An Old Untitled Poem of Mom's

September 29, 1990

the 

faulty inspiration of

alcohol.

like a movie set,

it appears to be real,

but is not.

Being Women Together

Being Women Together

My mother and I were women together.  Well, okay, I was only her girl child for some of those years, but I quite precociously grasped one evening when I heard the plentiful and ebullient family next door having a barbecue that lasted roughly from noon until midnight the summer of my eleventh year the disquieting contrast between those noises and smells and the quiet dusk of our own kitchen.

“I’m lonely.  I want more,” my sullen gaze telegraphed itself into her awareness.

“I understand, one hundred percent” the squeeze she gave my hand – two short squeezes and a long one that felt particularly sincere and protective – transmitted.

So – this was womanhood, was our own version of womanhood anyway – a cloud of dissatisfaction palpable as a self-separate entity, a runty bunny rabbit, white with those gruesome red eyes.

The dead of L.A.

(I found one of my mom's old notebooks from the eighties.  her handwriting is atrocious but I'm transcribing her poetry)

************

Pinched and twisted

In the dead of L.A. –

Lost and more lost, she wanders,

Not one word exchanged or offered-

Bury and buy

Again + again

He exits

Dripping gold

Silent and dripping indifference

Peripheral vision

Revealed him

Not to her. 

Sheer wonder in

Compromise .

He’s glowing rays

Of hate, death.

Could his meaning have been

Tender curiousity?

The air is cool

The sky is late

The sidewalks are covered in

Pages from desk calendars

You (we) tread over days and days

Of last year

In which something happened – something –

Lived and died –

Putting me in a bleak park –

Another lost day and dead years

And dear but dead l.a.

December 28 1989

WEEK of FAVORITE POETS: #1 - Dorothy Parker

        

Resumé

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;

You might as well live.

---

Inscription for the Ceiling of a Bedroom read by Ms. Parker

Symptom Recital -- scene from the movie Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle starring Jennifer Jason Leigh

The Nostalgia Principle of Time Travel - Poem

The Nostalgic principle of Time Travel on this the Anniversary of the Murder of John Lennon

Firstly, would Darby Crash be a household name instead of just the homophobic homo nihilist punk who killed himself to be famous but

had the sad luck to do

it the night before we found out about John Lennon?

It wasn't much of a splash he made, his suicide,

and now he haunts this old roachy hot dog stand in Hollywood

where he spent some happy -- for a nihilist -- nights with his

fans and friends.  His old ghost bones give him pains.

Secondly, and more importantly, 

if John Lennon hadn't,'a been murdered when he was

would mom have visited dad more in the hospital

instead of drooling glued to the tv for all the details of

her mania-man, that effortlessly cool guy, John Lennon?

Dad was in the hospital recovering from heart surgery and

oh gee wiz, if John Lennon wouldn't have been shot like that when he was,

would they have stayed together, at least for a couple years more?

would she've drinken so much and

would she have exuded that air of an absolute distaste

for the concept of culpability that, in real life, she exuded,

all brownish-gray and a-swirl with the dingy smoke from her 

endless cigarette?

In other words, 

would I be the sweet, sweat-smelling ragdoll,

woman of the hungry mouth and the near-hopeless cunt

you see before you today?

Would life be better for me if John Lennon wasn't murdered that day

and if Kurt Cobain hadn't kicked the bucket would I

care more than I do about anything less than the MOST OF ANYTHING?

Wild Animal (a poem)

I’ve tried out the gesture of tsk-tsking a few times,

When it seems it may have been appropriate.

I’ve tried,

Not for months now, but once upon a time,

To do the type of things that level-headed people do,

Like sighing at others’ reckless denial of the

Shit that passes for first-world amenities –

Not to humble-brag, but yesterday I spoke at length with

A homeless woman whose mouth was all covered in

Sores.

She liked my jewelry and my dress,

Commenting on it the way my dead mother would have.

Anyway, this homeless woman,

To whom I gave some amenities that were in the scheme

Of things as paltry as offering

To piss on a jellyfish bite that was sustained

Months and months ago –

It was nice just to be there with her.

But there have been times,

Yes indeed,

When I tried out tsk-tsking.

I’m speaking to you now,

Ghost of my Mom.

There was a day when I called the mental hospital where

You’d been placed in an involuntary 72 hour hold.

The first time I called the phone number

(it’s just payphones in places like this if you

Want to speak to a patient –

Trust me, I know)

I spoke with a patient who tried his best

To help locate you for me.

“She’s a white lady with sort of frizzy hair and

A dead tooth?” he confirmed.

Yes.

He didn’t know where you were and

That was fine,

He’d tried his best.

So the next time I tried the nurse’s station,

To speak about you behind your back.

“How is she doing?” I asked.

“She stays in her room.  They’re supposed to participate in

The activities, they’re not supposed to stay in their
rooms all day but we can’t make them participate in

The groups.”

I did the sighing version of tsk-tsk.

“Sigh,” I sighed to her in my best impression of someone

Who believes in capitalism and the sexist practice of psychiatry.

I made it sound like, “What can I do?  She’s so stubborn, so irresponsible.”

I was wearing a viscose blouse and ugly slacks as I made this call,

Trying for some privacy by standing under the stairwell where

The office I worked in stashed all their industrial-sized recycling bins.

I’d been on the phone with the nurse from your place of captivity

For almost 15 minutes and that was how long my break was.

So I wrapped it up, before my boss or the other secretary I

Shared my office with noticed I’d been gone for two or three minutes

 Extra.

But in truth, my boss was a bit of an asshole,

And the secretary a bit of a sanctimonious bitch.

And if I’m being honest,

The nurse who answered the phone at your final

Facility for captivity

Was a bit of a shit head.

And I was a bit of a drone,

A wet blanket,

An ineffectual female version of a Eunuch.

What would you call that?

Just a bore, I guess.

Anyway,

This was the last facility you’d ever be placed in.

You hightailed it out of there as soon as your

72 hours were up

Because you wanted to get home to your

Six hightailed cats and make sure they were

Okay.

You were the “crazy catlady,” I guess it’s called sometimes.

You were the “pack-rat” I guess they called it.

But you were an animal,

And that’s more than I can say for myself.