(you’re going to break my heart)
the frog ready for inspection, skin flaps
opened and pinned back, organs
arrayed for the taking—this is how
I approach you. and you. here, my spleen
for the squeezing. my intestine
to be strung out, perhaps wrapped
around the neck like a lariat. not
for the squeamish, my heart thudding
to be plucked out with a delicate thumb
and forefinger, dinner for the willing,
and beautiful, and broken. I am not smart
about love, is what I’m saying. not even
smart about whose face I will take
in my hand and press against my face
until we are a single organism. the mouth
is not an organ but I give it to you
anyway, I give it all away is what
I’m saying. I’m easy to adore. my torso
a life raft strung with Christmas lights
and full of all your favorite things, beer
and expensive cheese and songs
about leaving. I’m so beautiful
splayed out on this tray full of tar
and entrails. I’m so useful
I could be a meal for an army
of traumatized surgeons, I’m full-time
at this job of bleeding, my esophagus
a stripper pole or cocaine straw.
when I say eat me I mean
suck the bones clean, leave nothing
for the waiting, nothing for the vultures
or the travelers to come.
Welcome to My Existential Crisis. Last week was spent in my college town where I was collecting info on MFA graduate programs in Creative Writing, catching up with professors, and getting my picture taken as a Fulbright semifinalist. I had a delightful time visiting with friends. One night we stayed in a cozy cabin with a hot tub and cross-country skied on a frozen lake under the moonlight. Nights were spent cooking vegan meals, playing music, and watching foreign films. I even performed an Imbolc ceremony and made a hearty wintertime feast. I got trapped there for an extra couple of days due to blizzard conditions and icy roads. My liver still hates me and my head pounds ever so, but I feel thankful for magical times like these.
In regards to the above poem, part of my “homework” for grad school preparation is to read contemporary poetry. I have trouble finding contemporary poetry that speaks to me like the old greats; however, I have been really enjoying Marty McConell’s refreshing voice and vivid imagery. Along with reading poetry, I have to create a creative writing portfolio. I have a lot of poems to edit and a lot to write still. For once I do not feel like I am wasting time when I write. It feels like I am actually moving towards an actual goal. I wrote a poem today that utilized some interesting spacing and line breaks. Unfortunately, I am not supposed to publish my own poetry online if I want to send it in to get published in literary magazines or journals. For now on I will just be posting contemporary poetry finds. I did send 6 of my poems in to The New Yorker a couple of weeks ago. I expect they will all be rejected. At least I feel like a real poet now. Among my other preparation tasks, I have to study for the GRE test and research more potential programs to which I want to apply.
Meanwhile, I am still between jobs and running out of money fast as bills keep piling up. My anxiety is through the roof and I often wake up several times in the night with extreme heart palpatations worrying about past, present, and future life. My love life is non-existent and I am starting to worry I will not be able to keep up my celibacy because I am human and want love like everyone else. I think too much for my own good and I am always tempted to do things I know I should not do. I was conditioned from the start, and conditioned I will always be. You ever notice how February is an ooey gooey month? I want to chew it like bubblegum and blow bubbles that will explode over everyone so that they will all be a sticky icky mess and feel it too. Stick to me, please.