Sinister: we will take off our clothes/monday poem

[molly]

At 07:28 PM 6/5/99 +0200, Erlend Hammer wrote:
>one time I was eating some extremely
>spicy tacos when suddenly I choked on some meat and then it went up that
secret passage
>between the throat and the nose so that I had found myself with very, very
hot Mexican
>food coming out of my nose. That was not pleasant, not at all.

I just have to say that this happened to me. And, God (and stoo and ummm
some other people) as my witness,  the night before Erland shared his story
I told mine. THE CHANCES?? I've been in a stupor ever since I read about
your taco misfortune Erland.  Except mine was a burrito instead of a taco.
I was laughing at something and I choked it the wrong way. 

As of right now there is no Monday poem. So I am going to sneak off with
the parrot, give him a bath, and arrange his feathers just how I want to
and send him on his way again.    I hope I'm allowed to do that. it's a
little bit long but I can't see it not holding anyone's interest.
(I'm really really really hoping that I didn't steal the parrot from
someone else today. Sorry if I did)

here it is:

                       I steal pencils  
on my way down here tonight I stole a package of pencils.
at the time, I didn’t even notice that I stole them
but when I got here, the pencils were right there in my hand
I stole them, not because I wanted to but because I must.
pencils have their own kind of magic powers in them and
they have always been too compelling for me to resist
some people say I steal them because I’m a kleptomaniac
that would be people like my therapist and the dear
lady who orders all the office supplies where I work
poor Donna, just like the others, she does not understand
my motives are much less sinister than she imagines
I steal the pencils to help release the words that they contain
every pencil ever made contains hundreds or thousands of words
and those words deserve their freedom,the freedom only paper can bring
I steal pencils because they contain the words of every poem I will ever write
and to rescue them from becoming quadratic equations
or even more disgusting poorly spelled graffiti on
yet another ten coats of paint thick truckstop bathroom wall
tales of the world’s best blow job that never really exists
and God knows that we have too many truckstop bathroom walls
and too many imaginary blow jobs
I like the kind of pencils that you find in the library
short, with no eraser, and lead so dark it can be read
from the other side of the paper with little effort
the kind of pencil that makes a permanent mark on the 
margins of the page when you are trying to rewrite a
poem that was started three years ago but set aside 
until the right pencil came along to release the final version
that is until yet another pencil crosses out the
last four words and you banish the page for another six months
when I find the a stub of a pencil, I get excited
because now I can release one or two of the poems
that otherwise would never have seen a scrap of paper
but instead would have ended up as someone’s phone number
thrown away or washed in the pocket of a pair of jeans just causing 
accusations of lying or playing head games	            
mechanical pencils have their place but they will never
replace a Trusty number two with distinct teeth marks of 
frustration and contemplation placed there between scattered 
thoughts of never finishing that simple sonnet or the 
final edit of a seventy five page rambling
that you know will never be heard by anyone except
the drunks who try to sleep in the ally when you’re up on 
the roof spouting out the latest outrage at three A M
I would never steal a ball point, or the higher class fountain pen
your Waterman, Cross, and Bic disposables are safe 
so the people at Barnes and Noble can relax and 
stop following me from aisle to aisle
My prize is the second hand pencil removed from your desk
and never missed until all the other writing utensils are also missing
and your only hope is the pencil, now in my possession
I steal pencils because I never have found anything
else in this world more valuable to steal.
                                          Bekif
                                       © 1997

bekif is my friend and he is very nice. I didn't ask him first because I
think he went to italy. umm...

sorry for such a bland letter
molly

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