Week of July 19 - 25, 1999
Greg Stant and Chocolate Waters
BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
by e-mailing a few of your shorter pieces or one long piece to me
ALONG WITH a bio of any reasonable length. (Include what city you live in)
It's fun, it's easy, it's free. Impress your friends. Impress your mother.
Send to: POTW@PoetrySuperHighway.com
Greg Stant is in transition. He lives in Wellsboro, Pennsylvania.
The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Greg Stant and may not be distributed or reprinted in any formwhatsover without written permission from the author.
I wrap the green fish around me. Wear it like a glove. I shake one more time, howl. My back breaks. The temple children run. You can't remember the last time you took a bath. This is the grace of devils and white line. Mile markers got eyes. I groan one last millionth time and grab the wheel. Kansas is long and uneventful. I remember nothing. Kansas is like that.
Missouri hotel room. I know this. I have a receipt. It must have been uncomfortable. The walls must have been to close or maybe I didn't like the paintings. I got back in the fish. I swim over the guardrail. Catatonia and oily scales on the steering wheel, bumps of excitement on the back of my hand. State Representative gives me a ride to the hospital where nobody knows your name. I wait in line for meds. I wear knit shoes. We stand in circles and reach for air. We beg for cigarettes. We are charted, folded, spindled.
60 miles to the center of Missouri, the fish is being mended. The sound of my feet coming from the Salvation Army. I beg a room and sprinkle thanks on the Christian lady. I walk for miles to the shoe box. Waiting for the fish to be fixed. Keep the angels out. I sit in the shoe box on the other end of the line. Corkscrew worms dance in my guts.
The past comes rushing out. The aftermath of a bad meal. I hear whispers. I hear you. Black and white sounds. I stretch on the bed. I try to find a place for my head. It takes up too much space. It's too heavy. It's too large. My head is a mushroom cloud. I'm drawing shallow. I make phone calls. Plead for money. Plead for love. I got to get the scales back on the fish and the fish back in the water. God of white line madness, have mercy on my soul. God of cracked concrete and redneck mechanics, seal the breech and embalm the gears. I didn't mean it, and if I could take it back, I would. Fuse the crack on the concrete highway. I know they would swallow me whole. Send money. Send metal filings and epoxy. Wrap them around my heart, wrap the fish around my body and let there be high test for all my days to come. I didn't mean it, and if I could take it back, I would. Amen.
A storm rolls in from the south and the world is ozone. I walk out into the parking lot. I wonder if the lightening would choose me.
No such luck.
........................(Previously published in Aether.)
I am an equal opportunity sex dreamer. When I have a dream about fuck, everybody gets laid - even me.
My fuck dreams do not discriminate by race, social standing, prison record, political record, or physical appearance (thank god). Even butt ugly people are getting fuck in my dream - although not necessarily with human beings, people of the opposite sex, or even people with their extremities intact. Sometimes they are relegated to finding carnal pleasure with obscene objects of art, rubbing themselves raw with multimedia events, slapped together wall paneling presents a Brillo Pad extravaganza, sort of a Jackson Pollock rip-off acid trip splattered mess of nails and oil based acrylics mounted on three burnt logs from South Central L.A., shrink wrapped in demented splendor by a Venice Beach artist who found God and PCP on the same weekend does the rough and dirty deed with my pasty faced, antediluvian second grade teacher, Mrs. Britton; seemingly too old to fuck, but look at her now. Thanks to the auspices of an equal opportunity sex dream she's loving every minute of it like the man screwing the living room couch, with each thrust buries himself deeper, then deeper into the crack between the back and the cushion, while the appropriately named love seat squeaks, moans and flaps in glad participation, excited to feel the front of a human being - for a change - fuck your shag rug. Have you ever seen the joy with which an 'all-the-time-walked-on' never-caressed, shag rug fucks? Happy to have some love and contact, shag rug will roll your ass up, fuck you like; well, like a rug; take your ass to ecstasy, make you jaculate, and spit you out the other side with a smile and a lit cigarette.
My equal opportunity sex dream will let you have the persona you've always wanted. It will keep your teeth white, breath fresh, and eliminate that bad speech impediment in a burning hot flash of fuck. You will actually feel, your cunt tighten, cock lengthen, breasts harden, while firming up those flabby butt cheeks.
My sex dream doesn't cost any money, need to go to dinner, or wanna be your significant mother; doesn't want to meet your parents, marry you, or need a diamond ring. It doesn't want a prenuptial agreement. it doesn't care that your condo is paid off-in full, or give one-half of one-tenth of-a-fuck that you drive a Jag, or own a gold Cartier wristwatch - it is not impressed.
My sex dream lives just for fuck. It will do anybody, anywhere, anytime; fucked the guy everybody can't stand, likes it from behind in the quarter movie room, did the boss's daughter on his desk; fucked in the confessional screamin! like, "Jesus - ah ah ahJESUS!"; fucked the family jar of mayonnaise for a ten good years, and never told a soul.
