Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Eve of Our 15th Aniiversay

We sat, so seated inside our sedan
you being the he and I being the man
we parked along the beach laced path
you at my right, the bottle at our back
we smiled, well, I did, and my radiation
made me calm. My breast, the right one,
made me sober, and strong. You sighed,
having had a hard day. I laughed,
everything will be alright.
I guess, now that everyone texts
its part of the dialogue? Partners?
your expression suggests,  We nest,
we nested for 15 years: tears, swears,
undergarment gears. . .
I hate you; the mirror is unaffected.
Both our suggestions absolutely rejected.
I've got plans, so do you. Who knows?
Maybe you'll become accustomed to the box
instead? We, two never stood a chance
short courtship, shorter romance, a marriage
made in a February heat haste. Disgrace, erase.

You watch you touch the prickly hair of my chin.
devour, breath, breath, unchecked. Own it. 
How many people get a chance at a second change?  

Monday, December 29, 2014

Cupid as Dystopian Punk

Arrows, tip dipped in oyster saliva and Ayahausca—
he won't let me make love to the minds of men—
he sets you to travel while you're young and dumb. 

Another Dream; will you not let me be?

I am in a helicopter flying just above train tracks. I hear the train coming, it terrifies me; I know what it means. I try and try to get the copter to fly a little higher so the train doesn't smash into it. But I can only get it a hair above the train. The train is black, shiny, animate, knowing, vengeance seeking, punishing. That train I used to ride like a floating apparition gliding in a pale silver gown.
Then, you are there, again. Drawing me out to follow you. Telling me to wait for you. Wanting me to be friends with your family. I ask you "How can we ever be friends?" You run off; not like my mother, because you want me to find you.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014


What is this secret you hold in your mouth?
It slides slippery over your tongue, how you suckle at it
like a helpless infant. Is it white? Has it substance?

Have you measured its weight, defined its usefulness?
Has it angles you can lick to a point? Is it sour?
Does it stick in your teeth like a caramel? Don't cry, it's relatively
easy to clean off, you want it so badly, poor dear; your sad nobility.

You seem unwilling to spit it out. Is it a warm kettle of whisperings?
How you steep it, carefully you ponder it, has it leaves?
Is it a tape measure? Is it a papyrus? I would unroll
it so you could examine it in your hands.

Did you manufacture it in China? Were hungry children
mixing ingredients from your prototype?
Have you a patent? Is it an invention?
Oh, it doesn't attract me, but how you shine to it.

You hold it so tightly, is it a precious jewel?
Some blood diamond stolen behind bloody lips?
You want to sell it, is it something of value, to appreciate?
You say it is mine. It is not mine. I do not know it.

You whisper it after me like a smoking train.
Do you hoard it? It seems to really content you--
I see you shifting from side to side.
Is it heavy like a cross? Has it nails?

I see you folding in like a distraction. Does it addict you?
Has it motive? Is that why you chew at it so?
Let me see it, open your mouth. I won't steal it.
It is not mine.


Friday, March 21, 2014

Secrets and Shadows

To destroy one soul,
it's not hard to do, tramp
down the spirit, then go
about your business as if
you were real swell,
sigh; your "good work"done.
The soul's insignificance inverted
by your rapt attentiveness: you mimic
like sycophants licking at a ceiling fresco.
Die, die, you aim for my life;
have you no humanity? How could you possibly
know anything about me? You drape
your shadow like a winter cloth
over the crystal of my chandelier. Silence
the twinkle with coughs and gaffes and slurs.
Do you see yourself as cavalier?
You listen and watch, lawless
and filled with malicious gall.
You text and email my likeness like rapacious slugs
spreading hate, what a test--
So many lemmings, a court full of jests'
so willing to take a stranger down, you feed
on my sadness between clenched teeth.
While I tremble at Man's true nature,
secretive, bestial, primitive.
I am the test giver, you, the subject:
one-quarter of you seethe with hate at the first chance;
one quarter feed full silent, the hungry eyes of omission....
one-quarter go about their full lives completely innocent;
one-quarter are profoundly kind and decent and wise;
their character without a cheap shot or shameful invasion.
Are you a leader or a lemming? Secrets and shadows
your only chance of making meaning of your life?
It's so easy to destroy one soul. Minions in a mob.
Much harder. Much harder
to be whatever it is
you're all so terrified of being. Those bright, singular stars
you hide existing in secrets and shadows.  

