Melanie: Spoken Word & Poetry

| Visiting Day | Daddy | Hitting on Buddha | Your Dick | Jeez or ("To Art My Friend") |

Visiting Day

concrete, blacktop diamonds
glistening in hot texas summer
the fields held in chains of thought
like sweat driping round my neck
stark pale building
with turrets and gates

appears in distance like city from nowhere
after long drive
this is oz in reverse
walk the careful path in between lines
past grim faced men
in dark glasses
with thin pursed lips
standing on a series of x's
printed on cold stone floor
being searched and searching for answers
in your thin face
through thick glass
eyes meek downcast
cheeks drawn
like soul shotgun
through pock marked plexi-glass
I was 12
you were only 18
and I could never go back again.


The last time
I saw you or touched you
was on October 14, 1985
It was my birthday,
I was 22.
You stood in the front yard,
in your overalls,
working on my car
screwrdriver in your hand,
red grease rag tucked in your
back pocket.
The autumn sun,
winked a lazy afternoon eye,
through a hickory nut tree's
lighting your face,
for a moment,
making you squint,
and wipe your brow
with the oily rag.
You wished me Happy Birthday.
I kissed your grease smudged face.
I cranked my car,two sputs then vroom
you smiled at the engine.
I waved to you,
standing there, lonely with the pavement,
and I was gone.

The last time, I talked to you,
was on the phone,
the day before,
I told you I couldn't come home.
You offered to fly me back.
I refused ,
I said, Iwas busy.
I said, I had to work.
I was lying to you.
The next day,
at lunch,
I sat crossed legged,
my hair wet, in my bathrobe,
on my barewood apartment floor,
eating a cold turkey sandwhich,
and drinking warm corona beer,
without lime.
I should of been
with you.
I called the bus station,
to ask about tickets
and plan my trip home for Christmas.

December 12, 1985
I made it home,
for your funeral,
and now you are
the center of my attention,
laid out, like a conversation piece,
everyone says, you look good
to them you are a
coffee table book,
open to the last page.
I walk out
to the store down the street
to buy a bottle of wine
and I can still smell your roses
two blocks away.

One week later,
My mother is crying,
next to me in bed
all night, she won't stop
I am on my left side, facing her,
propped up on one elbow,
I brush back her hair from her face with
the palm of my right hand,
and my fingertips trace the lines on her forehead.
it is raining outside,
for the first time,
since we buried you.
cold December
taps on the window pane.
she is worried about you,
out there, in the rain.
she want to bring you a jacket,
she thinks,
you are getting wet.
I hold her tight, swaying back and forth,
until she quiets.

Two years later,
my first son is born,
September 1, 1987.
I name him after you.

He is 3 months old,
I wrap him like a christmas present,
in a soft blue blanket,
tucking the corners around his legs,
folding it, carefully,
over the back of his head.
He cries and screams,
He is a cholicky baby, tonight.
I cradle him, walk across the room
I sit in a rocking chair,
hold his head to my chest,
rocking slowly.
I repeat your name over and over,
until he falls asleep.

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Hitting on Buddha

I used to have a bong shaped like a buddha,
with a bowl in his belly,
& a hole in the back of his head,
that you could draw from
as long as you put your finger
over the carburater in his big toe.

In Buddha
I smoked red bud,
with tiny red hairs.
with only two seeds per quarter pound.
skunky stuff,
thick and tightly packed,
just a pinch
in Buddha was all it took.

The thing, I liked the most,
about my Buddha bong,

other than hitting on his head,
you could fill him up with wine,
Strawberry Boones Farm
was preferred.
when you ran out of weed,
you could drink of Buddha, too.
Like a spring
coming from a rock.

For twelve years,
I took Buddha,
where ever I went,

to the high desert in San Bernardino, California,
to the swamplands in Florida,
to urban centers like New York City,
Boston, Chicago, L.A.,
from one side of this country,
to the other.
I even took Buddha,
with me to Boulder, Colorado.

One day, Buddha
and I,
grew weary.
I got sick,
and developed a hacking cough.

I could no longer draw from god.

