aayoungIt’s ordinary…
mundane, absolutely nothing special.
Part of a set that was purchased in the late 80’s
or early nineties would be my guess.
This brown, plastic 1/8 cup scoop
that came to symbolize our every morning
spent sharing coffee
no matter if we were 12 inches
or 1,200 miles apart. We always had coffee.
It is special because he sent it to me
in a care package when I was aching for him.
I still ache for him,
so it’s my coffee scoop until my dying day.
age has
inoculated me
to human charm
genuine and feigned
thank goodness
even our shoes
sitting together
at the end of the bed
look in love with each other
this day
was me,
my bitchy resting face,
(don’t tell me to smile, fucker)
and ten bobby pins
against the world
i needed to escape my thoughts
but didn’t feel like driving
all the way to the library to be
.
surrounded by books
settling instead
on a half price books
i was hoping to find
kafka on the shore
by haruki murakami
.
no such luck
.
instead
gleefully discovering
a hard cover with pristine jacket
of larry brown’s
fay
and a two buck
the smiths
cd
.
i sat in the wing chair
of the architecture section
devouring my unearthed treasures
trying to forget
for a moment
people were elsewhere
in the world
busily
bloody
needlessly
dying
.
i found myself
wishing for a part time job
in the intellectual oasis
as a way to support my book addiction
.
sighing as i realized it could never be
.
i don’t have enough facial piercings
i’m not pale enough
i don’t have an ironically bad manic panicked haircut
i haven’t stretched my ear piercings with grommets
inside which one could wear an antique salt cellar
or piece of driftwood
in each lumbering lobe
i don’t wear my sweaters belted and frayed
or present with a look of general disdain
and loathing of the shoppers or human race
a permanent puss on an acne scarred face
.
they would never
hire me
it’s all comfort seeking behavior
when you stop the automaton
for a moment
and think of it
sleeping eating sex drugs social climbing
tread mill running
consuming
consuming
and still more consuming
a great mass
of maslow’s needy children are we
see me
i’m an addict
an anemic ice chewer
and plate washer
it all started at memaw’s house
when i had to stand on a chair to reach the sink
somehow her suggestion of doing the dishes
little hands submerged in dove soap
always dove soap
the smell of it
(now inextricably connected to her)
made everything right
my sensory storm calmed
so now
when life gets dirty
i wash a plate
for ten minutes
faux flow blue pattern
showered
rubbed clockwise by my attentive wash rag
with the white dish soap full of extra emollients
so one feels pampered
as the toil over soil is underway
and maybe it’s a plate that doesn’t even need cleaning
a metaphoric stand-in
comfort seeking indeed
what i’m cleansing
is my soul
5:30 in the morning
beside myself
belly twisting
nothing seeming right
i revert to my childhood
the sure morning routine
of my stepfather
turn on the radio atop the refrigerator
700 WLW no other station will do
make a pot of coffee
whisk the batter in a yellow plastic bowl
and fry pancakes
as aunt jemima stands by the stove
with a syrupy look in her eyes
and i think he does not know
how many times
this ritual saved my life
woke up this morning
full of
would-have-been-words
and the calm which descends
upon a woman in her mid 30’s
who fucking knows
exactly what life
isn’t planning on giving her
and what it almost did
my six year old frame
was just one of dad’s bottles of canadian mist
and a few tiny white pills away
from being raised
in abject poverty
in a town so poor
even the mayor is on food stamps
no escape no escape
thank you for having the good sense to die, daddy
so mama could drag me to the safety
and fluoride filled waters of the north
because i’m 400 years removed
from indian princess
but only one generation away
from the whitest trash on earth
you spared me the fire
the dropping out of high school
the five snotty lice ridden children
and worrying
about sealing the broken trailer windows
in plastic sheets
and kerosene heaters burning
the half retarded baby
come winter
you spared me from a walmart complexion
mcdonald’s thighs
and the crack toothed meth head
transient sometimes truck driving husband
who beats me regularly
now here i sit
too educated for my own good
i’m damn near intolerable
and my most cumbersome problem
is that the dog keeps dragging
my expensive plum robe from nordstrom’s
to the couch to sleep on it
i’m mixing irish cream into my coffee
fully aware of what class i’m boxing in
grateful for the blood
on my teeth and tongue
i could have been helpless
but instead i’m merely wasted
and enjoying the life
of a bourgeois drunk
jesus turned water into wine
before he got put up for the night
but you, father, in death
turned regret into gratitude
that’s a god damned christmas miracle
if ever there was one
my recollection
of when the shift began
may only be viewed
through opalescent glass
but at some point in my early 30’s
i rediscovered the magic of my bed
the restorative power of the midday nap
overcome with a sudden awareness
one needs sleep more
than stay-up-late-night projects
bourbon
or splendor in the grass
i bought better sheets
adorned it with ridiculously ornate pillows
coordinated rugs
candles and lamps
duvet covers
better lovers
cleopatra would be envious
and then began doing everything on it
one would normally do upon a sofa
or seated at a desk
write read listen to music
perform radical feats of paperwork
snuggle furry family members
connect to the interweb
stand on my head
a cloud floating base of operations
my throne
my safe place
beneath the stars on the walls and ceiling
all made from the softest cotton
no monsters
no ghosts
no goose feathers
my love affair with my bed