Spice Christ

I used "spice Christ" in this poem, some of you know where I got that from and some of you do not. If you don't know then you are missing out a really great website with a superb bunch of regular snarkers.


Also, this is a prose poem, so there are no line breaks. Fair warning, this poem has crude language and adult situations.




6 Weeks With S.C.


"and that was whenever I seen her last," he remarks of his not quite ex-wife in our post coital bed. Oh my dear Bob, I've fucked an idiot. I resist the urge to correct him. We part. He calls and we meet again. Great Zeus, he doesn't understand negative numbers. Dumbass. He asks me if I am threatened by his intelligence and I reply in a kind manner instead of laughing in his face because I am not yet done with his cock. He takes off his clothes. My brain quiets down so the rest of me may enjoy him. He speaks. Shut up moron, you'll ruin it. I kneel and shut off his meager brain. He's just so damn pretty. The body I wish for Stephen Hawking. He pays for my cocoa at the coffee shop. He tries to hold my hand as we walk to his car. He wants me to meet his mother. Holy fat Buddha, he thinks we're in an actual relationship. "Fuck," I mutter. He replies, "we did." Sweet spice Christ, that's almost clever.

CRADLE

Whenever my daughter tells me she’s done something incredibly stupid
I ask if she’s outdone my great uncle Cradle
Cradle isn’t his given name but being the youngest,
It was what everyone called him

Life on the farm in the 20s and 30s could get tedious
Convince Cradle became a game four of his older brothers would play
“Milk tastes best from the teat Cradle”
A round of antibiotics was required
“Ma found you on the doorstep Cradle”
His birth certificate was the only thing that stopped his tears
“Hey Cradle, do you want be a paratrooper?”
Cradle agreed readily
Who wouldn’t want to be a war hero?
They took him out to the old barn with the peeling red paint
Up to the dusty hayloft barren except for a few spiders looking for a new home
Since the hay bales had been cleared and sold a few weeks ago
They led him out the barn window out onto the roof
Their sister Diamond saw them from where she was scattering corn for the hens

They called to her, “Bring us Ma’s old umbrella”
She did as she was bid and joined them up on the roof of the barn
“Take the umbrella Cradle. Jump, count to three and open it, it’ll be like a parachute”
Cradle jumped.
His leg took six weeks to heal in a cast
While his leg healed, his brothers did his chores
They chided him for waiting too long to open the umbrella
“If you had opened it on time, you would have been fine”
He had counted to three he argued
“When did you start your count? After you jumped? That’s too late”
The cast came off and his brothers took him back to the barn
“Do it right this time Cradle. How can you be a paratrooper if you can’t even count to three?”

Professor Hottie

This is the poem I didn't send in to the grad student who's filling in for Poetry Professor. I sent him one about sex ed, teen pregnancy, stds, prostitution, and infidelity instead.

EDIT- To clarify, Poetry Professor is not Professor Hottie

Professor Hottie

My professor smiles revealing
Two symmetrical dips, one in
Each cherubic cheek
My eyes hunger for a peek
Under his academic shell

His nutmeg and cinnamon orbs
Search the class for a volunteer
I almost always have something
To add to the discussion
Which he rarely steers preferring
A more open forum

He draws a picture on the whiteboard
Which hardly resembles the cow he
Claims it to be, Pictionary, he tells us
Is not a game we should play with him
His arms firm yet supple extend as he
Adds what he insists is a barn

His top two shirt buttons are undone today
Revealing his creamy skin beneath
I imagine the rest of his chest to be
Toned but soft and smooth like Michelangelo’s
David wrapped in layers of silk

My professor turns to face the board again
My eyes drift down to the tight roundness
That shapes the top of his pants
My left hand squeezes my laptop almost involuntarily
I force my eyes up to the back of his neck

He turns to face the class again pushing
A curl temporarily back into place
He quickly wraps up the discussion as
We put away our laptops, notebooks, and folders
I wonder if he knows what his female students
Call him when he and the male students aren’t around

Leisure Time

I should write more poetry
I should write more stories
But homework needs doing
Work must come before
My other life
If I were rich
I might have time
To write the next novel
But what would I write about?

Picture

I pose for a picture
With my sister and
Our two friends, also sisters
We tease our photographer

Who are the sisters?
It's obvious he claims
The three dark ones
The white girl doesn't belong

He could not see past my
Lack of melanin to see
The features I share with
My darker sister

A Blonde Rant

When I was young, Polish and Hispanic jokes were all the rage with the people in my neighborhood. Adults would tell them to each other and the kids would overhear them, clean up the language a little and pass them onto their friends. When anyone would object to one of these clearly racist jokes, the retort would be, “But (insert known Polish or Hispanic friend) is (Polish or Hispanic) and he loves these jokes!”

As I got older and the neighborhood increased its Latino population, Hispanic jokes died out. Polish jokes still thrived. I wish I could say that I never told a Polish or Hispanic joke, but I can’t. I told all the jokes that my friends told; I even told dirty jokes before I even knew *why* they were dirty.

I grew up and moved away. I don’t hear any Polish or Hispanic jokes unless the little old racist man comes into my store. No one laughs at his jokes nor do they repeat them.

Now there are blond(e) jokes. I’ve heard them all. I don’t find them funny. I have never found them funny. Yes, I have told them and I have been the blonde that others used to justify their telling of the jokes. “See, she thinks the joke is funny and she’s blonde.” I understand how easy it is to just pretend it’s not insulting to be classified as stupid and whorish simply because you are part of a group that has a common characteristic.

It is easy to make a joke about a group of people, such as blondes or Polish people. In fact, I recognized some of the blond(e) jokes as recycled Polish jokes. It’s easy to tell someone when they are offended by that joke, “relax, it’s just a joke. It doesn’t mean anything.” That is wrong. Jokes are propaganda and have been used as such. Look at World War II era cartoons and comics from the United States, take notice of how they portray the Axis Powers. Jokes show how people are truly viewed. Look at The Daily Show. The whole thing is a joke, yet a large percentage of people use it to stay up to date with current events.

Let me say once again that I am a blonde. I am proud to be a blonde. I do not like blond(e) jokes. I do not like racist jokes. I think telling a blond(e) joke is no better than a racist joke, even if *you* are a blonde. I apologize if this is not as succinct as it should be; I fear I may have rambled. I simply needed to vent my frustration.

Someday

Someday, he will love me
Someday, the beatings will end
Someday, the truth will matter more than perception
Someday, I will find my happiness
Someday exists only in the minds of poets and dreamers.