Thieving Blog Poem 2

My next sitting duck is Rebecca Loudon. Now I don’t really know her, but I do have something against her. She’s a “Rebecca” (a “Rebecca L.” no less) and anyone who knows me knows my take on that. There can be only one.

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Rare Rebecca Evident

Hawk yes, freeway lifted flock
thick in soup, all apology
following white wiseacres.
Hawk maybe not.
Don’t faint on air.
Don’t die on beige.
Cougars run the turnip fields,
eating seed catalogues
banking in pants,
barking barnstormers,
what we call authorized curiosities.
She keeps a journal of Hawaiians,
there were notable leis.
Wet rub, dry rub,
the last of the yellow cake
happy blondness
breathless beige.
Hawk not so notch.
She found her pygmy gabba aphrodisiac
because she is alone.

This Week at the No Tell

Carolyn Guinzio is close to becoming at the No Tell Motel.

Thieving Blog Poem 1

My first in a series of thieving blog poems. I’ll go to your blog, pull out my trusty cat burglar tool kit, steal phrases, words, ideas, add some Ikeb special sauce, shake and produce a ridiculous poem. A regular poetry chop shop. You may not even recognize what I did with your scribbles. Shocked? Well, boo-hoo, that’s what you get for not locking your front door, parking your car in this part of town, making eye contact with that pan handler, wearing that stupid hat.

My first victim is Tony. Maybe you’d think he’d be safe because we’re buddies. Hardly. When grandma’s heirloom brooch goes missing, go down your list of friends before you accuse the meter man. It’s not always strangers you have to worry about. See I’m jealous because Tony’s a far superior chef and that makes me insecure as a woman. His bathroom is probably cleaner too. Also, last evening I found the latest issue of ZYZZYVA at Barnes & Noble (after my failed attempt to find a book called “From Baby to Bikini”), saw his name on the cover and felt left out because I’m east coast and excluded. So of course, it’s time to strike. I’m like Glenn Close and that stove-top rabbit but I'm wearing a black body suit and I'm not blonde.

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American Anthony

Hope your marzipan never dies.
We all need sweets on our side.

Don’t ask for his Belgian ale,
it might be surprise style.

Some crazy conversations when love was adorable
served with a brutal cup of tea.

Please explain to Aaron that’s
why we’re not superstars.

Venturing past chips and vile smelling fish shacks
past the office building where the stairs narrow

Making us wonder if quitting coffee
is more American than buying stock.

I forgive them too. They don't tell you
Ethiopian food was invented in San Francisco.

It all becomes assorted trinkets we never unpack.
Dutch fuck the undead and we’re left generally cheerful.

All these little sleeves, lofty styles
get the best of you.

Sometimes the enormous pit is a house of noodles.
Your flaws are fine, we’re all secretly retired by now.

After all, these paint-peeling walls were designed
to implement the ugly things.

The photographs capture and lie to us,
telling us what to write.

The picture of Beatrice on a desk,
a gravely unhappy Christmas.

Born to resign chemicals
lying about cold medicine.

Dying alone is not being a bad
guy, but irrational picture taking . . .

Fathers were never supposed to be our friends.
Or is that fear’s funny lie?

LSD had a father,
they took bike rides together,

shared an angel sex partner
tied her to a cement block and utterly rejected her.

Tony Robinson never gave a handjob
in the muck, hardly.

Tony is a sex lamb, incensed
and salmon-colored

like that man over there,
pruning his foreign foliage, ignoring me.

Awfully American, pretending not.
A fancy American wearing stripes.

I’m wearing a skirt.
I tried to call, a little hurt.

Yet another wedding.
Tony pumps a bright bicycle,

hoards wire hangers, loves moths,
finds pleasure inside his mouth.

We must atone some.
Something inside must climb and mingle.

Bree Van De Kamp

I'm not saying I am like Bree, my house doesn't look like hers and on the rare occasion I do cook, it's never a spread like that, but I respect and identify with her spirit. She just wants to make it nice for people. Why must so many mock that?

