Case of the Mondays:
Neither desire to write
nor to shelve blog goals.

*

My feet shouldn't ache,
because it's not like I walk
while chained to the chair.

*

So I'll stand for this,
but must it always be that
they are next to me?

*

The 2 train pulls up.
A crushing rush to the doors.
Fighting to sit more.

Weeks ago, I had dinner with TBID and his family at this really swanky place. I felt anxious before, because I don't really enjoy food the way that they do. When I eat something, I don't really want to know how it was made and I don't want to examine every little taste. Eating just doesn't excite me like that.

Fortunately, no one was obnoxious about the meal. I didn't feel pushed to try anything or judged for getting a steak, which is my fancy meal go-to. The focus was really on conversation and getting to know everyone better. I like to think I'm pretty good at being authentic while still pleasing the elders. Parents tend to like me.

TBID's mom started talking about living in 1970's New York Gritty. She and TBID's dad were artsy and had big hair back then. "New York belongs to the young," she said. "You can live here your whole life, but it only feels like yours for a very short time."

A few days later, I stumbled upon the poem below and thought of sending it to her. It reminded me of what she'd said about how being young equates to this feeling of ownership and control. I ran it by TBID who constructively commented, "Uhh, it sounds like you're commenting on the fact that she's old."

Oops. My (almost) bad. Regardless of whether or not she thinks she owns the city, I don't regard her as preposterous, as the poem says. Still, I'm glad I didn't just e-mail her. That could've been harder to explain than why I barely touched my vegetables.

I'm saving my first major faux pas for the holiday season, but I don't want to get ahead of myself.

One day you will reach...

One day you will reach a bend in your life.
Time will curve like a wind
and after that the young
will no longer be afraid of you
the way they ought to be,

the way they were when you were minus fifty
and had a glare like winter,
and kept men's souls in cough syrup bottles
and could cause dogs to burst into flames.

Instead of fear, you'll be handed
a kind of dutiful respect
that isn't really serious
and will find yourself an object
of secret jocularity
like a preposterous expensive hat.
The glittering eyes of the old aren't gay

or if gay, they have the gaiety
of things that have no power.
Wallpaper with pink flowers.
Buds in bud vases. Butterflies
drunk of fermenting pears.
Drunks in the gutter.

Drunks in the gutter singing-
I forgot to add that.

-Margaret Atwood

You Heard The Man You Love

You heard the man you love
talking to himself in the next room.
He didn't know you were listening.
You put your ear to the wall
but you couldn't catch the words,
only a kind of rumbling.
Was he angry? Was he swearing?
Or was it some kind of commentary
like a long obscure footnote on a page of poetry?
Or was he trying to find something he'd lost,
such as the car keys?
The suddenly he began to sing.
You were startled
because this was a new thing,
but you didn't open the door, you didn't go in,
and he kept on singing, in his deep voice, off-key,
a purple-green monotone, dense and heathery.
He wasn't singing for you, or about you.
He had some other source of joy,
nothing to do with you at all -
he was an unknown man, singing in his own room, alone.
Why did you feel so hurt then, and so curious,
and also happy,
and also set free?

-Margaret Atwood

Sunday night alone.
I haven't seen Juno yet.
Hot date with the couch.

*I wrote this for a long ago ex-boyfriend. Well, it seems so long ago. I found it scrawled on a tattered piece of notebook paper in the old apartment.


It appears I've sent this parcel to myself. My own penmanship staring back at me from the manila envelope, cool to the touch.

But you sent it.

I self-addressed weeks ago, because I suspected you wanted to forget my name, where I live, what we had.

Still, you placed that piece of cardboard in there. It was the one accessory not included and designed to keep the pictures you didn't want from bending.

That means something to me.

Though you threatened to throw it all away, claimed you didn't care, you know it was beautiful and special and too important to be carelessly warped. Even as you tried your hardest to lose it.

