for Sonia Farmer
i
some females, when they walk
indicate a knowledge of music
which surpasses any Beethoven
ii
I am the spider of the web, I’d say,
with wanting to react to every tug
upon the conversation
iii
horizon between light and dark
between day and night,
that line of separation
which keeps things straight
at times though,
what’s dark and what’s light
in a swirl, in a whirl
like something an ice cream parlor
serves, with sprinkles on top
but should chocolate and vanilla
ever mix, ever be mixed
in art, in ice cream or in politics
iv
want to fuck you black and blue
through and through
want to love you too
through and through
body and soul, crown of your head
soles of your feet
Royal Crown Grease
wash out your hair
footprints, fingerprints
to leave in the mud
lip prints to leave upon the mug
poem to hug you with
I’ll miss your wit
like Weenie Sausages
with can of these, I used to think
I’d died, gone to heaven
I used to have these on Ritz
on U Need A Biscuit
sandwich of us, like two snaps,
marshmallow in between
v
I hate when people
make assumptions about me,
said she, livid
assume I know nothing of cleaning
a toilet because I’m white
toil and sweat, sweat and toil,
foreign to me, assume I had a maid
all my life
you’ve had a maid, I tell them,
your mother
I hate when people
make assumptions about me
about what white is made of
without reading the label
without tasting the soup
my mother used to taste the pot
with big spoon, would give me some
hot as a nail through a palm
I get hot as hell when someone
makes assumptions about me
when someone attempts
to make an ass of you,
an ass of me
vi
layers of skirt to lift
but she’s conservative
bartender from Fluid,
poet with locks,
six-and-a-half-feet tall
used to serve her liquor
slip it to her to sip
layers of herself
like onion to separate, to offer
Dubai, Pakistani, Indian friends
in university, used to eat raw onions
with curry, like cucumber
similarly, she is cool and pepper
parts of her from all across the globe
from all around the world
vii
fighting over you
over your two breasts
over who will get to suck them
to sup with you
his thumb, enough for him to suck
as much as he deserves
a corner for him to sulk in
thumb in his face to fill it up
to shut him up, to keep him quiet
we have things to write about,
to talk about, things to be about,
to laugh about
shower me with blessings from above,
as well as with Palmolive soap
for her and me to wash ourselves
after love, towel for us to dry off with
when the rainy season’s over
viii
she promised we would do it
and sure enough we did
after poetry, sex, woman of her word
woman in word as well as in deed
rare breed these days
old fashion amid modernity
where what’s done, what’s said
is what’s convenient
time of war, propaganda is the goose
which lays the egg
truth is truth in any age,
never out of fashion
however much shoe heels change,
dress length alters
enough cloth to make a dress
even though she steps out of it,
leaves it upon the floor
amid the Wide Sargasso Sea
ix
net to cover you with,
like a country, against invasion,
against intrusion,
against other fellers'
flirtatious remarks
which prick my soul,
pierce me to the quick
wear black, cover yourself,
said Picasso, angrily, jealously
to Dora Maar, so men cannot
have you with their eyes
jealous of the sun in the sky,
shining on you, owning you
x
two lips and tulips
for Sonia, going away,
leaving on the morning train
for Pratt College
what books she has to open
to breathe fresh air
pages to bleed between
months of lights, of nights
to live through
not at all unlike soldiers
going off to war,
she’ll come back changed
how many times, until then,
will she have to change
sanitary napkins, insert o.b.
xi
outbreak in art,
like outbreak of flu,
so many catching on,
so many catching it, so many mitts
so many to admit for quarantine,
coughing poems, coughing paint,
sneezing art, like blood
into handkerchiefs
xii
Crystal Palace,
like a large bouncing castle,
all filled up with air
her wish is that they’d collapse it,
take it with them, whoever blew it up
along with others adjoining it,
it’s expected to be imploded soon
like The Montague, like The Holiday Inn,
like 9/11
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2007
written between 11:58 p.m.
08/08/07 and 4:44 a.m.
09/08/07
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