Susanna Fry
Published by
BLAST PRESS
http:/ /www.gregglory.com
gregglory@aol.com
[324B Matawan Avenue
Cliffwood, NJ 07721]
(732) 970-8409
her thoughts on self, week two of june
i keep having the feeling that
waking up in new york city is always a blessing
i am the derelict daughter on the hot barstool at noon ripped tee shirt wearing debutante in worn canvas sandals and torquoised ringed fingers you are blonde man with bluest eye and black garments sipping scotch and sketching spain outside the window we are spanish lovers in the afternoon when the light is low and the limes are ripe sandalwood and jasmine petals follow me on the streets in the late afternoon in my white bedded room when the sun is fresh and young time when i smell alive. dream best when i am naked and covered singled with the offwhite tablecloth from my great-grandmothers kitchen i am a dish of tomatoes and basil leaves i am olives and thick cheeses delicious and round make me smile with your mouth and that bluest blue that strikes like my match against the ceremonial candle. i have begun to arrange flowers on my altar deep reds of roses and the purples of astors i sing in my sleep the songs of coyotes - wild and urgent walk with slow steps longing for the ceasefire of my hourglass.
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i lost your smile this morning somewhere between my lemon tea and purple toothbrush my garden no longer speaks your scent hot thick morning air no longer reminds me of you and your graffitied metal door no longer sleep given it up like cigarettes and black coffee your color is beginning to fade like your eyes that remained closed and tight as newborn kitten eyelids before they're licked clean thought i would be the one who salted your blonde body priming your light and mixing your magic you spoke of energy and nature and once again i remember the feel of your toes tangled and beckoning.
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i thought about you today walking home in the rain with my broken umbrella and the georgia o'keeffe book that i bought with my paycheck hours before on my lunch break - the one where i eat and read and write poems in my head i live in a world of poetry if only in my head riding the last train to brooklyn over the williamsburg bridge into my own spanish harlem buy a bottle of red wine and watch as the brown paper of the bag gets wet and weak almost breaking on my kitchen floor bringing it home to my woman of italian beauty of dark hair of black mole one who keeps me company in this rain storm sitting in my room of water stains and curtain blowing slowly getting drunk on wine and raindrops thinking about what i meant when i told you you scared me rainy days make me feel exotic like a woman should feel want to dress you up and roll in white bedding sunday early morning before you make me espresso and i make you steamed milk when we listen to Coltrane and you kiss the backs of my knees telling me you've been wondering where i've been. we turn the pages of o'keeffe's life and alligator peared daydreams while i melt in your eyes the color that i do not yet know i cry loba as you laugh biting my wolverine neck line promising me apricots in the morning sandalwood and geraniums before bed.
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smell of boy sweat and muscles hair and blankets sky watchers over borinquien avenue spirit of guevera climbing through the air ducts spanish salsas in the streets mid-morning sunrise color of cheap tequila with lime juiced clouds drink my big girl body in tee-shirt and panties tickle my cowgirl legs and bellydancer hips wrapped in the cocoon larva and mucous mix with nina's voice unlistened words and unheard piano dreams of green peppers and papayas desert of your sleeping eyes and blonde breath waking to lavender water and the color of your smile as you aim your face to me like the native archer bless me my lady of Guadeloupe with your mustached face and underarm fuzz sing to me misterâ mistressâ mystery feed me your prayers me madre' tu' hija es hombre.
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goat cheese and crepes pan-like and ripe you are bluest eye and death stare more like ginger less like black beans beginning to think you are the ghastly orchid behind the porch door spider woman and utensil using i eat my way toward understanding eyes shut and palms open tied with ribbons and hungry throat scratches and the sound of the police here i sit
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moonlight reflects off my skin through the open window over the garbage dump where they are building i rise and fall like the tides over your body and face you wrapped in the white sheets of my finest bedding at midnight while the moon wanes in its solitude and silks singing about romance and death and the luxuries of non-violence i swim your sea slowly and gentle flesh on flesh on moonlight i sail your shores and sink in your deep blue waters i drown in your touch and lose breath under your stare.
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could live on an island surrounded by water and pineapples could wear fuchsia silk dresses and flowers strung through my hair everyday if only you were there too. cobblestone beaches i have returned home again in the grey area underground railways shoot me to you. you whose skin has not seen sunshine you whose lips have not been salted i am your island princess white lilies surrounding my bedroom. i have returned to the dreams that were once nightmares. you inside my bed in the afternoon bodies together wrapped in seaweed light from my window that sings us to sleep wakes us up gentle and deliberate light that shines in three o'clock day dream under white sheets next to flowers and sea shells leftover cups of tea leaves and lemon. have begun to grow my hair sure sign of winter and fire sign you have been born under. i rise like your phoenix turquoised and freshly watered i return to this city refreshed and renewed baking cakes and storing warmth in my medium sized body running across sands into desert cactus eater and lotus licker clothed in october robes of velvet and fur lined dresses. you bring presents to my doorstep croissants and cheeses coffees and pastries tiny bottles of fine liquor. deliver gifts to me and sweet kisses as i laugh and cross my legs you are my wild boy with wolf eyes and large hands promising me you will plant oak trees under my window next spring. tall boy barefoot and bread baker oat eater and belly kisser you are my city.