A moving poem for TBID:

Man, I have too much stuff. But I may need this single scrap of gift wrap.
Oh, if I threw it out, I'd be sure to regret it. I might give someone a
Very small gift sometime soon. You know, like a contact lens case or any
Infinite number of crappy gifts one could potentially give someone.
Non-denominational gift wrap like this is perfect for the holiday party! So
Go ahead, carry it up three flights in that big box of sundries. Please.

I told my co-workers about it yesterday and printed out poems for everyone.

Me: Tomorrow is Poem in Your Pocket Day.

Phil: Ewww. Do I even wanna know what that's about?

Me: April is National Poetry Month. So tomorrow is Poem in Your Pocket Day.

Phil: Oh! I thought you said Palm in Your Pocket.

*

This morning, I picked one poem for each co-worker. Phil came into work today and found "The Owl and the Pussycat" on his desk.

Phil: Hmmm... Is this one as good as "Stopping by Woods on an Overrated Evening"?

*

Later, the boy I'm dating (TBID) shared some poetry he'd stumbled upon in his in-box.

TBID: Spam subject line: "Bomb her womb from your huge cannon!"

Me: Ewww. But I gotta admire the figurative language.

TBID: Yeah, I know. That's great. Is there any word for words that look like they rhyme on paper, but don't rhyme in actual speech? Like bomb/womb?

Me: Eye rhymes, but I think there's a more technical term.

*

Happy Poem in Your Pocket Day!

There was this really beautiful Friday. Then a beautiful Sunday. On Monday, he told me, "Not to jinx things, but you kind of rock my world." I wryly responded, "All right. This is the part in the movie where one of us gets cancer." (I recently watched Love Story).

I'm not in love, not even close. But I thought I was in like or near-like. And then he brought me flowers.

How do you explain your face falling at the sight of a dozen roses? Many girls would flush and gush on the spot.

But I'm not that girl. I wondered why they had to be so Valentine-y, why they weren't more original. Not that I'd mentioned it to him, but I prefer lilies. How about a "grow your own amaryllis" kit?

He could tell I was weirded out and grew quiet. Immediately, I hated myself for silencing this person who'd spent most of the weekend making me laugh, listening closely, and walking on the right side of the street.

"Look, it's just that-" I stuttered. "Guys don't give flowers until they screw up...or know the girl better and it's a special occasion."

He'd eaten dinner without me and seen them. He'd thought of me and romantic gestures. To admit this kind of weakened him in my eyes. He'd been so suave up until that point, aware of all the places to go and sights to see. Now he was just another bumbling guy with flowers and good intentions.

My ticker tape of self-loathing frantically scrolled: WHY AM I SO CYNICAL? WHAT ON EARTH HAS SOMEONE REPLACED MY HEART WITH? WHAT AM I DOING TO THIS POOR GUY?

When my gentleman casualty shrugged in feigned casualness, I didn't believe it. "Throw 'em out, if you want. It's not a big deal. I didn't think you'd feel weird about it," he said.

Cue ticker tape: A GUY JUST APOLOGIZED TO YOU FOR BRINGING YOU FLOWERS! THE TWELVE-YEAR-OLD YOU IS PISSED AND ABOUT TO SLAP UPSIDE YOUR EMPTY HEAD.

Actually, I don't think it's empty. I think it's too full. I am thinking too much. And falling in like cannot be all about thinking.

The next day, I sent him the poem below. I'd been thinking about it since I trimmed stems and noticed just how fragrant the roses are.

Flowers
By: Wendy Cope

Some men never think of it.
You did. You'd come along
And say you'd nearly brought me flowers
But something had gone wrong.

The shop was closed. Or you had doubts -
The sort that minds like ours
Dream up incessantly. You thought
I might not want your flowers.

It made me smile and hug you then.
Now I can only smile.
But, look, the flowers you nearly bought
Have lasted all this while.

This isn't going to become a blog entirely dedicated to the eakupbray, but I want to share a favorite poem.

Worry
By: Wendy Cope

I worry about you-
So long since we spoke.
Love, are you downhearted,
Dispirited, broke?
I worry about you.
I can't sleep at night.
Are you sad? Are you lonely?
Or are you all right?
They say that men suffer,
As badly, as long.
I worry, I worry,
In case they are wrong.