Thursday, March 06, 2014

19,000 Views, Some Humans Even.

and so, a poem. This is actually a found poem I made, taken from my early notes on a critical essay I wrote about Brenda Hillman's "Male Nipples":

Utter: speak, udder, breast milk,
Not = knot, a knot is hard to undo.
The male breast is a tied knot: no milk, no sustenance.
It is a knotted udder. the male nipple looks
like the depressed center of a knot.
Hell/well flower/power lower, hell/well,
flow, the well water does not flow, or maybe it does?

Clue: —and after you saw that desire
is hell, that the flower of hell
is not hell but a flower, well,                         as in 'deep water,' and also ‘good’ good health

Words are useless, don’t speak won’t speak.
Words are useless. Desire has no words. Non verbal
it is a slight to desire to utter mere words to elaborate desire.
Sadness at the heart of it, the center, the frustration
of trying to elaborate desire.
The irony of desiring something that cannot feed you.
Being at the center of that desire. The truth of it.
Male nipples are as useless as desire is useless. It is merely transmuted.

Then the motorcycle boy memory.
His "contralto ‘when,’" or is it speaker's voice?
Contralto being the lowest range of the female voice, according to Wiki.
Lyric contralto is not capable of the ornamentation of coloratura contralto.
The speaker is not capable of using
ornamental language to describe the male nipple.
The speaker longs for that bad boy
physicality: scars, flat nipples, un utterable.
No milk. no udder. unquenched desire.
Not a hell, but a flower in hell.

Assonance & Alliteration
lots of L sounds, liquid of
language being a substitute for the liquid
of breast milk, sustenance. L: uselessness,
useless, slight, light, longed, flat, nipples,
contralto, flower, hell, hell, flower, nipples,
pool, looked, beautiful, flower, hell, hell,
flower - bookends flower hell hell flower,
life is hell, but not really, hell is a flower.
beautiful hell.    

S: useless, uselessness, desire, slight, depression, motorcycle, cigarette, scars, Arizona, pennies, saw, saw, saw, convinced, shirt, inside, story, divers, wetsuits, decided, skin, sad, saw, so, stories, soldiers, deserts, tastes,      

There is the consciousness of the speaker's mother
in this poem. The speaker’s affinity
for the bad boy motorcyclist,
biblical warning inferences: hell flower, desire is not bad, not unspeakable.
No shame in desire, dive deep.

Who is the “you” in the poem? Who is speaking to the “you” in the poem?

pennies which had been thrown in - allusion to the drowning of witches?

Is the "you" the mother?

The speaker is "no sad animal, no graveyard."
Not passive, not lowered down, not
where dead bodies are lain down. Not death.
Not quiet or mournful, not weak:
speaker "told the little hairs around his nipple to lie flat! and they did."
She is in charge, in command of even the hairs on his body.
"A silent camp fire with no stories of soldiers at war."

“Stories” appears 2 times in the poem, once about a story and once to say there were no stories (like the soldiers in the desert war).

no hell, flowers flow ers flow water, milk, errs errors

Time/Alchemy memories become magical,
new precious metal, meddling with the past,
shaping, bending, mending
time is alchemy.

Saturday, March 01, 2014


                                                               Link to Feather Child

Having been a hotel child has made me politely exotic.
Where there were children teasing strays,
I was also. Apart, shaking for the animals we were.
A loosed dog and I aside from these kids:
both earnest, both at the mercy of those
who were more Street than us, more numerous.
I, in my suit-dress, crossed legs, crossed hands,
crucified the more I articulated, appeased.
No collar, no name, wild needy pup.
And those barking children with strange motors
ticking inside them, drawn to us like wasps;
were we so different?
The hum in my chest, so marked? Rooms,
I lived in, here and there. The tat, tat-a tat tat
of my mother’s typewriter all night. Sleep,
nodding in the backs of cars, restaurant booths,
editing rooms.

