Exotic Flowers and Ethereal Memories

I hail from
Boys Only
planet.

On the
televisual dataport,
I saw
girls,
women,
ladies,
from another galaxy
with curiosity,
open-mouthed wonder.

They smiled
and sang,
they reminded me
of exotic flowers
and ethereal melodies.

For the longest time
the only one of them
I knew
was our Queen Mother,
who was really just a man
with wide hips
and a bullet bra.

I snuck
off to the
launch pad,
years before
my scheduled
puberty flight,
and crash-landed
uninvited,
and tried to
infiltrate their
world.

I watched
from a distance,
amazed
but timid:

they were all
too smart,
too strong,
too capable and
too beautiful
for me.

All I wanted was
their approbation,
their approval,
their recognition,

all things
the Queen Mother

didn’t,
couldn’t
wouldn’t

provide.

Her Wedding Prayer

As she stuttered
her vow
“for p-p-poorer,”

she prayed
the semen
of the man
she eventually left me
for

wouldn’t
trickle
down
her
white-laced
leg.

[In commemoration of Black Sunday, February 13, 1994, wherein yours truly plays the part of the Biggest Schmuck in The Universe.]

How Marriage #1 Ended

“Hey, Lan,
I know what you did.

Yes, the management company
give me a copy
of the cancelled
check.

Right, I
can see that you forged my signature.

Were you not going to tell me
that you got it?

No,
no,
no, you’re not entitled
to all of it.
You’re not even entitled
to half of it
if you ask me.

Hey, I didn’t fuck up
our marriage
only two months into it.
That was you.

By the way, how’s Steve?

Does you read you
his bank statement
when he’s fucking you?
You’re such a
money-grubbing whore,
I know that would
get you off.

Ok, whatever.

Look,
the bottom line is that
you forged my signature
and took my half of the money.

Listen,
listen,
listen!

Lan, I’m give you exactly
one chance to
do the right thing
and stay out of jail.

If you don’t deliver
my half of the money
by tomorrow night at 6pm,
I’m going to
the Corona Police Department
and having you arrested
for grand larceny.

Hello?
Do you understand?

Do you understand?

Ok, whatever, I’ll give you
a 15 minute grace period,

but if my money isn’t left
in my mailbox
by 6:15,
then at 6:16
I’m going to the police.

Do you understand?

Good!

What?

Ha! Don’t worry,
after this is done
I never want
to see you again
either!

With friends
like you...

look, just get me
my money
by tomorrow
at 6:15.

Nope, that’s all,
we’re done.

Goodbye, Lan.”

Hate Poem

I hated the
greeting cards,
love notes,
and ticket stubs
I kept as reminders
long after you left,
so I unceremoniously
dumped them
on the trash heap
with the spoiled milk
and used kitty litter.

I hated that
you had to hide me from
your racist parents
for five years,
and
I hated how
when I tried to learn
their language,
your family made fun
of my pronunciation.

I hated those
Michael Bolton concerts
(yes, plural)
I took you to,
and I want those hours
back.

I hated how much
I tried to demonstrate
my faithfulness,
my love and dedication,
and that it still
only came down
to my paycheck,
and even that
wasn’t big enough.

I hated my weakness
for giving in to intercourse
that one last time,
and I hated
that I intentionally
hatefucked you
with more anger
than I ever knew before.

I hate that
someone convinced me
not to throw out
every single picture,
and that I still have
two snapshots of you,
hidden away,
proof of my failed
seven-year experiment
in self-debasement.

I hate that 21 years later,
I still remember
that September 1st
is your birthday.

[Written for RealToads at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/]

To Any Girls with Bullets and Arrows

All the girls
who loved me and
eventually left me
knew I had a writing habit.

They kissed me on the cheek
and said things
that my heart heard as
“you need this pain for your art”
“you need to stretch yourself”
”it’ll be good for you to grow”
“you can do better than me.”

I suppose these phrases
were meant to console me,

but,
how dare they?

I don’t know if their goodbyes
improved my writing
or perhaps I passed my creative peak
long ago,

but store this away
all you girls with my name
on your bullets and arrows:

I’ve had enough of the pain
and tears just make the words
sound stupid anyway

and the morning after
is always worse
than the night before.

So,
even though your leaving
would fuel another contribution
to the canon of the
self-pitying written word
writ swollen and drunk
after midnight,

please
stay.