Poet Showcase; Andrea Forbing-Maglione
Among Other Things You Were.....
susceptible
crawling there in the soil
of my memory
like an earthworm
praying no one will step on you
coming out when it rains
you were always such a rainy day friend
vulnerable
laying there on operating table
of life
like a patient with his skin stretched open
beating and pumping out deception
teaming with poisonous passion, oxygen lies and bloody truth
you were always such a hypochondriac
naked
slithering on jersey cotton sheets
in my mind
like a king cobra
succumbing to my mongoose
snaking around in my memory
you were always such a sneaky bastard
childlike
crying on the shoulder
of pity
like a school boy that never got to buy the "cool clothes"
whining about the bully at school
complaining about the way your clothes are out of style
you were always such a slave to fashion
innocent
hiding from the truth inside my eyes
of honesty
like a rat inside the Coney late at night
concealing your filth in a back storeroom, yet
wanting to come out and declare your presence
you were always such a chicken
gullible
believing that it would all work out
for the good
like some After School Special
trusting that everything would be okay
confident that you had it all figured out
you were always so naïve
needy
pleading with the voices
inside my head
like a defense lawyer at a death row sentencing
begging with your eyes
insisting with your hips
you were always so convincing
afraid
worrying about keeping me
on the side
like the Burger King girl that made you pay a quarter for extra sauce
worrying that her manager might see
thinking that someone might tell on her if she didn't charge you
you were always such a boy scout
powerless
following blindly into the path of least resistance
like you were on autopilot
wandering behind convention
holding onto its tail like a baby elephant
you were always so uninventive
lost
wishing you had made a different decision
about your life
like the time you took the Gottfriedson Road exit
searching for a bathroom amongst the desolate farms
meandering thru the boondocks toward some elusive landmark
you were always so bad with directions
worried
sitting by yourself
in the unforgiving hardwood chair
like a child at the dentist
scanning the courtroom for a friendly face
hoping against hope that I might still be there
you were always so optimistic
fragile
leaving the courtroom
after the verdict
like saplings in a tornado
weeping for things that would never be
searching for answers that weren't there
you were always so blind
disgruntled
driving home you shrink
behind the wheel
like Sexy Sally when you let the air let out of her
sinking further & further into the upholstery
melting into the faux leather
you were always such a chameleon
alone
looking around your empty house
in the gray film before the dark
like headlights seeking their terrain
looking for something comfortable in the dusk
illuminating the absence of safety
you were always so sure that she would still be there
Surrendered
Melting
water presses steam
evaporating
fog
Sight is unclear
Child's lips press against window
There is moist affection where her kiss used to be
Vibrating
recollections ripping through
pounding
remembrances
Memory is obscured
Girl's heart wrung out like a washcloth
There is wet disillusionment where her faith used to be
Striking
spears plummeting downward
muting
water colors
Clarity is blurred
Maiden's eyes search to find bottom
There is murky sludge where her reflection used to be
Blistering
dreams burning through
searing
nightmares
Innocence is indistinct
Woman's utopia scorched
There is flaming fear where her courage used to be
Insisting
challenges taunting innocence
tempting
lies
Integrity is absent
There is debauchery where her ethics used to be
The solace that I find there
Concealed by her hair
I can escape the monsters
playing hide & seek in my head.
There I crouch low
to cover my cowardice
scared but reveling in sweet shampoo
… for the smell of it
I am a child on Christmas morning
Can't stay in bed
Can't lie still. Can't even wait `til after breakfast
For them it is the thrill of the chase,
to watch a small boy
run to piss himself in his terror
… for the fun of it
Under the cover of her mane
the bullies can't see me
I am all at once vanished and yet, so much there.
I watch them pass by the bus stop,
searching with open, salivating mouths--
hounds looking for their fox.
… for the sport of it
From my secret hideaway
I stare out parting her locks
like a curtain
I look out into my audience
Crinkling crumbling leaves rustle,
Rude Loud, like five-year-old girls screaming
… for the sound of it
Safe inside my fragrant cave
brown tendrils falling around me
like a waterfall
I know that my pursuers
will be back, demons sent to claim the soul of the
wimp sad excuse for a man, they will swallow me
… for the hell of it
on the old beige couch
If you listen hard you can taste the mold
hear the musty smell in your ears.
You are watching the old TV with the tinfoil on the antennas,
banished to the old beige couch
Gramma gave your mom, when she first moved out.
You look down and see the fuzzy shag carpet
Olive green, matted down with years of feet
Wonder what tales it could tell us?
Wonder where it is right now?
Would its old worn fibers have anything to say?
Pick up the old dolly in the handmade cradle.
the dolly that made crying sounds when you pushed in her tummy,
the dolly that you used to dress up, and feed, and hold
and spank, because she was a bad dolly.
All the while telling her,
"I'm doing this to show you that I love you ".
Remember how you used to get spanked
and how they told you it was because they loved you,
that they didn't want you to turn out
this way or that way.
Because you just wouldn't learn, because you were so hard headed.
Remember that the basement was your solace.
How you rarely had any drama down there,
except for the time that you were doing math problems
on the blackboard … long division, and you forgot to carry the one
your face tasted chalk as your head made contact
You'd never forget to do that ever again To this day, math still makes my head hurt
You recall how safe it was down there
On that old stale couch
How when you were outside, you were in danger…
Like the one time that you fucked up at the traveling
carnival and you did something wrong
(even though you can't remember what it was)
and you got your nose bashed in
and got yelled at for bleeding on the car seat.
Wonder whatever happened to that old piece of shit car?
Maybe it lives with the old shag carpet … maybe they trade stories
Do they even make Le Car's anymore?
Does Renault still exist?
Flinch when your lover makes a quick movement,
can't even quite explain why--
it's just a reflex.
You can't help yourself.
It's like a trained response,
an involuntary defense mechanism
"I'm not gonna hurt
you", he says, "I LOVE you!"
I know…
That's what he
used to say, too.