I met a boy like me once.
I knew him by the way he sat
in the lobby of the Farmington Inn.
His three-piece suit, his otherworldly wisdom,
his easy philosopher's manner.
I knew him more than myself, trusting
no one and everyone. Conversationalists,
connoisseurs of imagination, self-reliance.

At arms length, the other children stared and calculated.
How many unlikes they noticed in me, otherworldly.
To their hierarchy my words came out of a mouth
wrong sized, I sounded like their refulgent (distant) aunt.
I remember the dog trembled, confused. The whole of the world
once in its master’s expression; a stare might mean no
scraps. Hold it. Hold it. Hold it. Bad.

I remember sitting in a hotel bar on Paradise Island
when I was eight. Having scared off the nanny,
who believed a photo stole a soul, I dropped the polaroid
and headed down to the bar. Eight Coca-Cola’s later,
my legs were crossed, my hands folded white knuckled on my knees
and the couple on their honeymoon, who, after conversing
with me for an hour, finally stared hard and said:
You’re not like other children, are you?
I just shook my head, smiling. My stomach growling.
My peculiar proof oddly fed.


Friday, January 31, 2014

The Saddest Elephant I've Ever Seen

Lives at the Bronx Zoo. This elephant stood at the edge of it's little, shallow watering hole, so sad, given up, as if it had been abandoned forever with no hope whatsoever of ever loving, or being loved, or even being touched. It broke my heart to see this elephant. I think it was a she. There was a younger elephant, less deadened, curious at our passing tram through the park. But that lone elephant, stone still, head down, looking at nothing and no one, was one of the saddest sights I've ever seen, and that's saying a lot. I think about that elephant a great deal. A very great deal.

Friday, January 03, 2014

"Blunders are not the merest chance. They are the results of suppressed desires and conflicts. They are ripples on the surface of life, produced by unsuspected springs. And these may be very deep—as deep as the soul itself. The blunder may amount to the opening of a destiny."

                                                                  Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces

We think we see a sign up ahead
it turns out to be a moose crossing
the real thing, not the marker. Big
as an elephant, quieter. We thought

there would be other goodbyes, so we parted
without saying much. All that we imagine
seems really to be waiting. Then forgetful, we confuse
possibility with opportunity. Ahead there is a train
face to face, we seem blind to the implications...

Just this morning, coffee sub-par, snow still falling.
An American flag ripples outside a cafe
where I sit. I sit and wait, but these are the only verbs coming.

Thursday, January 02, 2014

Explosive Nest

Soon, I will be a star    
not whole

dust particles


thrown back
                                   nebula of memory

forged new

a simmering jewel

inside you.

Sunday, December 29, 2013


the grass is a green wall, prickly and thick.
The sky a room I'm rolling into.
The opposite boundary has no walls:
standing or lying down, that other,
escapes exploration. Gravity is a parent
that won't let me search for home.

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

So Much Depends Upon 11/24/10

the red womb of
a mother's love, long

after she's dropped you
at a neighbor's farm, her

eyes glazed with elsewhere,
as you shriek and claw.

Her tires kick up a dust
that clouds your memory.

Long after that morning when,
in the barnyard, you waddled to

the chicken pen and climbed inside,
mimicking their hesitant circles,

their wide, dumb, sidelong stares.
White hands thrust inside a wet diaper,

you cluck and circle in the dirt
among the australorps and the Brahmas.

Gobbling at scraps and crumbs, and
suddenly you are thirty three, or forty.

These discarded bits you've grown
accustomed to depend upon?

The absence of love, trained
to mimic the feel of safe and warm.

Thursday, December 05, 2013

My Darling

You came to me like a rescue hero parting a sea of darkness.
Wrestled me from boogie men, villains and pirates...
Perhaps a little too nonchalant; still waters ran deep in you--

The many times, when telling stories from my life, you wept
tears silently collected on your chest.
Oh, how I fought you like a good adult child always does.
Gotta keep the messes covered up, can't trust love, gotta suffer silently, didn't know my voice counted.

Little fists and barbs aimed between your eyes, your gut--
I tried to get far away from you.
You pursued...

How could such stability and patience and unconditional love be for me?
Like everyone I'd ever loved, I was sure you, too would betray me.
Lashed and battered, drowned desires.
An echoey candle in the wind. My faith was thin.

