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.