Ice with water. What are you doing under those rocks. Getting off on pleasing other people. Someone caught you with a vibrator. Stop laughing. These are my girlfriends. You look like pain. How come you say pocketbook. Glass hammer moments. Where do dreams go to die. Someone keeps touching your hips. Your car won’t make it in the desert. It was only supposed to take an hour. Walking cattle gates. There are eight phrases that give away secret societies. Are women really women if they’re not aware they’re being watched. How’d you mount all that hair. Where do you get trim. The nose can do what the tongue does, the elbow. When you finish cleaning your glasses, go to Milwaukee.
Amy Stole From Your Blog
Playing tipsy let’s pretend the power’s out. Sit in a dark room or a dark room sits in you. What a terrible search for a wire box. How much for creative materials. This pizza is best. This cousin is in labor. Folded fabric. Screaming ear. Everyone knows something I don’t. In the locker where we were down to our socks. Are you going to unwrap the wrap. I saw your name on a sign and called the number.
Amy, Nerd Licker
Mama’s boy plays with his pubes. Listen very carefully. Stick this
up your shaved utopia. That rubbing
causes slight burning until hot face. Days go away faster. Send this to me
as an attachment. Airplanes look
like sharks. Politics isn’t politics anymore. Vegetarian jerk. Open a piano
stick out your ass and breathe.
The worst volunteer. Staring out the window window.
Le Creuset, Le Creuset, Amy Le Creuset
I put The French Revolution in a pile Are these our battles or what you never told your mother They were wearing sunglasses inside the studio The removal of women from the equation I typed hump and Humphrey Bogart appeared Do you know what happens to a potato stamp left out two nights This is my teenage self yelling at my parents Everyone in your family talks at the same time You babble in a pot of butter beans Get me when I’m all salmony and fillibustery Cock you believe I sound so domestic Can you believe I’m loose in the hips again Can you believe all women stick-sketched into sand have big boobs My name is not on the house What loss I was looking for More emails meant more something Dinner plans on the 18th Touch the pom pom maker You’ll be getting rid of the rid of soon Abandoned plain and simple Even if you died right now I’d still say you talk too loud I’m kneeling on the hood of the car leading with a metal rod You were looking for a fabric napkin Two people people together Some of what they say is for the other person Are you where you can listen Let’s call this a screen test
-- Farrah Field is the author of Rising (Four Way Books, 2009) and Parents (Immaculate Disciples Press, 2011). Two of her poems appear in The Best American Poetry 2011 as well as Harp & Altar, Sink Review, West Wind Review, and Sixth Finch. Her second book of poetry Wolf and Pilot (Four Way Books) is forthcoming in 2012. She blogs at adultish.blogspot.com and is co-owner of Berl’s Brooklyn Poetry Shop.