Letter to a Friend from the Future

She’s going to waffle
putting your affection
inside the crevices of the setting flour
because she thinks you might stick
Well, she might stick!

She’ll be sorry about it,
I thought she might stick!
but not that sorry
not sorry enough to stop
cooking all together.

Because, she’ll muse,
staring into the lightly toasted flannel batter pattern
we could still be friends
with glaring and occasionally unruly sexual tension,
but you could be friends. Still?
Friends, could you be? Stall.
Friends? Stay. You? Stasis.
Could be

stasis,
would be the best way, this
could be the best way, yes
for her to handle (and she’s sorry enough)
for you to handle (is she sorry enough?)

the door handle
against your
best judgment
against her
better intentions,
slippery like glue
the knob in your hand, try
(not) to persuade yourself
dissuade yourself
I might stick

Personal Poem

And you tapped my table to say farewell,
here in Peoria at my place of employment.
I have only this cup of coffee, iced,
and a cornucopia of useless books
spread across the table like thanksgiving,
supposedly here to help me climb mount everest,
if mount everest were a term paper

let us now muse about mountains,
of climbing uphill, stumbling upon rocks (metaphors!)
and belligerent individuals,
or possibly sasquatch,
or possibly you,
(no not table tapping you,
the other you the you I ran into
or rather the you that ran into me)

I was not climbing, dearest you that ran into me
I was only sitting here, unguarded
having thanksgiving
and watching the sky get darker

if I ever climb mount everest
I would like to encounter sasquatch
yes that would be preferable
to an interrupted thanksgiving

and any real or metaphorical rocks--even diamonds
monsters like Big Foot usually have a heart of gold
instead of
a gold face with the heart of a monster
instead of
diamonds which are only unbreakable

it’s going to rain,
I can tell
because the cars have all turned on their headlights
I count the turn signals
and I think, anything that doesn’t break
must not be worth it

Mais Bien Sur, There Are No Strangers

--a response to O’Hara’s many eating poems in his book, Lunch Poems

But Peoria is nothing like New York, O’Hara.
People in Peoria eat at home
by themselves
scrunched into an arm chair
watching the movers and the shakers on TV
remain still and unshook.

In my scrunchable arm chair
I’ve considered setting my small table for phantom company
(not actual ghosts, rumor is they don’t eat)
just as Eleanor Rigby probably did each night
each night
waiting for strangers
like all the rest of us
faces like lightening bugs
in lightly perforated jars

Well, aren’t we? Spending time with our acquainted
who are not enough for us, nor we for them, still, we drink

lukewarm tea and inquire about kids soccer games
and marital woe (only the woe is interesting)
knocking off the hours,
looking over ears and under shoulders as inconspicuously as possible,
expecting someone
new
to parade graciously into our kitchen
sit,
and eat.

Judgement of the Hidden (Or, Consequence of Taste)

In Judgement of the Hidden (Or, Consequence of Taste)

You’re so far in the closet
You’re a sweater
Bulky, ugly, maroon (an ugly color, that)
knitted by a creature (let’s say, your grandmamma
or spinster aka lesbian aunt,
for whom this poem is also for)

in an effort to conjure
comfort
out of
crass materials,
warmth
out of
now very cold sheep, little lambs
who shiver
to provide you
manufactured safety,
this woven itchy shroud, silent
instead of singing!
celebratory skin glowing purple proud majesty, oh
for the love of honesty!
yes! the love of

the innate beauty between
those fingers
working frantically
at the sewing machine
despite the furor

of inconsolable fragments of verisimilitude
skeletons of what’s true
who are cranky and nude
who are
thumping on the closet door
like a riot of the hungry many
tilling the sky and drumming their voices
dousing Jericho with a holler a cry for
RESPECT! PEACE!
and no lives for oil, for liar’s fire and grease
the fossils of each
past person, like you
those who
never released
themselves
from the pastel prisons
and cellophane cells
you thread the needle
they roar they rattle,
your ancestors
in technicolor and sequins and lost blood
choking on rubble from Stonewall,
lines of Sapphic poetry,
shoved down their mouths
to keep them sedated

“So what?” you hiss.
you. are. tired. of all their noise
noxious nonsense
isn’t it your choice?
isn’t it your life?
Yes.
and aren’t you allowed to hide, deny, flee and lie your way out of and from
whatever you so choose?
Yes. In theory.
In theory,
had you not
dangled that carrot— (or was it a pomegranate?)
--that magic piece of produce, (apple?) ripe,
soiled with knowledge,
denied denial.

You snake!
You reckless Jehovah!
Self-imploding
out of
necessity and self-loathing
you shouldn’t have fed those Skeletons
that apple from the tree
that carrot from the ground

(those sounds, her skin, knees and chests in motion
pictures replay in your mind everyday,
the consequences, consequences, consequences
of taste)
should have let water
remain name-less
kept yourself blame-less

for now you know
they know
you know