Saturday, August 11, 2007

Cloth To Make A Dress
for Sonia Farmer

some females, when they walk
indicate a knowledge of music
which surpasses any Beethoven

I am the spider of the web, I’d say,
with wanting to react to every tug
upon the conversation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.


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