I lost the spirit,
I lost the faith,
I lost the numbers to my dealers,
when I lost my wallet,
back in Boulder, Colorado.

So I gave Buddha
to my best friend Gary,
in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
He still has Buddha.
He keeps him in the bottom drawer,
of his black, lacquered, night stand,
wrapped in tissue,
next to the a box of sex toys.
He and his wife Patty,
still hit on Buddha,
in between visits,
to the methadone clinic,
in downtown New Orleans.

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Your Dick

your dick was so fine,
your dick was circumsized,
your dick was a gun without a holster,
your dick had a star of david painted on the end,
your dick was jewish,
your dick was a fine old luxury car,
surrounded by todays subcompacts,
your dick was a collectors item,
your dick was an edsel,
your dick.

i brushed your dick off my teeth this morning
puckering as i tasted your lemon.
i spit your dick down my drain
frothy and white with my toothpaste.
i washed your dick off the insides off my thighs.
your dick was still sticky in my jeans.
your dick was on my handtowel in my bathroom.
your dick was on my bathroom rug.
i spent all my quarters for laundry money
just trying to wash away your dick.

i tried to replace your dick on my clit.
i licked my fingers while masturbating,
and i still tasted you guessed it
your dick.

i douched and then your dick tasted like vinegar on my fingers.

i washed and washed my hands
trying to wash away the smell of your dick.
i will not be making meatloaf tonight.

your dick is shaped like my christmas tree
thick at the bottom with a star on the top.
i decorated your dick with christmas balls.

what do i need with penis envy?
everything in my house is your dick.

your dick is my neighbor
i only say hi to on odd occassions.
your dick left my building without telling me.
your dick still owes me rent.
your goddamned dick.

your dick was crafty your dick knew my score.
your dick wasn't no virgin.
your dick was the key to my backdoor.
your dick.
your dick.
your dick.
your goddamned dick.


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Jeez or the title could be .....
To Art My Friend

Art first time i ever saw you with your long black hair
eyes obsidian, smooth and flat,
there was depth beneath the surface
of your Arizona face, carved with lines
like wind blowinsand through the desert at night.

Only 34 years old
always had you hair neat, clean, shoulder length shag,
bangs brushed across your brow.
cept when you was bein mean.
mr tavern tender.

Harley jacket even in the summer,
silver dollarstud belt wrapped around your waist,
marijuana leaf belt buckle cross the front,
grey rattlesnake skin cowboy boots,
gun or a knife always at your side.

you wasn't gonna live long.
guess it was written cross them lines
in the desert sand, furrows on your brow.
deserts always look dead to me, anyway,
less you look at em real close.

art you was like lookin at the desert real close.
on a cool clear night, full moon
stars only there to cast shadows
on night creatures like all of us.

your wife nancy was a pretty lady in her early thirties.
honey colored wavy hair fell down her back,
eyes icy blue frosting on a childs bithday cake.
she used to wear black tapered jeans,
tucked into black velvet boots,
silver chains around her ankles,
lots of tuquoise jewlery to match her eyes.

it was your best friend randy
that shot you art.
alot of people wanted to shoot you.
you was a bar ownin, bookmakin, junkie, drug dealin, motherfucker.

& randy was just on of da guyz.
one of your bros, same age as you.
he had long curly brown hair,
always wore that just joshin air about himself,
thumbs always hooked through the belt loops on his jeans,
kept his chin down always grinning, bright blue eyes,
lookin shy and sly at the same time.

that old country boy looked like you done caught him
with his finger in some of your birthday cake.

did you really think he was kiddin on that day? art?
did you?

you with your head cocked to one side, chest out,
with that self assured way about yourself,
sitting in the barbeque house over on central avenue
at lunchtime
randy standin there in front of your table.
least one hand must a been hooked in a belt loop
on that boys jeans, but his other hand was free
and art your head wasn't the only thing cocked on that day.

your eyes and your goddamned stare
couldn't stop no bullets.

watch your face changin,
wind blowin sand in your eyes.
desert was dark and cold on that night,
when art became the sand, again.

ain't no hill, no rock, no landscape,
ever gonna be the same to me,
since art became the desert, again.


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