Poems for the Woman Who Shares My Birthday
I've lazy about blogging lately, so thought I would post some older poems I thought that y'all might dig.
Back in 1994 and 1995 I dated a woman born on the same day I was, six years apart. This is an ms of some of the poems I wrote during that relationship.
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The Stinking F Train
The F train on 2nd Avenue stinks,
I stink, on the/up the F Train from 2nd Avenue,
clothes on last night's love,
everything stinking, clinging,
I'm searching for deodorant, for powder,
for some Irish Spring to soak, soap, rub me.
"I hate to take a shower and put on dirty clothes," I tell you.
I think I need to bring my toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, powder,
I need to bring my hygienic sesh to feel safe here,
to belong here,
to sense that, at times, your space is mine.
I need to know how your shower works,
whether the hot water blasts straight out from the head, and then sputters,
or if its flow is less powerful when after bathing you attempt to pull the stopper up,
to switch from lower flow on to upper flow down.
For now, I head home after seeing you off to work,
I take the F train
--the F train takes me from school, to you, to home,
it is my new favorite subway line--
and at Penn Station hop on the railroad,
cling to my plasticked seat
and absorb you through a mental cleansing.
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I put on the latest Liz Phair album after hearing your Queen Latifah disc this morning as you late-work dressed
I put on the latest Liz Phair album 'cause it was ours,
we'd made it ours through it on permanent repeat in your bedroom,
your portable disc player's volume-less speakers covered with blankets to stay the neighbors wall poundings,
Liz singing atop chopsticks, "That way we could fuck and watch tv"
as we made love for the first time.
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I'm about to quote Tom Petty,
And it's not the late seventies or early eighties
And Stevie Nicks isn't cool and thin anymore
And the kids in the hall aren't wearing blue denim jackets
with big Yes or Genesis patches sewn onto the backs anymore either
(back when both bands had their cujones)
but I'm still going to quote Tom Petty,
the waiting is the hardest part.
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Poem for Candace who lives on East Fifth Street
It's like this,
when we fight we don't look in each other's eyes
It's like this,
why our apartment is va-cant
why our presents are Miss
--Candace--
ing
It's like this,
The Clash's Joe Strummer is echoing to me,
"I fought the law and the l-aw won,
I fought the law and the l-aw won"
I'm looking to fight y-o-u
'n lose
'n win
'n tie
'n sick
'n health
'n die
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It's like this,
we still don't look at each other when we fight
It's like this
after a Saturday afternoon, still in bed, hatefest
after separate showers to gain some space in your/our one-bedroom Alphabet City apartment
after cleaned and dressed fighting
and a stress-related Camel filtered in the now window-opened kitchen
after all the insanity of our manic depressive relationship
I turn on Nirvana's All Apologies
and ask for guidance.
And in the refrain,
as Kurt sings "all alone is all we are, all alone is all we are"
over and over
repeating it at least a half-dozen times
I think biblical and Lou Reed lyrics
of dust-to-dust and self-reliance
and though I know I'll sing those lyrics again
(probably tonight when we come back to your one-board broken futon)
and though a part of me wholeheartedly believes them
another part just doesn't anymore.
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Anselm's bed
is soft the first time she and I make love in it
in the room that's no longer his after the breakup.
We fight like we always do,
with passion,
until we separate into the Haight.
I end up at Golden Gate Park playground
and she's swinging.
We make out and push each other to the sky
and go back to Anselm's bed.
Iggy Pop's "Candy" comes on, B-52's Kate Pierson joins in,
and I cry our love to her in a whisper--
"Candy, Candy, Candy I can't let you go,
All my life you're haunting me I love you so."