When I attended graduate school a million years ago, the best poet in the program was a woman named Vicki who was on her second husband and on a Pantene strike, meaning she was someone who rarely if ever washed her hair, and all her drafts seemed to come from God and never ever needed revision. One could hate her for that, but she had her problems, like we all do. Once she missed a workshop meeting and said as way of excuse, I got busy shoveling dog shit and left it at that. She didn't like her ramshackle house with her child, her dogs, her husbands. Said one of her big fantasies was that she lived in a penthouse in NYC and that she owned nothing and the only thing she ever used was the ice machine. I also liked this fantasy. It implied an independence that seemed so unobtainable to nearly everyone we knew.
When I was a little girl, nothing seemed as romantic to me as working at night in a huge skyscraper in a big city. You'd have so much to do that you just couldn't get it all done during the day. You'd light up the night sky with your small office or cubicle and those passing by would have to take notice.
Michelle's Spell of the Day
The Potion to Make You Love Me
1 shot of x-rated Vodka
1 glass of Sophia champagne (named after Francis Ford's daughter, a lovely light mid-range champagne, making up for her performance in Godfather III)
Benedictions and Maledictions
Fantasy
Tell me yours and spare no detail.
I am dining on men tonight. Do
you need a secretary to take down
your every brilliant word before you
even say it? A nurse to bathe those
parts that you could reach if it weren’t
for the iv? Love doesn’t matter here.
I’m not one of those women who is going
to make you say it. I’m whatever you
need, baby, until one night I beat you half
to death with a baseball bat I have hidden
under my bed in case of an intruder. No
one knows what can happen in the dark.
5 comments:
Dear Michelle,
another perfect post! Love your fantasy (mine, too), the poem (of course!) and Vicki sounds like my kind of woman, too.
xo
Cindy
p.s. I know not *all* men are *that* bad ;)
Baseball bats, love taps, iv’s spent, where’s the spoon?
Beaten half-ta-death, in the night, an intruder, a visitor, a full moon?
Take down my words, wash me up, a sponge bath for your thoughts.
Below the night light, boney fingers clasp, the comfort of weapons under the bed.
The forced intimacy of faded Braille, eternal dark, is my skin pale?
A love sonnet for the times when we don’t even know we’re there.
Hey Michelle,
Yeah, I wish I had a conduit to God--but I'm a slow, methodical writer. In fact, I'm the one who steps in the dog shit in my yard. It always seems to find me. I agree with Vonnegut's statement about writing, something about being legless, armless, and having a crayon in the mouth. But from your photos--you got nothing to worry about!
Dear Michelle,
After a little jet lag, I'm not sure what I'm walking into here, but bravo on another great post and beautiful shot. I've enjoyed catching up.
Michelle,
What an excuse, cleaning up dogshit? It's the perfect one though- no one really cares to know if it's literal for they won't ask because who really wants to hear about animal feces? I think one day I might try all of your recipes. I'll have ot make sure I don't work the next day though, haha.
=D Cheri
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