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for brian thought i wanted to be alone that day but you showed up in your baby blue polyester pants bought for a few dollars in the thrift shop where you told me they once found a squirrel in a bin in the basement we laughed all the way home with our bags and cans of malt liquor drinking it down with straws like two kids at a carnival. walked for miles in the hottest afternoon sun oblivious and drunk speaking of ex-lovers and the need to quit our jobs romanticized your hawaii jungle trip and pretended i was famous stopping occasionally to pick up roadside handbags from second hand shops as we searched for cheap highs and elderberry tea. we positioned the coach pillows in our fort of relaxation sharing cigarette of smoke and sandalwood analyzed french music and fell in love with the woman's voice i prepared us a rooftop of linguine and tomatoes as we watched the sun set and i told you we were in spain shouting obscenities at the painter who broke my heart hurling beer bottles from the roof in protest of the construction below in the garbage dump that was just becoming beautiful we were free that day and that night drunk and stumbling arm in arm until we fell into bed like two kids before christmas only it was hot and may and we were brother and sister into the morning waking in our party clothes my lavender dress wrinkled and my toes blood stained and tired from the life we led that day in brooklyn when we were flowers among the garbage.
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you are on my mind memory wrapped around my mind like your hands around my belly feasting and lying in tall grasses behind yellow paper flowers drinking manhattans in brooklyn outlaws dressed in hooded sweatshirts and smiles on our faces you boy me girl giggling as i search for chocolate on the streets with your money in my pocket your kisses marking my neck. stained with wine and earth. i am yours.
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holding on to any remains any article you leave behind wool scarf, black socks i no longer care about where they have been left only that they have been.
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eliza eliza let down your hair. today is tuesday and my finger nails have begun to grow agin. in some ways i feel like i belong at this desk today only a child of the night eight hours ago creature like and innocent looking for corruption. thank you for bein a sistah---like i said in the bath on saturday you are my voice of reason.. mainly i like your mind bein thinkin and all. you are cool - cool and thats kinda like tom - tom or pow - wow. been listenin to kerouac read his beat over the microphone...that's cool talkin ham and beans cool. we gotta be beat agin only i don't eat meat and my daddy left me..
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we live our lives on the horizontal constantly slipping into, over, and underneath the thick cloud that is the day. i spend most time waiting and thinking mainly sitting in a not too comfortable chair my hair pinned back in clips and my lipstick red and glossy it is december already - the light is beginning to grow longer but it hasn't started yet used to live my life in promises back to the waiting period. falsities can be an addiction like cigarettes and coffee it is january almost - winter time of the bear and white - grey passivity. we warm ourselves with hot water and hard liquor - hoping to find strength in the tuesdays that never seem to disappear we've begun to make plans - a true cold weather activity domestics of hot chocolate and hand baked cookies bring on a sense of needing like first snow fall brings sense of panic in the childhood in the remembering of what sunday afternoon felt like lonely again - i always seem to be lonely again pregnant with some sort of sorrow.
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i keep having the feeling that i am supposed to be somewhere like a recurring dream where i am swimming through mud and seaweed can't get that song out of my head one that you sang this morning on the train it is inconsistent and reminds me of teeth brushing. should i call someone? is there someone i should talk to? this memory lapse is normal in this part of the country heard it was the buildings and the light fixtures on the walls. long for sleep like french fried potatoes and ketchup move paper from place to place and call home every sunday. i am what you would consider 'a good girl' eat breakfast everyday and shake when i drink too much coffee. 'it is necessary that we band together at this time' the newsman said this morning over the radio waves we need to stop moving so much and pretending we are unhappy are we not just insects infecting each other with our own flesh and smell? poisonous gas leaks from my neighbor's pipe and i am lying in bed tonight listening to the dogs that bark and piss on the carpet.
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september bees dying apple honey sunshine it is the new year new moon and there is love here.
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want to see you every night wrap you up in my hair and kiss you till your lips bleed then you will tell me that i am not your mother nor your father but the woman that you dream about slept on your pillow last night it is still stained sweet with your bitter pungency of sweat and sugar holding it i wished it you but knew it not savoring your face as subway doors closed you standing between them in order to send me farewell tall and eyes blue sparkling like a young boy on his birthday nordic and god-like with confidence as your sword pull my hair with the sound of your voice make me melt with your words taste of your tongue is still in my throat as i sit here hours later remembering.
