Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better

Law—woods—door—anchor—crafts—chair—corner—congress—blues—sea—states—show—watch—ax—auto—anti—clans—fire—repair—every—fresh—fisher—super—sales—lay—hang—gun—clergy—gentle—milk—kins—book—boogey—police—post—press—weather—work—water—drafts—funny—fore—oars—rafts—jazz—tax—trigger—garbage—grooms—minute—mad—delivery—free—earth—harvest—handy—helms—hench—trencher—noble—board—boats—bush—sand—ad—desk—pike—plow—wing—wise—ice—crew—cave—cavalry—quarry—yacht—tally—toll—town—trades—sound—spokes—sports—space—pivot—point—militia—middle—missile—lumber—junk—jury—money—marks—reins—plains—man.

Versatility

Abbot and Costellos are a joke. Tits are sexy. Baby feeders are irreplaceable. Boulders are troublesome. Bosoms are sensitive. Celestial orbs are all-knowing. Knockers are demanding. Funbags are irresponsible. Isaac Newtons are dogmatic. Ying-yangs go with the flow. Chesticles are a mystery. The girls have passion. Mounds possess magic. Hood ornaments are distracting. Eye magnets are attractive. Melons make nectar. Bee stings are sore. Godzillas have egos. Tatas love attention. Cans doubt fumbling hands. Milk maids are choosey. Twin peaks mark the spot. Yahoos don’t have a clue. Cha-chas want to enjoy themselves. Lungs breathe. Breasts deserve respect.

Late Bloomer: A Sonnenizio

My body bloomed the counterpart of two
souls, two Sicilians who met in America,
two musicians: a vocalist, a pianist; he
her voice instructor too promiscuous for a chaste
Catholic girl. She pined two years after
a man who fled to Florida from New York:
It must have been about 1972,
after Harvey Milk moved to San Francisco,
before Dade County refused to recognize
gay rights. 22 years late, Papa realized
his marriage to my mother wasn’t traditional.
Under cover, he’d leer at two men: hugging chests
pressed together like swollen genitals,
kissing tongues suctioned like two tentacles.

April and Abril

At 16, we called ourselves the Triple A Express. Of course, no one ever rode the Angela, Abril, April train. We wanted to be like April: virginity lost at 13, first miscarriage by 14. Teenage Miscarriage Mamas; Next on Maury. Even though Abril woke up early on Saturday mornings to watch Ricky, Jenny, and Maury, she never really wanted to be an unwed mother. I’m sure Abril and April wear just as much make-up as ever although they’ve always had clear skin: Abril bronzed and April rosey. We lost touch. I remember being on my mother’s bathroom floor with April after we’d had a threesome. How my mother didn’t know we snuck 18 beers into my closet drove me nuts. On today’s Oprah, a woman blinded by divorce. When Abril left the bedroom, April and I started kissing. Before Abril came back, we stopped kissing because she might have been freaked out, or felt left out. Missing scene: April and I coaxed Abril to get naked, kiss us, lay in the bed. That night, April was crying as I was puking in my mother’s toilet. I couldn’t have been that quiet, saying between barfing, “This is so rock and roll; Motley Crue Behind the Music.” And April’s sobbing, saying something between panicked breaths about being abused, or neglected, or something else young girls are affected by; perhaps her anorexia, or her abortion. I was too drunk to be anything but obnoxious as Bjork’s voice vibrated the wall connecting the bathroom to my bedroom. How we both got from the bathroom back to the bedroom didn’t make much sense. Abril was left unconscious on the bed. The next day she said she felt pressured. That didn’t make much sense either. She said three fingers were too much because she was a virgin. I just wanted to be close to them. I wanted to feel the weight of a woman for the first time before I ever felt the weight of a man, just to be sure.

Rainforest

My canopied pussy
is a mystery to men
who can’t find the split:
fear of the feminine spreads
as hands get lost down my pants.
Unearthed is a thatch thicker than his.

Friends with Benefits

We had a deal. No cuddling. No terms of endearment. No possession. No tender words. Well, maybe Good head. Friends with benefits. It was half day; his mother worked until six. Still, I gave my first blow job on the checkerboard floor of his roach-infested closet. He was the dirtiest pop punk with the biggest sixteen-year-old dick. Although sex was the intended benefit, what I reaped was much different: friendship. Long phone conversations into late school nights: from family to sex to dreams to silly things. Free rides anywhere in a beat up 70s hand-me-down from his dad, a stick shift he could hardly drive. Someone to sit with at lunch, meet in the morning before class, go home and jam with after school. Company: a close warm body, a gruff hand in my hair, a contagious laugh, a shared cigarette. The blowjobs kept him coming. That afternoon in his closet, and thereafter, I stopped him from going down on me because my bush was bushy, and I thought of a story he told me about his friend PJ who reached inside panties to find a hairy peachfish and ran for the hills.