I Gots Dees Ideas

In my typical fashion, over the past 36 hours or so I've been coming up with all these ideas on new projects and expansions on current projects. I say typical fashion because these are all things I won't be able to embark on until March or more than likely, later than that. I never come up with these things when I have the time on hand. I'm trying to write all this stuff down so I don't forget, pitch it to the appropriate folks (if necessary) with the two months or later down the road caveat. In two months I'll surely be cursing myself for getting into this mess. Let's see, what does my Feburary numerology report say:

February is a 1 Personal Month in an 8 Personal Year. Now things begin to speed up. Unlike last month, you now feel full of energy and enthusiasm. In fact, you're impatient to start new projects, and must guard against impulsive decisions.

Yep, I'm going to be cursing myself.

I decided I'm still going to make our birth announcements myself, but I'm not going to be nutty about it. I originally had plans of painting Gideon's foot and making prints on pieces of blue oak tag and stenciling the lettering, maybe use some ribbon to tie on transparent paper. Once I put the punch down I realized I'm going to be in no mood to do that and I'd just be inviting post-partum psychosis. I'm not Martha Stewart and I need more than 3 hours of sleep. Painting a newborn? Yeah, looks cool on TV. I'm going to buy some do-it-yourself stationary and use my new printer. The announcement will be nice, but won't win any awards, but honestly people don't seem to appreciate that shit anyway. Every year I spend hours decorating a beautiful Christmas wreath for our front door. Nobody ever says a damn thing. Last month during my Christmas preparation meltdown, I bought a crummy little wreath at the grocery store, tied on three santa ornaments and hung it up. I was ashamed, it was pathetic and lacked all the love and spirit of my previous wreaths. I mentioned it to TB and she laughed, "Nobody cares! It's a wreath!"

Is it bad etiquette to include the shower thank you notes with the birth announcements? I still have to write at least 60. Yes, I know, I'm appalled with myself too.

Public Plea

To the one hold-out No Tell Motel poet who hasn't sent us his bio and "about the poems" -- please get it to me soon. I'm trying to finish scheduling the journal through most of March BEFORE the arrival of my new big concern. You know who you are! I'll send you another reminder tomorrow and then I'll write your bio for you. It will be embarassing. Everyone will laugh. It might make you cry. Don't toy with the fat lady. Don't be her first "commando parenting" example.

Ahem.

As for those of you waiting for a response to your submissions sent in December or January, we're still considering them and will be making our decisions soon. There was a crush of subs right before our reading period ended and then Molly left the country to get her "cure" and well, we're moving a little slower in 2005.

Received Today

X:Poems (Copper Canyon Press, 2003) by James Galvin

Pampers 9 Piece Starter Set in Blue

Both sent by Didi. Thank you!

This Week at the No Tell

Jilly Dybka carries on questionable relationships with birds at No Tell Motel.

98%

The nursery is 98% done -- close enough to take and post photos. What's still missing is the glider foot stool, diaper caddy (basket), a baby photo of Chris' mum -- I think that's everything.

To see every photo, click here.

Below are some highlights:

What you see when you first enter the room




We've been practicing our swaddling on Rufus


The Gideon Hart Morrow Library, Est. 2005


Changing Dresser, Pre-Christening

The Last Original Faucet

This is tiresome. This afternoon while washing my hands in the powder room I was unable to turn off the water. The push-handle on the faucet was stuck. I went underneath the sink to shut off the water valves. I couldn't budge either of them.

I had to go downstairs and shut off the water to the entire house (something I am now an expert in doing).

The powder room faucet is the last original water fixture in the house. It will be the fifth we've replaced in the past six months. Of the other four, only two were broken (either leaking or cracked), the other two we simply replaced with the new vanities.

I don't believe in coincidences. I am preparing for the arrival of an aquarius. This is an omen. But an omen of what?

9 Months

Marcus came through, here are a couple photos:


The nursery (90% complete)


Unwashed 9 Month Pregnant Poet with Fast Food Lemonade

Inaug

Over the past couple days at least five people have asked me if I'm attending the inauguration tomorrow. I always go, no matter who's elected because I enjoy attending historical celebrations and D.C. has a lot of them. Of course, the folks who've been asking if I'm going tomorrow haven't spent any time with me recently, else they'd know I can't even stand in shower for more than a couple minutes and "walking" these days is a trip from the car into the store or my front door to my mailbox.