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polish on my nails has begun to decay chips away like old paint on the side of the house no one visits the one that used to keep bicycles and garden supplies now stores puddles and deer footprints rusted gate that never stays closed. it seems to drip off my fingers scratchy and unnecessary. flowers I keep in this room are finally dying it's been three days death so futile and peaceful fear and trembling is what I am drawn to when I think of this early spring innocence and snow. you can't keep hold of someone made of snow it is a rule like fish on Friday and bathing caps in the pool. this instrument that I hear is one of brass and largeness impacting the highway avenue outside my window stillness a mere remembrance of my past life when I walked barefoot on sand hills and wrote my mother's name in the earth.
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scent of garlic on hands
a reminder of the last night we spent together
i am safe from vampires
we are never safe from ourselves.
you show up early like a child who lost his way
forgot to do his homework
did something 'bad'
i arrive handbag and hairpins
ripped stockings and red red lipstick
keys clanging
shoe strap pinned with safety and glue
welcome you as i creep around the apartment wildly.
like a detective i hide condoms, panties, old love letters
cringe as you reach for a book on floor
afraid of what might fall out of pages
feel like exhibit as you look around
sniffing walls and feeling carpet
like an unfinished work of art
nail polish chipping
refrigerator stink of old lettuce and rotten avocado.
what are you looking for in this cave of old fruit and books?
i serve you sunflower seeds in my kitchen
stand with knife and green pepper
without yellow slippers and black lace bra
without potholders that have been charcoaled black with flame
from back right burner night i drank too much tequila and made chiles
naked here in these clothes
i listen wide-eyed, wistfully about when your hand caught fire
how you broke your ribs
trying to get through recipe
measure curry powder
chop onion
pour sesame oil
wondering if you saw piece of white notebook paper
posted on wall
written in blood.
this room has a certain smell
noises at night
you should not be here with lights on
not during the day
rice burns in old orange pot
smoke detector screams as i climb counter
carrying pamphlet about rape and the feminist
waving flier
biting lip
you lie on my bed
ask if i need help.
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you treat your home like it is some infected manifestation running through woods again with antlers and tree trunk stockings i am under the overhang wearing the white lace farm dress and holding fish spear it is the first time in years that my hair is long the branches have begun to spring berries as you call into the open sky crying to be taken to be lifted out of this self created impediment you have been eating the poison i stand tall and solitary in this forest of confinement.
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it's been raining since the day we met that night at your apartment
when you looked at me
while you spoke your jokes and made me laugh outloud.
i've been falling in love with the rain and the sounds that it makes outside
hitting the pavement
thoughts remembered in rain drops and dark skies
we spent that sun filled saturday in bed
arising only to eat blueberry pancakes in the audience of sunset
rain has become synonymous with the sound of your name
that name i like to speak aloud
only i have never been one to recall names and their sounds
we could be in seattle sleeping right now in this city of new york
it's raining in manhattan
it's raining in my heart
i want to speak your name again
i want to call you home
into my cave of oranges and tea leaves
umbrella-less and free today in this gloom of beauty
you lost your smile somewhere in my apartment as i can see it in your eyes
standing on spring street before the six
holding the coffee i bought as if to say 'forgive me'
while the italian men and women ask if it's clean
and people shuffle across and down into subway underground.
i wonder what you see but never ask knowing your answer, feeling my own regret
i question if i know myself yet in this city that i have chosen for home
in the rains and darkness i feel something like an angel
gypsy woman who reads herself through words
she keeps under the umbrella that sits on floor
wet and bound waiting to be discovered and used like necessity
time pulls by like honey on metal and i can see your distance
though you hold my hand
another roadside attraction
undefined by definition and totally postmodern.
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lipstick on coffee cup crescent shaped time measured with lips watch has stopped again left to capture second hand with mouth.
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tuesday morning. rain again. you threaten to buy an umbrella off the street
to cover your dress pants hanging on the wire hanger you asked if you could borrow.
after i bought you coffee and croissant and told you you were ungrateful. you walk me to
my door on broadway kissing me and telling me to be happy with your eyes. but there is
always the threat of not seeing you that reminds me of loneliness. back to my bell jar. the
one with dirty sheets and clothes covered floor. it is raining again and i can't
remember how to be happy. grey day etched in black charcoal with the dark
sister and sick mother here we are again. last night you listened to my story
and told me what to
believe in. asked me if i was really happy. am i really happy. or am i just happy. to be
somewhat alive in this dirty city with the gutted out office spaces and ripped up
phone wires. am i ready to believe you when you tell me you will support me. barefoot
and crazy as i bake you muffins and make you pear tarts writing poems with powdered
sugar and egg white crusts. i will wear silk bathrobe as i make you cafe au laits in the
morning before work . keep your cat and your clothes clean and well fed.
