Virginia opossum.
John James Audubon, from The quadrupeds of North America vol. 2, by John James Audubon and John Bachman, New York, 1851.
(Source: archive.org)
I know this has nothing to do with poetry but I love Audubon’s work. He basically said to his dad “I’m going to document all of North America’s birds and animals and that will be my job.” He never finished though..he ran out of money. I feel like all the people who are truly famous for the right reasons or whose work you can view in museums started out with some kind of crazy idea and died penniless. I think it is probably a better way to live though than having a steady job and remaining nameless. I mean, I don’t have any crazy ideas but it’s the thought that counts.
I’m dumb at the internet. I made a pdf file of my new little book. I like to compile a book of things I’ve written at the end of each school year. I have to do this or I would never write. If you want me to send you the pdf send me your email I guess. I have no idea how to post the book here unless I linked it from somewhere else. I don’t know how to do that.
tphd:
WILD DOGS STOLE MY MOM
BUT LATER SHE SENT ME A LETTER
FROM THE WILD DOG KINGDOM
IT SAID “DEAR SON, IM A WILD DOG NOW.
I USED TO LOVE YOU, BUT NOW
IM TOO BUSY WITH WILD DOG THINGS FOR LOVE.
SEE YA, MOM.”
hey ya’ll
just wanted to let you know because i’m confused too..
my other tumblr is called longhairandblankstares
My Body
My body has never been my body.
It belongs to my mother who wiped
and slapped and held my face.
It once belonged to a boy I met
when I was 15 in a history class.
We never learned any history.
The history is my body,
that we made together
one summer after we graduated.
And then my body passed into others’
hands who held it or choked it
or sometimes both−
those who patted the top of my head
and called me a good girl.
And then music found it and the notes
picked it up in wild movements
and my limbs belonged to the world
changed by friend’s ideas and I thought
I could change it by putting holes in my face
and needles under my skin,
all an attempt to own
what I have never owned.
Looped Dreams
I had two dreams last night.
In the first one I was working
with you at East Coast Custard,
scooping ice cream in the stand
at a county fair when a woman
approached and said she wanted
35 cones and I laughed at her.
I was pretty sure she was joking
but the effect of the dream
was that I couldn’t hear
any of the customers well
and it was hot and the ice cream
was running down my arms
like warm blood. That’s when
I stalked away and said I was
going back to Dairy Queen
where it was air conditioned
and you looked at me, hurt.
In the second dream I was
also working, trying to lift
huge glass oval mirrors
into place on a wall in a rich
woman’s home. Well,
the mirrors kept sliding
through my fingers, slicing
as they went. I couldn’t feel pain
so I reasoned that I must
have been in shock (me
in the dream not realizing
it was a dream) or the wounds
may have been very deep.
My finger may have been
completely severed.
But I kept trying to hang
those heavy mirrors,
stubbornly dripping blood,
making no effort to stop
the bleeding.
Sometimes, I am too polite. Last night I was going to my favorite, probably most frequented bar to get a left hand milk stout float for dessert with my boyfriend. We sat down and I know it is customary for the bartender to bring your order to your table, but when I saw it was ready I went over to the bar to pick it up so that they didn’t have to walk all the way across the bar to my table. Well, that was the first mistake. Two old dudes started talking to me, asking me what beer I got, etc. I was very nice and answered their questions about what I was drinking and told them I liked beer a lot and went to tastings with my dad. I am not sure why I wanted to gain their approval, maybe just to show that girls do like good beer and they should quit being chauvinistic dickholes. But as I turned to pick up my drink my boyfriend heard them say “you know what they say about little girls who like good beer…” which I am still kind of baffled about. What exactly does that mean? Either way, I was embarrassed and pissed off considering I go to that bar more than they do and what right do they have to judge me in front of all those people and say something like that to me in front of everyone and my boyfriend? On top of the fact that it was insanely creepy. I couldn’t believe I tried to be polite to them earlier. So folks, there is no moral here, except maybe we should be more selective in who we shell out our kindness to, considering some people are not worth the effort.
On top of that I was embarrassed to be getting a stout as a float, instead of my standard IPA flight. Maybe if I chose different beers they would have left me alone.
This was also the second time yesterday that I had been called a “little girl” by someone. The first time was by the lunch lady at the hospital cafeteria where I work, but I didn’t mind because she’s sweet. It’s just funny to be dressed in a suit, holding your i.d. badge, and you still get called little.
I’m going to miss you.