Under the weather
or maybe just beside it.
Not so much difference.

(Does the last line work, since no one actually says "dif-fer-ence"?)

*My main studio apartment light is out again. The ceilings are higher than Amy Winehouse on her honeymoon. I looked for a lamp at Bed Bath and Beyond and I guess they were all hidden in the beyond.


But soft! What light leaves
this abode black, jeopardous?
Bulb's burnt out again?!

*

My building super
begrudges his steel ladder
and doing his job.

*

I shall make a threat.
These management companies
will ignore all else.

*

Writing haikus tends
to calm me down, but still,
I'm here in the dark.

For years, other people's grandparents will talk about Lichtenstein's. It is the downtown department store - the only place to buy something nice enough for a wedding or a funeral - years before the strip malls bloom with their affordable chain stores. Lichtenstein's is classy, but insulting. It sells furs to South Texans, which is not unlike selling cut-off shorts to a mountaineering team in the Alps.

My grandfather strolls so cooly with his brother and father. You'd never know that he doesn't shop at Lichtenstein's. He'd rather spend money on his car, the Chevy in which my mom will be conceived. He will be twenty-one, shy, and scared.

You'd never know that his dad is a drunk destined to keep walking down the sidewalk, past the Gulf, leaving more than a family of mannequins staring sadly out the window.

Head Honcho teased me today, because I kept turning the air conditioner in the office I'm using on and off. I never could get comfortable in the stuffy room.


From: Amanda
To: Head Honcho
Subject: This Room, A Haiku

This room is stuffy.
A.C.'s my one salvation.
Oops! Now I'm freezing.

*

From: Head Honcho
To: Amanda
Subject: RE: This Room, A Haiku

You.
Are.
Shot.
Kid.

*

From: Amanda
To: Head Honcho
Subject: "You Are Shot," A Haiku

Jeff says, "You are shot,"
as an expression of his
deep admiration.

*I found this old poem in a bedroom drawer last night, folded neatly amongst crusted over nail polish bottles and single lost earrings. A poem out of place for a person out of place. Adanna Thompson, wherever you are, I still don't know how much I should read into that last line.

I'm glad that you've finally let yourself go.
You love boldly and without shame.
You feel alot more and you don't
care if people can read it in your face.

You laugh louder.
You even giggle more.
You're so beautiful to me now.
I can feel all of your thoughts
and they're comforting since they
often echo mine.

And I love the fact that you've grown to love me.
Now I know it's true when people
tell me that I could charm the devil.

When do you tell
the truth that turns
words to uncontrollable
watering in a
puckered mouth?

Is it best to
spill the beans,
a clean floor
treacherously
dirty in one sentence?

Or should it unravel
like string, my
listener slowly
seeing the connection
(or disconnection)?

Do you do it today?
Tomorrow? Yesterday?
Or a month from
three hours from now?

When do you tell
the truth, not to mention
how?

I ought to write
something about
today before my
feet betray the
desire to remember,
hot water washing
away the caked,
discolored
soreness that comes
of laughter and
adventure and walking
step after step
through neighborhoods
that change like
seasons.

It reminds me of
a movie we saw recently:
the father and son
walking along the beach,
stepping on wet rocks.
They forgot the camera,
and said, "We'll
just have to remember."
Typical, maybe, but I'd
like my feet to
do the same once
the blisters heal
and my shoes are thrown
under the table
next to yours.

Angry Love Poems
By My Winter Clothes

At parties, I'm thrown
across a stranger's bed,
left dangling as
you make the rounds,
tucked into an uncomfortable
space beside you,
unnoticed, unattended.
You'll miss me someday
when I'm gone,
but for now I am
yours to use
when you see fit.
- Coat

I am a pretty whisper,
as superfluous as
a fleck of glitter.
You forget my beauty,
put it on last.
A light, silken
afterthought to bring
out something else
you already possess.
I'm twisted by your
fickle whims.
- Scarf

You wanted me once.
Stroked me, picked me,
took me with you
for a time.
Now I lay, lame as
an arthritic dog,
fatigued by my
motionlessness,
breathless from
the monotony.
Everyone thinks
you need me...
except you.
- Hat

"This is a candid photo," my mom said when she handed me this photograph. As if I couldn't tell with all the men not looking at the camera, while the women do. "Look at those heels!" she laughed and pointed at the stilettoes on my great-grandmother, her grandmother.