But yes, I'm bummed about the things I'm not up for doing right now and the things I won't be doing this spring (AWP Vancover to name just one). This evening I was feeling nostalgic and went through Sam's pics of the 2001 inauguration. Sam, Al and I stood in the rain together. Chris was supposed to go with us, but wasn't feeling well that morning and wussed out. Pussy. Ricky Schroeder really was waving just at me. I blew him a kiss, he saw, made eye contact, nodded, waved, the whole deal. Not quite as orgasmic as the back rub I got from Tom Brokaw in 1993 on the White House lawn, but damn close. Like I said, I'm all for historical moments.

Other pictures I found on Sam's site (I'm linking because I can't seem to get them to appear here):

April 6, 1996 -- Me with some lady I'll be making a grandmother in a few weeks

April 6, 1996 -- Some munchkin trying to take me to see the wizard

April 6, 1996 -- Abulsme and Phatback! Young, thin and virile. But poor

draft

Retention

The sleigh is full of suitcases

Suitcases full of mammaries

These mammaries weigh me down

The sleigh is a wooden toboggan
that’s never been waxed

I never saw a sleigh trip
over a snowflake before
nor been quite so charmed by
a song about child abuse

Lugging around this extra weight
makes glaciers seem speedy
--that one over there,
I’ve named it “Lucas’s Ejaculation”

An only recollection of a one-time sweetheart

What I've Been Reading Between Naps

Blogs, blogs, blogs. In particular:

Monday, January 17, 2005 at Silliman's Blog

MY POETRY PARADOX: HOW CAN THIS WOUND BE "RIGHT" at The Chatelaine's Poetics

The crazy eyes at The Radish King (Tender Buttons has a knack for spotting the "crazy eyes," she can look at a toddler and know instantly whether or not that kid is going to be trouble as an adult)

Where the hell is Tony? He said he'd be back on Monday. It's Wednesday. Toying with my emotions, as usual.

Not quite reading, but checking out Eugene's stunning (as always) photographs. These latest color ones are from his most recent trip to the Middle East.

Not Missing Much

Yeah, this blog has been quiet over MLK weekend. Which is good because it would just be a bitchfest. Consider silence my favor to you, dear reader.

In brief (sort of):

Friday morning I tried to take a shower. No hot water. Water heater died. This shit isn't funny anymore. I'm sick of crap breaking, bursting, leaking, whatever. The credit cards are maxed. Every time I clean, a new construction mess crops up. I am a beaten woman. Oh house, you are mightier than me. I give up. Victory is yours.

Marcus came over with Chick Filet for lunch and that took my mind off it for a little while. His wife had a baby in September and he made a few suggestions for the nursery. He also took some pictures of me (but hasn't sent them yet). It wasn't until after he took most of them that we realized one of my porn star sized breasts was popping out of my blouse. Oh, he probably noticed the entire time but was being, what do you call that, oh yes, a gentleman and not saying anything until after the photos were snapped.

Our fancy front loading washing machine and dryer arrived that afternoon too. These are wonderful machines. Marcus had laundry envy. He's in charge of laundry at his house now.

Friday evening Chris and I went to Home Depot and bought a water heater. I was a little worried about the installation and secretly called my father to inquire whether or not he thought this was a do-it-yourself project. He said it was, I felt guilty and fessed up to Chris.

TB came over and helped Chris carry it out of the car and downstairs. About 30 minutes into the project Chris realized he had the wrong connectors. Had to wait until morning when Home Depot opened up again. Went to TB's apartment and showered.

Saturday morning Chris worked some more on the water heater and then we went to the first day of a four hour child birth class at the hospital. "Everything you didn't know you needed to ask" it claimed. For instance, an expectant couple needs to view a series of gnarly breach baby pictures. Apparently there's something reassuring viewing a picture of a baby's foot sticking out of a vagina. I suppose I'm a big drama queen because the nurse teaching the class found it necessary to announce to the entire class that I looked distraught. Yes, shower me with some unpleasant and embarassing attention. That ought to calm me down.

Speaking of shower, I was really looking forward to taking one Saturday evening. After the class, we did some errands, ate dinner and Chris went back to work on the water heater. He was almost finished with it (at around midnight) when a copper pipe cracked. Project stalled for the second night.

