"dishrag" poems
She tells him this better be the last one--
the last first love poem he'll write.
The title, she says, needs to be brief,
something any lover can relate to.
Do you want me to leave the room
while you write it?
No.
With one step she's no longer in the
living room, she's in the middle of the
apartment kitchen. There are two bowls,
two spoons in the sink. The bellowing heater
acts as background, smoothing the space
with its hum. She squeezes a drop of soap
into each bowl. Fills both with hot water.
Any lover needs to be able to relate, she says,
but make sure you set it somewhere romantic--
not Paris, Rome, or anything like that--but
next to a body of water. There should be
birds. Clouds and rain. Not sunshine. Don't
you think?
He thinks.
She works the bowls over with a dishrag.
Dinner, breakfast--whatever you want to call it--was good, she says.
Good.
She dries the bowls, places them in the cabinet.
Have you written a line yet?
Yes.
Can I read it?
Not yet.
When I wake up?
When you wake up.
With a hand to each side of his face,
she denotes the spots he missed shaving
with her index fingers. Here, she says.
Here. Here.
The lines run from the corners of his eyes
as he smiles. Now she marks these.
She kisses him; she doesn't say, I love you.
Not yet.
Wake me up before you go to work, okay?
Okay.
With one step she's in the bedroom.
The bed's a couch.
She pulls the quilt up to her chin.
Her body curls.
She says, Hang out with me in
my dreams.
Wouldn't miss it.
Good morning.
Good morning.
A few minutes later her breath
goes steady, falling in line with
the heater.
The sun starts seeping in through
the blinds. The loose strands of
her hair become gold. He draws
the curtains so the light does not
wake her. She, he types.
In an apartment where once was one--
one toothbrush, one set of sneakers
by the door--now there are two.
Everything paired off and content in
its pairing.
Is a woman, he types. He hits the delete key once.
Then he types N again.
Her makeup bag is on the dining table.
Islands of stray powder dot the bag.
Her brush is on the coffee table
next to the couch. Countless
numbers of hairpins are embedded in the carpet.
I can't make it in today, he says into the receiver.
Yeah, not feeling too good. Thank you, sir. Will do.
Alright. Yeah, you too.
When he presses in beside her, she says, I've been awake
the whole time.
Have not.
Have too. Did you finish it?
Yes.
Can I read it?
After you actually get some sleep.
What'd you call it?
Is a Woman.
I like that.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
America-- you’re about as inspiring as vanilla ice cream puddled in the summer sun
a damp dishrag, america, you can’t clean up the mess you are.
Your subjects, or should I say, Objects--
your agency bereft gdp drones--
they hanker, they brood
like a syst; they’re ****** vacuoles: private, malignant, caverns of capital
your pride? starving children, dying cities?
it’s a grand ole’ flag, you pathetic ****
How about considering this:
The people, inside your prisons?
They’re free.
The people outside?
minions, hackneyed excuse for existence, and pestilence.
the ones who know oppression are free, and the ones oppressing do not know.
that’s why I love you, America.
You are what humanity needs; a slow, painful drain on our existence.
Consciousness slowly being ignited and swallowed, only to be ******* out and flushed away.
You, america, are a popcorn bag popping in the microwave, left on for too long.
You can’t expand any further, and you taste like cancer.
America, you are beautiful, and the death you bring tastes like lime flavored popsicles
that we lick to take away the taste of reality.
Your society is a cattle car, for the mind, and your messages burn the body
when it gets there.
Jun 18, 2011
Jun 18, 2011 at 9:03 PM UTC
Too much of one worry is our buckled knees
dragging
the question to the fountain to make it drink. I’ll tell you the right
and proper Why I had to stifle
my cigarette break before my wrists broke
before my wet-eyed babbling witnessed your last constellation --
My last star
The star that bore the envelope between Doubts and Wisdom.
And Mourning -- that tossed bag on the vagabond's back.
I'll wait until the morning breaks.
I'll stake my flattery on the flyman's ****
We'll wring that excuse "We were young"
until the dishrag shrivels moreso than
the letter on the fire.
Stick-figured promises -- know why you're here.
Sep 24, 2011
Sep 24, 2011 at 5:42 AM UTC
I wrote it on the back of my hand one day, I told you that I needed you – you wiped the smile off my face with your thumb, like I had smudged the words right out of my mouth. You taught me invaluable lessons I am sure never to forget, I was schooled by you, in ways I never really understood. I was a child, innocent by the very lapels on which you grew me up. Dragged me up, scuffed my shoes at the front and back. Untied my bra strap with your little finger and told me, listen here, love, I know exactly what I am doing. Made me believe in you, you did. Made me fall for every word. Made me fall for every whisper of love. Tenderly I was hooked by you.