Darling it's taken me this long to see what a deep lake soothes like and how a shallow lake complains...
I love you more today than any other day.
Miraculous gifts appear when you stick to your vows.
Our love never wavered, never untrue.
Once afraid to be more than physically there for you; now my heart and mind are brave too.    

Parabola and Spreading Tao Through Dandelions...

“No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.”

—the great Nelson Mandela, who left us today at the age of ninety-five.

Body Politic

The great whale        undulated       through  blue  
green veils                 deep. See      she gentle           of sea
length          song          light        rise
fall.         Some      thing suckled      at her.   Foreign,
sickly, hungry dis-eased         latched teeth hfthsss, hfthsss...

Soon                         others clawed
barbed                                                   hooks pierced her.
Clung like a terrible child.   Hate made
a chain                                                  it dragged...

behind her.        
 she swam on---
eyes fixed,     heavy
soon, hundreds            fang-sharp. Hate addicted.             searching
for anything to hook                       their hate inside.

Beguiled, seduced: a serpant's tale... the small gulf of darkness flung down to the depths...

Rise, rise, rise, risen:  she sprays a thousand sparklet rainbows over the horizon.
Moving    through    whale of  whale nature.                                            Song


Sunday, December 01, 2013

An Open Letter to My Neighbor

Dear --,

Please forgive the very personal nature of this letter, I find that, at this point in my life, the more I stay silent, the more I am framed negatively. I am a very private person. I understand that this letter delves into my very personal history. I am trusting you to be decent people and to treat this information with the same degree of respect that I would you.  

Unless my hearing is failing, I am pretty sure I've overheard your sons and daughters say disrespectful words at me. And now again today, in the presence of your friends, your daughter walked into my yard to retrieve your dog, and went “yuck!” at me. When I said hello, she turned on her heel and proudly walked back across the street where you and your friends were standing. Why? Do you not realize that, by teaching your children that it is okay to disrespect an adult, to openly hate another human being, a human being who is basically a perfect stranger, you are teaching your children a very dangerous lesson. Someday, with the lesson you are teaching them, they might encounter someone unlike me, someone who is not kind, rational or mentally stable. Do you want your children to feel so brazen when they reach adulthood in the real world? Imagine what they will do to a peer if they can get away with bullying an adult woman in front of other adults? I can’t imagine that, if you really think about it, you would allow your children to be so disrespectful to another human being; you want to teach them that that is a good thing?  

I realize that we are new to this area, and therefore in your turf. This fact might provide a sense of cavalier territoriality for you, and now, perhaps, indignant anger, after what you’ve just read. But, I can tell you, to your face if you like, that there is nothing about me that would cause you, if you really knew me or cared to, to turn your hate toward me. I am a survivor. After 15 absolutely faithful years with my husband; 10 years of continuous sobriety, as of my mother’s death, (I will have 11 years on March 23rd); earning my bachelors in 2007, and now, being enrolled in a masters program for Poetry, I can honestly say that I am a true blue survivor. I am that someone you would want on your side, not someone you would find reason to hate. 

Perhaps it's my political and poetical blog, thedandeliontamer, which someone has perversely framed for you, around a few posts that deal with infidelity? Is that what this is about? I am a writer. Many of you and your friends have likely graduated from college, you must have studied narrative technique, Voice, tone at some point? I admire lots of different works and I write from lots of different perspectives. Tell me, is it “Fury My Lover”; “Reading Beryl Markham’s West with the Night”; “Ruth Stone’s Second Hand Coat”; or “Loves of the Puppets” that this pack of haters is brandishing and bandying about as some sort of reason to hate and disrespect me? Please, allow me to illuminate your view with the other 800 posts so that you can get a clear sense of where I’m coming from. I love my husband more than any other man I’ve ever known. But, why do you care?  

What is it called when one covets another person’s home-life by sneaking around their things? I think there’s something in the bible about that. If I could guess, I would bet that someone showed you my blog, you all read a few posts, not the ones about love and kindness and devotion to duty, but the few that you can frame as proof of some sort of flaw in my character? Well, if every poet was received the same way we’d all be living in North Korea. Let me tell you, some of those poems are among my husband’s favorites. He knows me. The people filling your and your children’s heads do not. Ask them.     

