All the Horrible Girliness

I'm getting into the library again. The other day, I found out you can donate used books to the library, and today I'm packing up all kinds of books. When we moved a few months ago, I threw out maybe half my books, and still my collection spills over into other rooms and closets. Most of what I have, I love, but will probably never crack open again. It makes me feel better to think that they'll have a new home at the central Glendale library. I stole a book from there once, just never returned it, and I saw that book here today. I still don't plan on returning it.

Going through all the books, choosing to keep only those that I would absolutely read again, dusting off dead spiders and seeing others scurry out of the way, I ran into some of the little stapled-together rags I used to buy off poets in Orange County. R.A.C. was one of the best. She moved to New York soon after I discovered her, and then one night I saw her on that HBO poetry jam show, but only the very end. A good poetry reading can make your whole body lift off the ground, fly out the window, discover other planets. Bad poetry readings make you want to crawl under the tile and die.

R.A.C. made me fly. I had to bring Mister Aran to see her, then she made him fly, too. I hope she's doing okay. I remember she had a son named Holden, and a daughter named Piper. I wish I could introduce her to my son, now. I wish I could take him to see her read. Her work is fantastic on the page, but I can't imagine it without the sound of her voice.

I believe this is the poem she read on TV:

*after school, special*
(for my daughter who asked, "why do teachers need answer sheets?")

every day
I walk up to your classroom
and don't get so much as a nod.

I'm not on the parents' phone list
and never get asked to help at any classroom parties.

on the first day of school, I could hear the creaking hinges
of mouths swinging open as I marched my daughter
towards room K-2.

suddenly, I was back in junior high
where I was forced to walk through the buzz
of fourteen-year old hornets stinging the back of my neck
with infinite glares and immeasurable shit talking.

"there she is, the quiet girl with the leaking wrists,"

"the tomboy without the nerve to suck dick."

true, I was the only kid in honors classes
who pledged allegiance to the movie Taxi Driver
and all things Judy Blume, but imagine how I felt
as my teachers sat back and watched my young, dumb
head get ransacked daily by my peers.

so yeah, I have my opinions
about the Tustin Unified School District.

and if my daughter's artwork really scares you
bad enough to accuse me of being an irresponsible parent
with no concern for my daughter's education
you better get some evidence other
than the ink on my arms and the Crayola mayhem
she screams to the page, you need to look deep, sucker
'cause they say it's what's inside that counts

and inside me is a ticking time bomb
only willing to count to three.

so fuck your recommendations for a child psychologist
and fuck you and your threats to call social services
'cause I went straight to the source and I said,

"Piper Jane, explain these drawings, please."

and what she told me is so beyond what I know you are
capable of teaching I knew right then and there -
I am not the asshole in this situation

but sure, I'll explain her artwork.
I'll enlighten you.

the tall broad shouldered body without a head-
that's her daddy, who doesn't think about her enough.

and those red clouds swirling around, aren't clouds.
they're the roses she throws to all my friends in heaven.

and the cat with the tail snapped off
and its claws nailed to the floor?

is a cat with the tail snapped off
and its claws nailed to the floor.

but the woman with the hole in her chest-
that's me. see, I made the mistake of telling her how a
certain someone broke my heart once. so now she keeps it
in a special hiding place, won't even tell me where it is.

I know I look more FSU than PTA.

in the morning I'm trying to sniff an outfit
from a pile of laundry on the floor
while you're pissed at your housekeeper
for fading your skirt.

my nanny is any poet brave enough to hold my child while
I'm onstage. my income is handed to me in a hat.

but I can tell you my daughter's favorite color. it's purple.
favorite book, The Giving Tree.
favorite movie, James and the Giant Peach
her first words were naw-naw
and she eats sand when she thinks no one is looking.

I know I drag her to more poetry readings than she'd
probably like and she can quote my first chapbook,
verbatim.

but now that I've told you all about my child,

why don't you try
and tell me a little something about yours.

go ahead.

enlighten me.

posted by Samus @ 10:55 AM