You were the machine of my creation. Your greatest ever work of art. You sculpted my very inner being, tied me to my soul with burnt fingers and made me believe I was worth nothing more than **** Your purpose was excellent. Completely fooled I was, your succinct underhand ways grievously ruined my sight. No longer could I see reality, living in world prepared for, cooked up and served by you. I lost a lot of blood in those first few years, a lot of good stock died. My passion became my greatest detriment, for should I talk you would take the words from my mouth and mark them in the air; deconstructed with a red pen you would make me realise my mistakes.
Thank you for all you have done. To me. For me. With me. My ear is no longer connected to your mouth. I can breeeeeathe without having to miss a step. All my love that I was proud to possess had been given away, but I was proud to have failed you, I was proud to weep under you, I was proud, to have loved you and not gotten away with it. I take full responsibility for all my tremendous actions, the ones I gave for you, laid down in honour for you, to wipe your pretty little feet all over the back of my head. I turned around to face you and slapped that face right off your mouth
Loved I was by you. Needed I was by you, to be, you. I wrote **** you, on my ******* fingers and shoved them up your **** Now you talk my language, now you wait for me to see you. Now you know I am no longer your dishrag, your teatowel or your muse. Got it back I did, got back my heat, my fury, and glory. Action packed with honour and fire, loving and loved. I learnt from you lessons which I shall never forget, I was schooled by you. Wanted to thank you, for I am no longer afraid, my sweet ****** of you and your heart. This is a glorious world, one which you will never feel.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 4:58 PM UTC
You are just a prop in her life, Cody.
You are there to help her work through things.
That's great; one problem.
I am not a dishrag.
I do not serve as a free form of therapy.
I am not just a service to help girls learn about themselves.
I have feelings.
I get attached.
I want reciprocation.
I want affection.
Sometimes I'm the one who needs help.
Sometimes I am not just satisfied with knowing I helped.
I am not your valet.
I am not your counselor.
I am not your validation on demand.
I cannot even fathom why you think can just take.
It's because I can't give, Cody.
If you can't give, why do you think it's ok to take?
I will not always be ok.
I won't always get over it.
I won't just understand why you can't be there for me.
I am not just a rock to be your stability.
I am not just a blanket to give you comfort.
I am not a flipping dishrag.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 4:22 AM UTC
I'm writing this because
I'll be gone in about two seconds.
I've decided I've had enough:
It was too much
or maybe too little.
I'm prepared to hang myself with the umbilical cord
of my self-hatred;
it was a diary entry, I think.
Oh, I'm dead anyway.
I am dead
has such a nice wring to it, doesn't it?
Feel like a ***** old dishrag,
used up and withered.
I wonder who will clean up my act.
I will lie in
a playful position,
akin to the Mannerists
or Fuseli
and the Renaissance men would look at me
like I'm crazy
for contorting smiles and stares
in a happy niche of browning lungs.
The punchline always ends with
your head in an oven.
I'd imagine it'd explode,
but it was not so.
It's sad to know he didn't love you,
but hey, we got poetry out of it, you know.
How is he?
Did you get your revenge?
You were beautiful,
but I was decades late.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 1:50 PM UTC
Forcing words is such a drag
when nothing’s really there-
feelings like a dishrag
I often wonder where.
yet happiness endures...
Calculated formulas
make things appear so tough-
formulated theorems
and all that kind of stuff.
but happiness endures...
It’s early in the morning
six hours at the books-
the sun begins its dawning
my thoughts like hollow nooks.
still happiness endures...
Although my head is swimming
like fish beneath the sea-
I can’t escape the passion
that’s known as joy to me.
and happiness endures...
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 8:25 PM UTC
i ate
my weight
ten times over ten
all green leaves.
now i encase
my fat body's face
in chrysalis
and
become, soupy,
torturous bliss
awaiting wing-ed
grace.
i awake
and crack the
membrane
crawl dishrag damp
out into summer's
kind light
and slowly
spread my wings.
please,
do not think
me vain.
but as i await
my wings to dry
and the glorious dust
to set.
i wonder at the ironic beauty,
that i, the fat catterpillar,
has become,so fine
and delicate,
an exquisite pallete upon
the canvas sky....
i take flight and find
freedom....
is a state mind
that flits upon the wind
and knows,
dfrom the beginning
beauty is always
from within.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
the part of a boy
that is most like
a dishrag
from the last
supper
the laundromat
where one
gives birth
to a ball
of sleep
or learns
to somersault
the handicap space
where on
your bike
you breathe…
the flower, the grave, the clown
car’s
driver / her nose
the call
to blood
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:20 AM UTC