If you actually knew me, or cared to, you would not only like me, but you would love me, as every one of my friends do, having witnessed the primary source rather than the embellished projection. I am a human being asking you as a human being, to please respect my human right to feel safe where I live. I am asking you and your family to use your higher selves so that we may live in peace in close proximity to one another. 

My hands and body shake as I write this. If you find it in your heart that you cannot come clean to me, or even that you’d ever want to, please know this down deep: I am so frightened by the behavior of your children, because it means that you have been so convinced of your own superiority over a total stranger that you would sully your own children’s orientation to the world around them. You have made your children in collusion with whatever and whomever is behind this. How will you undue this?  

I have made errors in judgment; I am a human being. Yet, I will go to my grave having never taught or encouraged either of my children to hate another soul on this blue planet. As I've explained to you and the police, it doesn't make sense to live my whole life in relative safety only to be suddenly thrust into dangerous margins the week before my mother perishes. The posts I speak of above were copied down in 2010 and 2011. Does that mean I cheated on my husband? No. And no, I never ever have. In fact, my husband knows every little thing about me. He and I have had to make some painful choices over our time together, but we were side by side on all of them. All of them.  

I am asking you to please tell me to my face who is behind this, so that I may contact the police, finally. When bullying and hate are involved, It is often so much easier to keep the primary source at a distance than to actually get to know the person. Grab at a few blog posts and keep rereading them to justify the violence.  That is what I am afraid is happening. 

If you knew my story, you would cry and ask for forgiveness. I am honest to a fault, I am completely trustworthy, although I have heard that one of the slanderous things said about me is that I am not. I am kind and loving and generous also, as I’m sure you are. 

How would you feel if you were an only child dealing with a parent’s death, while, at the same time, suddenly you were being sexually harassed, followed, stalked online, and slandered? Why, after 9 years of autonomy in my community, where I felt relatively safe and welcomed, why suddenly was I being put on trial by total strangers? Maybe it’s my stepfather, who, after 36 years together with my mother, never once behaved like a stepfather to me, rather, he created and helped to spread terrible lies about me so that he and my mother would feel less guilty about her dropping me off at my great grandparents when I was 2, and then my mother and stepfather dropping me off at my grandmother’s at 9, under the condition that I would never be a part of their lives under the same roof. It helps to have a villain when a parent decides to abandon a child. And boy what a villain they framed me out to be.            

For example, a couple of years ago, two of my daughter’s high school teachers sexually harassed me, verbally and physically, at a market. They were responding to what they had heard about me by thrusting their groins at my hips and calling me a slut. I was so shocked and frightened that I just ran away.  Later that school year, when I went to one of the teachers and let him know that what they had done had really hurt me, and that it was wrong, instead of apologizing, these two teachers initiated a non-verbal campaign of intimidation with the athletic director and the vice principal of the school, eventually involving the local volunteer fire department. I was so frightened by them and their volunteer firemen buddies, that I never went to the police, until I moved away, right before my mother’s death (she died the day I was on my way to file the police report, no joke). Maybe this harassment stems from these two teachers, afraid because they know that what they did would result in their being fired, if found out? Maybe it’s from my own mother and stepfather? The damage is done: no matter where I go or what I do, eventually, the people living around me suddenly start disrespecting me, watching me, harassing me. This has increased tremendously since my mother’s death. How would you feel?

I grew up in the 80’s, in NYC, partying with my mother, when I was old enough to get into bars, at Studio 54 and elsewhere. I was modeling at age 14, all over NYC, Los Angeles, and Europe, at 17, alone. I attracted the wrong kind of attention. People noticed. People were jealous. I was angry as hell, cripplingly lonely, and totally self-medicating. You can imagine the harm that came my way. It is a miracle that I am alive today. So, I’m not selling you a bag of rainbows and butterflies, but really, whose business is this? Some little person is going to ruin all that I have achieved because of something I allegedly did when I was a child? Or because of a little, anonymous blog post about infidelity - and not even written by me. The poems I reprint on my blog are there because the craft is phenomenal and the tone and rhyme schemes are brilliant. I wish I could write that well.