Sunday morning Chris finished installing the water heater and it's wonderful. Showers, laundry, dish washer, effective hand washing, all wonderful things. I commented that I hoped this was last broken thing we had to deal with for a while and Chris said that while he was downstairs he realized the humidifier was broken too and that's why lately we keep shocking ourselves when we touch. Oh, I thought that was just the too-hot-to-handle passion of an expectant couple.

Sunday afternoon we went to the final child birth class and I did my best not to make any attention grabbing faces. I learned the hospital is going to give me some fancy black mesh panties from Victoria's Secret.

Today we went to Next Day Blinds to check on those blinds we ordered in September. The latest estimate is the 19th. We picked up a back-up blind design (that they had in stock) and I'm sure I'll be ordering those come Weds.

Basically, "we're ready" -- we have everything (we think) we need and it's all set up, so if I give birth right now we'll be OK. The baby bathtub should arrive tomorrow, but I learned I won't be able to give him a bath until his belly buttom stump falls off. His book shelf will arrive later this week too, but it turns out he won't see too well the first few month so I guess reading won't initially be high on his priority list. If he asks where it's at, I'll take advantage of the situation and say "It's right over there, see."

Thanks child birth class!

This Week at the No Tell

Maureen Thorson brings the Japanese Navy to No Tell Motel.

Housewives Can't Get Enough Of The Page

Today The Page is featuring a poem by this week's No Tell poet Dan Pinkerton. We simply crave this attention from our overseas paramour. Today we feel very pretty.

My Name is Acid/I Still Got It

I've had almost two hours of sleep, spread out over the night in 10-15 minute intervals. My chest and throat are burning and nothing seems to be doing the trick, other than not lying down. Note to self: Butterscotch sundae after dinner, bad bad idea. Stick to fruit. If Chris really loved me, he'd rush home with one of those lazy boy chairs so I could find a way to sleep sitting up. Maybe now that he's gone I can go back to bed and try building a pillow tower to prop myself on.

Anyhow, I had a lot of time to think, one conclusion I came up with is that most men are closet chubby chasers. I just assumed once I started to show I'd become invisible. You know, oh, a breeder, next. Apparently my just swallowed a Christmas ham look makes me even more irresistible. I waddle into a store with my comfortable shoes and a scowl on my face because the elastic on the waist is stretched to it's limit and pinching and hubba hubba look at me. The only difference is that men act a little less creepy. I haven't had to use my trademark "I don't fuck" line which is good because coming from a pregnant woman makes it more a conversation starter instead of an ender.

Last night at Best Buy the guy who sold me my new washer and dryer gave me his phone number if I ever wanted to call him up and talk about "children." Score!

Pittsburgh is for Hopeless Romantics

Sent by Misha:

In today's NY Times

Pittsburgh: A Big Happy Company Town

"Dr. Rodney Landreneau, a thoracic surgeon, understands football obsession. He grew up in south Louisiana, and his father showed Louisiana State game films at Cub Scout meetings.

"Here it's crazier," Landreneau said. "At L.S.U., it's still sport. Here, it's live or die."

Several weeks ago, a patient arrived for an appointment wearing a Steelers jacket, a Steelers necklace, a Steelers pinkie ring and a Steelers watch.

"I had to tell him he had lung cancer, but all he worried about was whether the Steelers would win the next week," Landreneau said."

Received Today

The Maverick Room (Graywolf Press, 2005) by Thomas Sayers Ellis (sent by David McDonald, my old man friend)

"Baby Shower in a Box" -- about 25 items ranging from gas drops to nipple gel tabs to burp clothes (sent by Julie Bloemeke, my friend who did too much)

On the Look Out

iTunes doesn't have everything and there are some holes in my "inspirational" playlist. If anyone out there has a copy of Misfits in the Attic's Enter at Your Own Risk, I would be interested in hearing track 13, "I Ain't Cha Hoe." I haven't heard it in over 10 years, but it was my signature theme song for my college radio show and I played it every week.

