Sinister: i make kiss-like noises / to scare him off

[baker,baker]

wednesday night i stayed out late with the mega-nerds just to
see the opening of star wars.  i had to wait in line and
everything.  the air smelled friendly, like twizzlers and
just-spilled soda.  i saw my high school history teacher.  we
exchanged hugs and chatted about our latest trips to europe. 
there were a bunch of people in obi-wan kenobi costumes fighting
each other with plastic lightsabers.  when i got home, i wrote a
poem about the broken pieces of candy i saw on the ground
outside the movie theater.  i wrote about some kids who went to
my high school.   i wrote about graphing calculators and busses.
 i wrote about my first kiss.

"you are
the first generation
raised
without
religion"

thursday night came and i sat quietly in a room full of tarot
cards and candles. i didn't feel comfortable at all there.  i
think i'm scared of the future.  Maureen Seaton tried to read me
my cards and i almost started crying.  she's really a lovely
person though -- she wrote a book of poems called "Furious
Cooking," read it if you ever get the chance -- and afterward i
went bowling with David Trinidad, which was particularly
glamorous.  he's not a bad bowler.  i, on the other hand, am
terrible.  i drank some beer and then i got into a fistfight
with a communist in the parking lot behind the diversey
rock'n'bowl.  i have scrapes on my elbows and my back has cuts
from the broken glass.  my pants were ripped and ruined.  i
drove home in my mom's minivan.  

"From St. Kilda to King's Cross
it's thirteen hours on a bus."

friday i went downtown, to bookbinding studio.  i finished up a
roundback case binding i'd been working on, and then i got a
ride up to "dave" the drug dealer's house.   "dave" is ambitious
for a loser -- he makes a great deal of money by doing almost
nothing. my friend picked up half a pound of marijuana, and we
drove back to the suburbs.  i did some laundry and went to bed
early.

"a poet who was born doing reference work in sin, and born
confessing that in the end she is a drunken rat."

saturday i went to work at the shoe store.  i got some bagels
and a scone i never ate.  after work i went to krispy kreme and
attempted to buy a sweatshirt that said "ORIGINAL GLAZED," but
they were out of my size.  i was forced, against my will, to
bring three dozen donuts up to "dave's" place.  i watched a bit
of pulp fiction on his bigscreen tv, which was terrifically
boring. one should never visit "dave" more than once in the same
month, unless one enjoys being bored to tears.  "dave" and his
friends asked me to go to a private loft party, where  "dave"
was spinning.  instead i went to a dirty little bar near my
house, where i dropped my very first drink and shattered the
glass.  the bartender is a friend of mine, and he humiliated me
by putting my drinks into styrofoam cups for the rest of the
night.  i may never go there again.

"The coldest I've ever been was in Cleveland, Ohio.
My host and hostess hated and loved each other
by frantic turns.  To escape I'd go on long walks
in the yellowing snow as the evening winds raged."

sunday was the shoe store again.  i won a free pair of shoes and
got to take them home.  they're hideously ugly; i intend to
exchange them at nordstrom's, maybe for some  jeans or else some
new pyjamas.  mine have a hole in them.  i ate some mexican food
with my friend, and it made me ill.  after that, i went home and
started making all kinds of books.  i even made a book out of
the pants i'd ruined in my scrap with the communist.  my brother
came home from indiana and called me a bunch of names.  i tried
to make him some macaroni and cheese, but he wouldn't have any. 
i ate some pudding.

"bring on your fireworks, which are a mixed
splendor of piston and of pistil; very well
provided an instant may be fixed
so that it will not rub, like any other pastel."

i'm beginning to feel like i am a new person every ten minutes. 
when i talk to David in the bowling alley about William Carlos
Williams, i do not even feel related to the person who sat on
"dave's" leather couch and made small talk about the simpsons
with some british coke addict in for the week.  and the boy who
swooned so hard he almost fell over after kissing Megan
Lobsinger in the rain, years and years ago -- surely he isn't
the same person who just a few hours back was helping some fat
woman squeeze into a pair of shoes two sizes too small.  

"And there he learned
to play the flute -- not very well --"

i feel like that cheap leather shoe sometimes.  "here," says
mark, "do this drug."  shaun says "hey, let's go rent a movie." 
nick throws a punch.  "come on," says sarah, "let me come with
you."  "you should cut your hair;" matt says, "you look stupid
the way you are."  & yes.  yes, now that you mention it  i do
sorta feel stupid this way.  maybe you're right.

"Ah, Sharon Lipschutz," said the young man. "How that name comes
up.  Mixing memory and desire."

(after your first time on ecstasy, each pill you swallow becomes
an attempt to relive that first high -- the best one.  the one
that made you happy, for the first time.   the one that seemed
to change your life.

"with our designer drugs and leather gloves
and work boots, with the world on our shoulders,
with that police car, with that bright guitar,
on a shooting star you make a wish -- she said, 'seratonin,
be my friend.' "

but you never feel that way again.)



baker,baker
  

 








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