Little Cunt

Admittedly, I shouldn’t have flipped him
the bird, left arm out the driver’s side window,

as I changed lanes last minute, turned right.
But he had cut me off, got pissed at my middle

finger as I passed, then jerked his truck into my rear view.
In the passenger seat, my boyfriend was already drunk,

late for bussing tables, unable to flick his cigarette
before the truck pulled up alongside us. The young guy,

shirtless, tan, and on steroids, yelled into my passenger window
(like I wasn’t even there): I wanna know why the fuck that little cunt

gave me the finger! I stared through the thick windshield
imagining a shattered jaw. He said it first to my boyfriend, then to me:

little cunt little cunt, incessantly, little cunt.

The young truck followed me (just like the 4th of July
I caught a just-in-a-cab trucker looking in my window on I-10,

jerking it against the setting sun). Outside the restaurant built cooks
tattooed with tear drops and more names than a graveyard

stood smoking. Reluctant, he sped away. I thought of his girlfriend,
or any girl he’s fucked: his knuckles pressed into the small of her back;

his cock shoved through her teeth; his curling bicep jerking
back her hair; his dick ground deep in her ass as he says:

little cunt little cunt, incessantly, little cunt.

Harbor House

I got my period at 11. My mother said, “I hope you don’t leave bloody underwear on your bedroom floor for the dog to chew.” I would have to wear crotchless rags to school. I grew up never wearing panties. I’d bunch my knickers in corners, but the dog would always find them, lured in by unwashed towels, cheerleading socks, cups, pens, dust, paper, purses, make-up, sneakers, flip-flops, bathing suits, bras, pictures, magazines, weed, bong water, beer, chips, cookie crumbs, clay, fake silver, head bands, pajamas, cigarettes, and old coffee. Now, I own the house. The front door’s key reads Defiant, the master bedroom’s Fruitless. Odd embossing for unlocking in the dark. Renters get wordless copies. I pay the mortgage, but I never learned to clean the tub. What began as an act of defiance-the clutter, the dust, the bloody rags-kept me a child who can’t care for herself. Morganne, my roommate, 22, two years my junior, taught me to clean my tub with Ajax and a sponge and rubber gloves because I’ve never trusted anyone over 30. Tenant friends, lovers, drug users, aliens, magicians, artists, shape shifters, and pedagogues move in and out around me. They leave TVs-I have six!-broken microwaves, power tools, shoes, mirrors, school projects, knobs, lamps, chairs, empty bottles, dressers, coffee pots, ceramics, street signs, paint, CDs, desks, movies, clocks, and cook books. My house is a harbor for their abandoned possessions. Unable to decide what’s worth keeping, I cling to it all. If I dump the junk lining the garage walls, I’ll stop getting yeast infections. I’ll put my face to the cold, clean cement floor and for the first time feel this space for which I am responsible.

Let’s Flee

Your feet make me want to slow dance
               in socks     on our wood floors
your hands    a clam around my waist.

Your fingers make me want to fuck
              in broad day light:     a church lot      cracked
car windows peeking skin     to passing strangers.

Your mouth makes me want to rob a supermarket,
             kiss through stocking caps     grab cash
from each register       empty revolvers into the afternoon.

Your voice makes me want to hot wire a car,
             an El Camino     drive it high to a marina in Palm Beach
sail a stolen yacht stocked with food, booze,

water, weed, and sun block into international waters
            catch     cook      fish we find
on our way to a tropical isle    three miles wide. Your love

makes me want to eat kelp     when the cargo runs out
           sun ourselves until we’re native:     mermaid     merman-
the island’s only inhabitants.

It Begins with Our Mothers

Good girls don’t make scenes; keep your mouth, legs, and eyes shut. Listen, but not too well: men like their women agreeable; nod, like you’re giving a blow job. Don’t sleep around, lose virtue, the sacred gift. The perfect woman has a baby without ever being fucked. So keep your second mouth closed tighter. The only thing it should speak is babies. Did Mama forget the blood of 20 or 30 years? How confused I was to see spots on my panties, like someone snapped a picture. Blinding light circles. Mama caught me using a tampon and said I’d break my hymen. At dinner, proud as a pimp, she told my father and brother: Today my little girl became a woman. They had no congratulations. I sank lower under the fork-to-mouth silence.