It went something like this:

Just because the pants fit nice around the butt
Doesn't make me a hoe, prostitute or slut
I ain't cha hoe
Ooh Ooh, you better think about it

iAncient

This weekend I took my new iPod out of its box. I ordered one for Chris for Christmas and received two. I'm not complaining. I wanted one and figure its a good way to tune out distractions, stuff like telephones and cries and desperate calls for help. The gods took my cat, but gave me this lovely parting gift. (Of course, the battery on my 3 year old iBook fried yesterday, gods are a fickle bunch.) The iSkin (pink) Chris ordered arrived this morning, which is kind of neat, it's supposed to protect my iPod from getting smashed up, smelling like an old man, contracting the iHerp, whatever. Of course, I think $29.99 is ridiculous for a rubber sheath. But it is a rubber sheath with a clip and I'll use that clip when I can get back on the treadmill.

I'm dusting off some of my older CDs and re-discovering all this music I haven't listened to in over 10 years (Dead Can Dance, what where we smoking and why does it keep reminding me of Geek Love? Speaking of which, Larry Leonard you never returned my copy loaned to you '94.), stuff I used to play on WRCT when I was DJ Lola Coca Cola (among other things). And iTunes lets me find the older music, for instance if I still had my Chaka Kahn album (did you steal it, TB?) I wouldn't have anything to listen to it with anyhow.

Right now I'm listening to my "Long I Mix - 1" The "I" stands for inspirational. It's a subjective word. I'm not sure how Suzanne Vega's "Luka" falls into that category, but I put it there. Right after John Mellencamp's "Your Life is Now" and Simon and Garfunkle's "A Hazy Shade of Winter." I'm officially 60 years old.

This Week at the No Tell

Dan Pinkerton second guesses penis size at No Tell Motel.

What I've Been Reading & Not Doing

The last couple of days I've been a permanent fixture on my sofa, doing my best not to barf acid. According to my doctor I'm holding my lovable spawn higher than most gals and his canned ham of an ass has been crushed against my stomach for weeks. Every time the doc inspects my belly she says "You're all baby!" No shit.

When I'm not trying to sleep or playing Warcraft III, I've been reading the following:

Poetry Debates, Manifestos & Criticism on the Academy of American Poets site (link found on BookNinja)

Dyske's Suematsu's White Paper on Fatherhood (sent by peterb). Yep, I've spent more time this past month organizing the drawers in the nursery than I have writing poetry. On the changing table/dresser the top drawer is devoted to diapers, the middle is 0-3 month outfits on the left, 3-6 month outfits on the right. The bottom drawer is 6-12 months. The cabinet top shelf is diapering supplies, the bottom is medicines, thermometers, wash clothes and other bath time items. In the chest of drawers, the top shelf is tops and bottoms (hats and socks), the second to the top is receiving blankets and burp cloths . . . hmm, wait a minute, you don't really care about any of this do you? This is boring fucking reading. Sorry.

No Tell Motel submissions. Amazing the legitimacy a few sentences in Poets & Writers can bring. Now everyone feigns respect. It's OK! Keep feigning. Lots of good subs. I'm glad we're suspending our reading period for two months starting next week. After we work our way through these we'll probably be set through at least part of April. Maybe all the way until the end.

Since my bamboo blinds ordered in September still haven't arrived from "Next Day Blinds" I spend a lot of time watching my elderly German neighbor who lives in the house behind us. She just undecorated her Christmas tree and and placed it on her back deck. When I'm not feeling like a piece of lazy crap reading all the neat poems and notes other poets post on their blogs, I feel like a piece of lazy crap gazing at this old lady's immaculate lawn or her crystal clear windows. The dust bunnies remind me I haven't swept my floors since the 26th. I keep telling myself, I am working, I'm building a person, but it doesn't feel that way.

Yet Another Example of How I Never Get My Way

Did some impulse shopping at Gymboree this evening. We should be spending the money on things we still need, but shopping for a bath tub or diapers or breast pump isn't nearly as much fun, is it? There is so much adorable clothing for little girls, tiny bikinis, micro leather minis, etc. so I proposed we do "Cross-Dress Fridays" in the same spirit a corporation would do "Casual-Dress Fridays."

It's difficult being a "creative" type when your husband is always "Hell no."

Whitman Tribute on Beltway

BELTWAY PUBLISHES ONLINE TRIBUTE TO WHITMAN’S LEGACY

In 1860, Walt Whitman wrote in “Poets to Come”: “Arouse! For you must justify me.”

