jackthegirl

For Hannah
Men
With men's bodies
Sheared and tipped
The sound from overseas
The creation of pistons
The slick and pump
Of violent anatomy, Hannah
Stays up late I like
To think, shoots from
The hip, pastes up
A woman's wicked throat
Upon those broad
Capable shoulders

Affixed
Suspension mechanical
Grip and tear, heart
Pumping oil, Hannah
Seeing muscle as a curved
Thing, how would it feel
See the world in half
Faces and jaws, see
Marlene's legs and see
Nothing, she sits
In a modern bathing suit
Her eyes are lightbulbs
And burn

Women
With women's eyelashes
And teeth, gathered,
Carefully collected, trimmed
And pressed and plied, smiling
Gear teeth and wheels, rolling
It must have been something
It must have been like riding
The blitz with glue on your fingers it
must have been the end of the world, Hannah,
And I are in the kitchen, and we
Laugh and laugh

--

me and m-a-c nail laquer in cream shirelle red are in deeply and wholly and unequivocally in love. oh, sure, we may not be a perfect match --- she is flightly and easily wounded and i am rough and always in too much of a rush -- but oh the glory of her, she glows like a candy apple, and I take care of her, we have an understanding, you see. True, she has no vagina, but we've made arrangements. I see other cosmetics. She does not run dry.

Creative writing is making me crazy. Also, the drugs.

I was stuck in an elevator with the five other editors of my college zine yesterday. it was thrilling in a very dorky way. we pressed all the buttons at once and jumped up and down and yelled through the doors and thought maybe when we were all sitting on the floor and waiting for help maybe now would be a good time to play truth or dare or would you rather or maybe hold a seance. we pressed the button for emergency assistance and talked to someone who we at first thought was at the college because that's sensible, and then found out that she was in fact not at the college and probably not even in vancouver, and probably somewhere exotic like germany or india or maybe not and maybe just in ohio, and thought why? why, what the fuck? we need help now, god dammit, why are you people not on base and ready, sleeping like firemen, like mongolian warriors? we told her we were at capilano college, in the fir building, f-i-r, not third, not fur, but fir, f as in friend, i as in igloo, r as in resurrection. we all laughed very much.

ultimately, we decided that we should take one of the crappy poems we hate out of the zine, and put our elevator adventure in it's place. as editors, we can do that, and it gives me delusions of self-grandeur.

idea: be more like courtney love?

abstract expressionism: yes, it's mostly as boring and as difficult to define as it sounds. i spent an hour listening to my prof talk about structures and forms and color planes and weight. i had one of those lucid moments where absolutely nothing she said made sense anymore - what exactly IS the play between depth and form, sandra? what IS expressional structural post-impressionistic pre-pop-art-shock-art-form-shapes? - and realized that abstract expressionism is just one of those things that gives modern art a bad name. and i'm spending four hours of my life writing very detailed notes on it and praying they'll come in handy some day, so i don't spend my post-final period nursing my arthritic hands and crying over the irony of it all.

bonus: next week is pop art and op art. i itch. in the most profound sort of way.

idea: yeah, the world needs more courtney love, i don't care what those jerks at theblemish.com have to say about it.

Bellied up
Slipped under it's stomach
With a salted tongue

They mute
Watching the skinned
Blue-ful water.