My sex dream's pussy is sapping wet-and-it-is-ready to do you, right-here, right fucking-now. It's tit's are rock-hard and fueled with pain. It's cock is death-stiff, turning blue and breathing heavy. Sex dream likes the bed crowded, ain't afraid of handcuffs, and sticks a mean nipple down your throat, while fucking you at ninety miles per hour - without insurance; does not need be held or kissed after it comes, and does not run for the towel after the dirty deed is done. Prefers to, kinda, swim in it for-awhile.
Sex dream is in love with another woman, is in love with another man; wants to fuck your girlfriend, already has, it was good, real good, is gonna show you the pictures to shut you up the next time your drunk and obnoxious; masturbates, thinks about you masturbating, and wonders what your face looks like when you come; Sex Dream is intent on staying home alone tonight and rubbinit - 'till it's raw.
It's one hundred ten miles per hour screaming down the highway ready to blindly die for another piece of fuck. It's looking in your bathroom window, jacking off like crazy, staying up late at night writing obscene stories for titty magazines.
My sex dream is an artist, a waiter, a truck driver with BO, and it does not think you need a douche with a pretty picture on the box so your pussy wussy can have that "April fresh scent"
Sex Dream's a gallon and a half of Wesson Oil, looking for a party on a steamy Friday night. Sex Dream's a sick champagne bottle up your Fatty Arbuckle ass.
Sex Dream's a demented clap with no sound, that will go anywhere, or do anything to get what it wants. And what it wants is more fuck. And, until it gets some-more-fuck, it's filled with angst wondering if it's going to lose it's fucking mind.
In my equal opportunity sex dream every motherfucking thing object animal person molecule atom and quark, pops it's rocks.
When I have a dream about fuck, everything gets laid
Chocolate Waters' latest collection, Illusion Junkie Downtown,
will be released by Cedar Hill Publishing sometime next year.
The author of three previous collections, she is also the recipient
of a 1995 New York Foundation for the Arts fellowship in Poetry
and a 1990 fellowship from the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund. Her
work, which has been nominated for several Puschcart prizes, is
widely published and currently appears in the Coffeehouse Poetry
Anthology, Howling Dog, Libido and the new anthology AndWhat Rough
Beast. Current work can also be browsed on the Web at the Poetry
Café, Zero City, Perihelion, and the Astrophysicist's Tango Partner
Speaks. Other work is upcoming in Disquieting Muses and Conspire.
Waters' three books: To the Man Reporter From the Denver Post, Take Me Like A Photograph and Charting New Waters are available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com. A pioneer in women's publishing and in the art of performance poetry, she has toured throughout the United States, but makes her home in Manhattan. Hailed as the "Poet Laureate of Hell's Kitchen," Waters teaches poetry workshops, tutors individual clients and is a frequent participant in the New York poetry circuit.
The following work is Copyright © 1998, and owned by Chocolate Waters and may not be distributed or reprinted in any formwhatsover without written permission from the author.
What's a Bi-Cuspal Woman To Do?
(the dilemma of an Aquarian on the cusp of Capricorn)
My Aquarius says,
I love everybody in the world.
My Capricorn warns,
Don't be a fool; they'll mug you.
My Aquarius says,
Roam around the country
writing poetry and making love.
My Capricorn retorts,
Stay home and get a real job.
Wow, you look more like Ava Gardner every day.
And you know how long she's been dead.
I can change the world.
You can't even change a dollar bill.
Why don't you just kill yourself and get it over with?
My Aquarius sighs,
because I?ll probably have to come back -
as a Capricorn.
Take Me Like a Photohraph
I've never had a lover like you.
I feel like I'm in a windstorm
Breathing love songs.
Taking pictures of myself
to hang along the trees.
You have loved me for myself,
not a picture of me
someone else has taken,
while I fade out reach out
I want to give you
quiet gentle windstorms,
whisper to you songs
Take me like
like a tree.
I will love you
The Eggnog Lady
I wear my fear
like a wedding ring I do not want
to be married
I want a job
I go to the New York Public Library at 42nd. Street
to apply for one
Come back in ten years but do
take a look at our new
96-frame photographic exhibition on landscapes
I'm scared I say to the first print
I have no work I say to the 15th. print
No place to live I say to the 34th. print
I don't have any friends I say to the 51st. print
All I have is my fear
and I'm very protective of it
New York, NY If I can make it there
to the rest of the 45 prints
in the 96-frame photographic exhibition
as if something is amusing
Outside a woman begging on the street
asks me if it's OK to mix rum with eggnog
I tell her to drink the eggnog
and forget the rum
Her eyes roll down my face
I have 54 cents
I give her all of it
She thanks me through the holes in her teeth
Tells me she will forget the eggnog
I see her face in 96 delicatessen windows
ask her if she'll be
my maid of honor
Your name was not Eve
You did not offer me
You touched me
I denied you
to your priest
I did not
when you threw me
like an apple
I wrote you
a love song
with a man's name
instead of yours