Poetry has always been our primary outlet throughout life. This archive contains poetry we wrote when we were 22 years old, during a time we were experimenting with new forms of poetry and prose.
Speaking with grumbles and harsh gestures, slamming glasses, plates, each other. No words.
That summer in the heat of Chicago I’d sit on the front steps and blow bubbles into the thick air, to the sky, waiting for the rain to come to wash away the garbage. Planes would fly by and I would dream of travel to far away places, to lands uncharted, to sanity. Escape. The neighbor whistling signaling me to dance in my panties to Madonna while supper cooked on the stove and I cherished the few stolen moments left. Pulling down the shades and closing the windows tight so that crazy lady next door with all the cats and birds couldn’t talk to me or peek in my windows.
Edge of the bed, nowhere to go but in. Hating his smell, his breathing, wishing it would all stop. Up to make coffee in the wee hours of the morning, while hateful words fly on the drive into the city..
Hail a cab, get on a plane, blow bubbles into the air and hope one comes back with a pink lady in it to take me and my dog to the next cliché rainbow to find an empty pot of gold, no trimmings please.
The rain never washed the garbage away, from the inside it couldn’t be reached. Kids walked by with their dogs, leashed like me. An uncommon pet kept common. Like so many leashes being pulled and yanked, it’ll all snap. So that in the end I no longer blow soap bubbles into the sky hoping for clean rain. I’ll just wash the garbage myself.
Cracker Jack Prize
You can be my cracker jack prize, no consolations here.
Jack in the box with no air. Surprise by every crank.
No future but the past, holding on to that prize.
Squeeze and let go watch it zig, zag and pop.
Cereal boxes hold no toys such as these.
Only the Times, Harold and P.O. Box 11
Have it in the know.
She holds on to every scrap, bit and Harry,
Hoping to define who she is at this stage.
Doesn’t walk at life, runs full force.
Knocking down all the doors.
Embraces life…and men with vigor
Unmatched by peers.
Lets chitter and chatter roll off her back,
Tongue at variable speeds.
She was a child.
She ran everywhere.
She smelled of gum and loved balloons.
She had sun-kissed hair and rosey cheeks.
She loved to skip.
She was innocent, happy.
She loved to play in the mud and collect tadpoles during floods.
She loved to ride bike and play pretend.
She loved to sing.
She was innocent, happy.
All the remember whens and there was a times gone by,
sticking to the roof of reality with a piece of pink Bubbleicious.
Picked at like a scab, crusted over under desks,
Left by children with small feet tied with laces of rainbows.
Strung high, small shoes, on phone wires tapped in where the government listens,
Strides in with their free speech ears telling you to think open.
Bring on the dysphoria
from main and state.
Broken glass between my shelves,
teeth and clenched fists.
Crimson droplets blue in my skin
skidding along my arm hairs
and saline on cheeks.
Deliberate capitulation smeared
on windowless walls.
Waxen dolls melted into lace and
tipped over rubber lips.
Grease paint on thighs, ankles
glowing bright in amber hues.
Blister and bubble. White teeth scream.
Times change but the old men still rock, always to the same tune
Of when I was a child.
The incessant clicking of the hand reminds me of every damn second wasted.
When all anyone wants to do is sleep, fuck and eat.
Not necessarily in that order.
Lustfull, lazy gluttons. When there is art to breath, words to eat and a beautiful world to share your bed with.
So full of life you can lick it till it screams.
Much to live for and plenty to die for.
Pulling on my nose, my toes, and my arms wrapped me up in pink taffeta and shipped me off into the sunset.
Unwrapped by the sea and kissed by the moon, making love to the world, one by one.