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listen to the rain fall from outside my window i am in my double bed new hands wrapped around my tummy sleepless. sound of your breath loud and uncontrolled makes me glad that i no longer smoke cigarettes. thinking of the shell in your bathroom under sink sitting there like some sort of animal or insect with long tentacles and feelers tortoise colored and smooth skinned it looked at me as if to say 'welcome' your bathtub is still on my mind a luxury in manhattan temporary and unyielding transitory in thick porcelain structure fluid in immovability rain sounds calming like chamomile tea before bedtime drops in no particular pattern unplanned unrehearsed water longing for earth running through screen like fine ladies comb walks through hair splashes onto my back in singular lovely thoughts in this bed on five o'clock hour twenty three minutes of listening to sounds and thoughts.
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apricot tea leaves me smiling with the radiance of its warmth like how you left me on broadway that morning after you promised you would go home but stayed anyway. when is that moment when peoples faces change when the words they say begin to mean everything they want them too sound of office typing and incessant chatter of voices everyone just trying to make sense of nothing sitting all day staring at the emptiness they don't know how to ignore we could be headed to mexico by now. sun beating down on the blue rusted convertible you stole with the wire hanger from my dress closet i'll ride next to you my head scarved and brilliant feeding you olives and dark beer while i recite my favorite line from my newest poem promising you i will be famous someday in mexico with you you'll smile and tell me i already am i'll bite your ears and kiss your mouth you'll look dangerous in your black sun glasses and white tee shirt
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my arms have been marked cat scratches and blood bruises oven burns and cigarette holes i am an open sore lonely girl
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thinking about joining the circus hitchhiking to new mexico and cutting my hair. the city is whispering to me again sweet sweet nothings but i have sworn off all lovers this month some sort of personal virginity that i seek amazonian refuge in the absence of man. it is easy to think such thoughts when you are bleeding and your breasts are swelled ingesting tea of roots and bones, i prepare my legs for running only it is walking that really gets one to where they are going. harsh liquid burns in my throat city is calling again- whistling this time old jazz standard that i never seem to remember. siren like and ambulatory but i my friend, am a free woman and that trick will not work i am leaving this town of construction and deconstruction walking to the seashore to eat tangerines on cantaloupe island. there are women out there with arrows and bows they are walking in their own blood eating the bones of cities and licking their lips.
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birthday poem for michael virgo child escaping into night to eat poisons they warned you against we seem to find each other in the thick of snow phone calls on pay phones interrupt on the business desk always a question about what to do with the day when the night has danced upon your head with its own telephone call and cocaine has won again never did see your work heard you were a gifted collage artist glamour girls and britney spears clamoring of cd player skipping once i fell into the pine tree you had fashioned in your apartment i think it was xmas gifts of empty cans and boxes wrapped underneath once i gave birth to an egg in your bed woke to you wrapped around my back first beat novel i read imagined it in your bedroom i wear high heels around you feel necessary around you. we are a pair of unmatched socks you and me not so alike but worn together.
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waking up in new york city is always a blessing gift of survival feasting on brown rice and seaweed for breakfast peppermint tea leaves and sugar cane it is the a.m. and i am here barely east village fortnight glad i wore sneakers as i always seem to get lost and high rode the subway home or rather it rode me. cars on broadway and talk about the latest mass market novel all trash i tell ya made friends with the driver as we planned our broadway play sips of beer behind the wheel and my que to jump off board no body ever wants to drive to brooklyn like it is some moon journey some minor threat. war is not healthy for young women and beautiful children ave. c is not healthy for those who fear the spanish grocery that still sells frozen meat pie on a stick and gum for 5 cents pray i will never die of loneliness in this city would rather be in santa fe or maybe taos. living under car and eating meat of buffalo here i eat beans in a can and call myself progressive oh death! little death feed me your strong drink your bourbon and kill this night creature of black eyes and haircut sing to me of garbage and french fries and take me home.
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my apartment is sinking under earth soil walking down steps into it's deep notice the ceiling is lower or higher i am further underneath than yesterday once in the depth with door locked deep breathing feeling like a rabbit down here burrowed only without babies or mate carrots do not grow above me overgrown grass and occasional dandelion editable flowers and unsung weeds and here i am below the surface under the ground between the concrete can hear the footsteps above me feel ground begin to give sky begin to fall cold down here in this hole of feathers and hair if only for a hurricane or minor war i could be safe but it is summer and no one is bombing.
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it rained last night almost like it did the night that we met in july only it is april and not so hot i live underground these days inside earth with the insects and spiders roaches in my walls and mice in my floor cats come to my window and beg me to play i eat white onions and remember when i used to cry easily when i was the little one and mother tired of being womanly want to give this sweet smell away it follows me like fish on fingers and syrup in hair i grow tulips on my window sill like when i lived closer to the sky top floor when i was closer to heaven now i am closer to the core to the equator to brazil.
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