didn’t suit me.
What’s funny is
the universe recognized that
before I did.
She paid me this compliment:
“There’s too much person to you.
You can’t be tripped up with so many
syllables in something so trivial as a name.
Less speaking, more breathing,” she said.
Four reduced to two.
Now I can exist in half the time.
I became “Bitsy.”
Which means I’m associated
with certain things.
Mainly tiny spiders
and brightly pattered swimwear.
It’s easy to be irked by that, you know.
Yet, I smile and take it,
because they raised me
with the patience of an idiot.
I get automatic cute points
just for introducing myself with a name like this.
Newcomers get giddy,
like hearing my name is equivalent
to receiving a box of kittens.
I always try to drop an expletive or two—
I just don’t want them
to get the wrong f#@%ing impression.
“Less speaking, more breathing.”
I instructed the universe
not to do me any more favors.
Sometimes a lady's just got to bitch a bit.
© Bitsy Sanders, August 2013
With Body pretzled up, skins converged to form
branches of rivers, mouth slack and frozen to
a permanent scowl of delirium and manners-gone,
as many swears dripped from those dry, cracked lips.
One of my mothers – gumshoed from the alley’s way of family.
“Get gumption, girlie, because everybody is full of shit!”
I remember that lullaby, “A tiny turned-up nose, two lips just like a rose. She sits upon my knee, she means to the world to me.”
I spy the scar on my pinky finger from her cigarette.
Could the King be witness in the Room?
Were those buttons of hollow wood over her eyelids?
Wrung of cries – we didn’t see that coming,
though we heard the flies.
And Age’s stumbling rattle through the hallway.
Do you know who I am?
Do you remember me?
Should the window washer come another day?
This stubborn sovereignty over what is reality – the root beneath the porch, the fog on the windshield.
Loosen the grip on this natural plane,
Woman of my Childhood, harvester of my manners.
Stand until the grown-ups sit.
Look away and bow your neck.
This was called the boxing match between Industry verses Inferiority.
Not child through birth – no –
but life spawned by those
There’s finality in this phone-call.
I heard it happened an hour ago.
Treading grievances and grimaces, picking through a flowerbed only to stroke the weeds.
Lifting boxes of Lead from reality to the Bridge of Dreams.
Frankly, I stole the gumption from your knotted mouth and
still cannot cry.
In a splinter of reason – I cast out the fundamental jibes of sacred hope.
That promise held between dog and owner during business hours.
Except there can be no homecoming.
The sickest liquor on the alleyway fence.
An ebbing pulse of syrupy bees
Illuminating the forgotten namesake
For the sake of acoustic agreement.
FOR THOU SHALL NOT TOUCH
The ebbing pulse
Of syrupy bees.
In the origin of all our sticky swarm
Our namesake is remembered--
As the sticky swarm a rebounding
Retracting arm claws--
As our faceless SAKES rebound again.
For the Just in case.
I recognize this string of words may not be quite understandable, but I am in love with personal interpretations.
If my muse shall find this, then find he shall.
I know you're always boggering about what's in my mind.
You had sung of grapes too
and transposed curious waves of hair.
But the icon grafted
next to namesake
had borne no resemblance.
A spectral fire (you).
I exorcise the evidence
and tear down your temples.
A different current caught you
another foreign wave.
I'm no Wordsworth,
but I'm a wordsmith,
and I'm definitely a Wood.
Watching films and comic books are the things at which I'm good.
I'm romantic in my heart,
but my mouth has rational shout.
My namesake is a forest,
so it's no surprise I'm branching out.