Do you want to get on that train of hate, or will you rise above it all and do the right thing? I really thought you were different. Better. My family and I called your family the Barbie family, we thought you all were so kind and intelligent, and good looking. Were we wrong?  I wish you nothing but love and good health. I hope we can co-exist in peace and dignity. It has been a really tough couple of years. I am available anytime if you ever want to ask me or tell me anything that might clear up this tragic and terrifying period. And if I have offended you prior to this in any way, I am asking for your forgiveness.   

All best, Sincerely,


Sunday, November 24, 2013

Tiny Hairless Chirpy Opaque Thing

“Who are you?"
"No one of consequence."
"I must know."
"Get used to disappointment.”  The Princess Bride

You belch muddled amulets on starless nights
a toad, no a guppy -- you make a putty out of discards
fists balled, you squeeze out jello splinters like a depressed baby.
Ready, so over-prepared to enter the colosseum; yours is a spectator sport:
that is what they did to the Jews. That is what they did to the women
the Nazis' joy division. One eye closed, one careless incurable, one number less--
should I be flattered by your annihilation of me? These words, their order
you rearrange each sentence and nail together a blurb fit for a Soap Opera.
You barter truth like a bazaar felon. Under the rugs hung up to block the sun,
you shift shadows, now a beggar, now a trojan horse, now, I should feel remorse?
Pick pocket, eyeless socket, how you feign peering...
The world should be rich by the depravity of your poverty.
Some call it robbery; I bet you strut about shouting Duty!
Self justification was what they called it, the rhetoriticians,
but then they were made to defend rapists. From what? some pondered
wandered, flaunted, taunted: the defendant was just a victim of circumstances.
What are the chances that they didn't have it coming all along?

Alas, you have made so many balloon creatures out of this blog.
None recognizable, none you'd want your children to hold.
Have you readied your mold? Should I ship it express? Will you fit inside it?
Does it duplicate; will he bide it? Will you serve it with tea? A miniature version
of your shadow over me?  


Monday, November 18, 2013

Percal Poem

A feather I try to blow away from my mouth,
expel it from my path of breath, only to end up sucking it
deep into my throat. That is how you entered me. Light
as a sneaky particle of dust, you lodged dry and stubborn.
I coughed, but could not spit you up.
I felt you slithering like a debutant around the chambers of my body.
You had the run of the place, miserable and lonely.
Ventricle, dendrite, bubble of white blood, you were selective with what stuck.
  I am standing at the edge of an eternity pool over-
looking the Pacific under a full moon.
White robe, tissue thin. Glass of Silver Oak, warm and silky
chanteuse. I can stand here all night like a statue.
My dreams are that good.  



                                                                                                   (6th draft)

Tonight, I found my husband eating
a bowl of melted chocolate in the dark.
I approached him, hunched over, the tip
of his spoon carving swirls of white
as he scraped at the last, thin glaze of sweetness
at the bottom of the ramekin.
I put my hand on his shoulder,
did we fight before you came out here? I can’t
remember, I say. Things go by so fast –
especially this last year, so filled by a graduation, job loss, and two funerals.
There he was, surrounded by moving boxes and bubble wrap.
I can’t remember one minute to the next. I can’t
keep track of moments in space. To find him
like this gives me pause. Alone,
in the dark, eating warm chocolate.
It wasn’t an invitation –
perhaps I should have just stood back and watched.
No, he says, chuckling.

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Soldier of Misfortune

What'd they throw you
a pound of bacon, a side of ribs
to spread the lies and tell the fibs, Sport?
When'd you decide to fall in line and take orders?
Did you really sell your soul so cheap?
It's hard to be good when everyone around you
thinks they're Judge Judy
when intolerance and hate get you more likes
in a virtual world.
You slurp and slurp from your cardboard tower.
Never living, never loving, never growing up.

Monday, September 30, 2013

For Kudup. For All the Elephants.

March to Save the Elephants

My prayers are being answered. Someday, Kudup, we will walk together through the wilds of Heaven under the same stars.

Saturday, August 10, 2013

Meow, Meow, Roar, rawr...