Beltway: A Poetry Quarterly is proud to announce an entire issue of the journal devoted to the living legacy of Walt Whitman.  Thirty-eight contemporary poets who live in the Mid-Atlantic region contributed poems about Whitman’s life and works, poems written in the style of Whitman, and poems revisiting Whitman’s recurring poetic themes.  As Saundra Rose Maley writes in the issue’s introduction, “The poems in this issue do justify and honor Whitman…in high seriousness,  and in fun.”

It is co-sponsored with The Washington Friends of Walt Whitman and presented in conjunction with a city-wide festival, “DC Celebrates Whitman: 150 Years of Leaves of Grass.”  The Festival includes poetry readings, publications, a walking tour, a guided meditation program, and more.  Festival information can be found here.

Aside

Once I got past my "Oh my, this pulitzer winner whom I never met or have any ill feelings towards is sending me hate mail -- how cool is that?" a wave of sadness came over me. If winning those major prizes and receiving all those accolades isn't enough for this poet, there's nothing out there that will be. There is no person who can and no place to go to escape unflattering remarks or criticism. I don't even believe I made any unflattering remarks or criticism, yet he made a serious attempt to hurt me, bring me down, make sure I knew my place -- a stranger, a young poet, without a book, practically no influence, not even a tiny blip on most "poetry" radars. Seriously, by most folks' categorization (since I'm not employed by an outside company, the poetry, the journal bring in virtually no money -- under $100 for 2004) -- I'm a HOUSEWIFE. How am I threat that needs dealing with? How much pleasure can he derive from telling me to suck it?

Then I got to thinking about a few of my AOL acquaintances in the 90's, the ones who cashed in stock options worth millions of dollars -- retired by 30, big ugly McMansions, BMWs, amazing vacations, access to gals once deemed out-of-their-leagues. All the stupid shit most people dream of having. I lost touch with most of them but heard the endings to their tales. 2 million, 5 million, 10 . . . didn't matter, it never was enough. It wasn't even close.

Unhappy people are intent on being unhappy.

I'm much too touchy feely today. I need to hurry up and give birth so I can go back to my usual "fuck 'em up the ass" self. I miss the old mean me. I want her back. Desperately.

Someone's Been Googling His Name

Came home from a late night supper to find an angry and insulting e-mail from a pulitzer prize winning poet known for his angry letters. He took issue with what I consider to be fairly innocuous comments I wrote about his participation at the Dodge festival. Nevermind that I also wrote how I enjoyed his reading and I admired his work. My offense was that I dared poke fun at his (well-earned) reputation and disagreed with what he said in a panel about MFA programs. I won't post his name or the e-mail but I don't think it takes a genius to figure out who I'm referring to. Speaking of "genius" he made sure to point out that my lack of it was quite glaring. Oh and that I was a ridiculous mediocrity and folks like me are ruining the medium of poetry and . . .

. . . well, I responded and . . . I called him a penis. Yeah, I know, but if he's going to go around sending nasty bile like that to strangers, this suffering pregosaurous in her last few weeks ain't gonna hold back either. I have the excuse of hormones and stress and intense discomfort. He probably has a good excuse too -- one of those exciting, made-for-TV excuses. His excuses are probably brilliant. I, on the other hand, am a drooling ninny and could only come up with "genius rhymes with penis and that's what you are!"

Now excuse me, it's time I get back to building the PoeticoDestructo 5000. Once I'm finished ruining poetry for all y'all I'm going after macrame. I fucking hate that shit.

Give People Pause

My mother-in-law just called to let me know that she wore her No Tell Motel t-shirt to Curves (women's only gym) this evening and received plenty of strange looks and stares. Apparently nobody would make eye contact with her. Maybe they thought she was a madam.

You too can be mistaken (or perhaps accurately pegged) as someone with loose morals. Visit our gift shop.

This Week at the No Tell

Catherine Daly has a hot tub by the hour at the No Tell Motel.

2005

For 2005 I resolve to be sweet and sympathetic to others. Heh, heh.

Seriously, I resolve to be healthy (which I've been trying to do for a while), to keep eating nutritiously and once March rolls around to get back to a regular exercise routine and into shape.

I also resolve not to become MIA (at least not for too long) once Gideon arrives. I intend to keep writing, editing and reading at a regular pace.

Thanks to everyone's kind comments regarding Clyde. I know lots of folks lost pets this past year. I'm kind of surprised at the void I'm feeling right now.