Thursday, September 15, 2005
Durga Slays the Buffalo Demon Named Marilyn
I know a lot about what I don't know:
wrote letters, exasperatingly detailed
to friends, friends of friends and obscure
save-Nature societies: I saved the originals
and mailed copies. My letters concerned my concerns
I burned the originals in a secret
Magick ritual involving
goodbye so-long farewell.
I have a radio voice.
My thoughts always in search of popular tunes.
My message: I am
thinking what you are thinking --
that sort of thing.
I arrived in a balloon from the Midwest
with a trunk full of questions, a philosophy
degree seeking answers I'd already memorized
even at 30 I appeared old: whisps of gray around
my eyes. nothing in me was ever blue.
I had the same cultural hunger as that woman
in Main Street; in her mirror she saw Audrey Hepburn
looking back saying yes, I do look
a little like Mary Tyler Moore
all air and moonlight.
I listen with the ferocity of a
stapler starving to "go at it"
My M.O.: collate, file
the light around me: flourescent.
scissors my tool of trade; weapon of relationship
I just want to pack me away
stuffed with a variety
of adjectives and imperfect verbs.
I'm Smokey the Bear with a match;
an afraid-of-the-dark ghost;
A black-tie affair in a closet;
a little black book with no names just numbers
You'll never get away with this I've got your number
You can't handle me in a flood.
I can't say no fast enough
Then I worry about not having said yes slowly enough.
I'm a full night in an empty glass
I never came home without a care;
Can't be bothered by the bother of others;
signed up for everything then stayed home praying
from the depths of despair.
There's so much room in an empty house.
A child out for the lion's share.
Picked up enough philosophy to cover psychology
Deathly afraid of leaving voice-mail.
Constantly worked at things I wanted to stop working on;
Sewed buttons to wedding dresses explaining
one button for each wished for, or hoped for
year of marriage with my intended groom;
got to 62 my fingers ached, stopped.
Wanted to be a bride a wife
the star in a wear and tear folktale of
new love meeting first love
I robbed strength from the weak
stole the here and now with flattery
when I learned about the concept of
dichotomy I believed it meant duplicity;
yes and no I opted to know enough to upholster chairs.
I took, in the late evening hours, to stitching
scraps of wool suits to torn bits of t-shirts;
When I wanted to move I moved: to the depths of despair
Now I'm stuck in San Francisco with hellish visions.
Don't see hide nor hair of me anymore.
-- Jeff Wietor
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