Brooke Shields, the Territorial

On November 12th of 2012 I posted a poem about an encounter I had with Andy Warhol when I was hanging out at the Limelight, in the 80s, as a teenager. My mother was a producer for CBS at the time and also producing and directing one of the first cable television how-to shows on air. During the week, we lived at the Executive Inn, on Madison, or, at the Tudor, on 42nd and 2nd. During the weekend, we lived in Connecticut.

The link to the poem. Well, soon after, Shields shows up in an article on the Huffington Post about her relationship to drugs, Andy Warhol, and Studio 54. Interestingly, the article featured a current photo of Shields that is no longer on the internet. I searched high and low. It's gone.  In the photograph, Shields does not look like the sweet, intelligent woman who is always smiling and appearing as nice as can be. Rather, she is looking into the camera with the most hostile and hate-filled stare you can imagine. It was so out of character that it felt personal; as if it was directed at one, DT. She looked so aggressively, territorially feline in it that it was hard to miss the recent impetus. But maybe it's sheer coincidence.

...on the one hand, I should be grateful. It's not every day that someone like Brooke Shields takes the time to strike an attack at an anonymous poet blogger living in the burbs. Was my poem so threatening, so you crossed the line that she felt the need to assert her sole claim to those hazy, crazy, dazed days of yore?

Apparently the answer is yes. Yes, it was. Because why else would she take the time to try and annihilate someone, who idolized her as a teen model?? Ironically, I had every magazine cover she ever did. I collected Vogue and Bazaar and Cosmopolitan and Glamour because she, and Iman, and Kelly Emberg, Kim Alexis, etc., were beautiful-seeming, on the inside as well as the outside. I even got to work with some of them, including Iman, in Greece. I befriended these images because I was an only child, thrust into modeling by an absent, alcoholic mother and a fame-obsessed grandmother, and I had no one like me in my life. Thanks, Brooke. Thanks for flaming at me, and then removing that evil picture from the web and replacing it with some glossy Haute Living cover spread. You popped that bubble for me. Yes you did. Unless you didn't and that pic disappearing and the timing is merely passing ships... We did, after all, in our separate universes, have quite a year in 2012.

Doing some research for this post, I saw that Teri Shields had passed away on October 31st, 2012. Could it be that Brooke had a heightened sensitivity to that tumultuous time in her life, and that she thought I was mocking her?? Perhaps my poem was a little too close to home? Actually, it wasn't about you or your mother's passing: my mother passed away in July of 2012. It was all about me. You didn't even cross my mind at the time.

Either way, there are so many more evolved, more forward focused ways to respond (or not respond) to an artist's work; an artist whose life might mildly resemble your own life? Aren't there? I hope so. And, if this was all a coincidence, have a nice day.       

Thursday, May 23, 2013

Self Righteous Hate

You are the killing kind
expertly framing your hate
inside a sheep's suit of mock-gosh golly gee.
The wolf you are turned the whole world against your target,
me. How cunning you are to frame your hate as concern.
Awe, you wish we could be friends? You think some of my poetry is "really good"?
You pathetic, hormonally challenged, paranoid soul.
And your companion, made a smudge, drifting from one temp to another.
Hot and cold, you wax and wane between passion and desperation.
Me? I haven't moved from this spot. The spot you pinned me to.
You haven't the energy for malice? You're so good at it, your pulse doesn't even change,
no sweat beads on your forehead. Cobbler, book binder, artisan, fool.

Friday, May 10, 2013

Bittersweet Embarrassment of Riches

A year ago, I had no choices, or so it seemed. Now, I am learning the hard way, how to be diplomatic, tactful, painfully honest, well, responsibly honest, with can be very uncomfortable. I am learning that it takes a great deal of time to figure out what the best choice is for me. And, that, when many schools are throwing money at me, I don't have to jump at these offers as if I'm never going to have that chance again and that I should grab it now. I am learning that I must, I am the only one to stand up for what my dreams are and becoming too complacent, passive, or doormatish, with my own dreams and needs, dulls the importance, the urgency to claim my own life. ANd before I know it, I am sacrificing my one precious life to the demands and whims of others. They will not be grey and stooped over at the window yearning to be a bird, or swim naked in the pond at dusk. Regretting the life I didn't scream and demand as MINE!!