It was Easter. My mom's younger sister, the one who would go on to a hard life of abusive men and self-defeat and ultimately, estrangement from my mom, is blonde bobbed and carrying an impressively filled basket. My mom's father, my grandpa with whom I never had a genuine conversation, is young and handsome. He seems tall next to his daughter, but he was not a big man. The woman who stands against the house always kept a distance. She is my mom's mother, all of nineteen years old maybe, and saddled down with two kids she is not ready for.

I don't know who the man in the foreground is. An uncle? A family friend? I'm guessing it was my great-grandmother's husband at the time. She had a few that didn't work out before the last one. I never knew him, either, but something about him was different. His pictures were still in the house. His last name was still hers. He'd only left, because he'd died, and maybe not even then.

My great-grandmother could cook a huge meal in stilettoes with a baby on her hip and a song on her breath, nary a hair out of place or a smudge of lipstick on her teeth. I have not inherited this kind of poise. No one ever heard her curse, and she did not appear to have any outward vices. Despite this, everyone loved her.

She grew up on a farm where heels and pretty dresses were a mythic extravagance. She reared her children poor - not poorly, but poor. She was a good mother who didn't have much besides her love to give.

My favorite story is of how she once ran on foot with her child to the nearest hospital. It was the middle of the night; the baby had ingested rat poison. He didn't live. I don't know what happened the next day other than her feet and her heart hurt. She made breakfast for the family and soldiered on.

I hope I have inherited this kind of poise.

Under it, in the album of the plastic sucking noise whenever opened, she wrote, "Second thoughts?"

She'd been graciously examining a box. It probably contained a gift from Sears or mail order. The lighting was fluorescent, the wedding dry. It was sober in more than one sense of the word. Inches of rain fell during the ceremony. He'd been gazing off, deep in thought, turning the new gold ring on his finger the way one right twirl a lock of hair or tap a foot. He wanted to leave, I think. Not her - the building, the people who surrounded him and waited with expectant smiles on their faces.

Perhaps he knew that the rest of his life would literally consist of richer and poorer, sickness and health. He was about to board a rollercoaster, and she was the cute girl who took his ticket and released the turnstile. Second thoughts would never be tall enough to ride along with him.

Saturday mornings, Megan woke up first. She claimed Daddy's chair directly across from the tv; I settled for the couch. We'd yet to reupholster its brown ribbed and pilled surface. It was comfortable and always had throw pillows that made do, made it presentable enough until it could be replaced with something better and more expensive.

Mama painted the kitchen cabinets a cheerful color called "giraffe." I liked it. Mama liked it for awhile, too. Later the cabinets would be "antique white," which I'd guess they still are. We all changed and moved away from where we were younger together, my family and me.

That kitten is Bobby. He's an orphaned Manx my mom adopted. He was still normal then, though malnourished and tiny. When he got declawed, he lost all sanity. Since then, he's cried to be out when inside. Inside, when out. He is beaten up a lot by other cats in the new neighborhood, cats who don't know what it is to want.

Megan and I had bangs. Mama cut them. This picture was taken a long time before I became so critical of myself and started to project my insecurity on my younger sister, whom I thought my parents might love more. I'm sorry for all that now. Things have gotten better with her, but I don't think I'd let my mom take a random picture of me early Saturday morning, before hair or teeth are brushed, ever again. I don't think Megan would, either. (Both of us, however, still eat popsicles for breakfast sometimes).

And Mama, a more sophisticated, well-to-do homeowner years later, would never again paint anything a color so loud as "giraffe."