The Reality of Fantasy:  A Phone Sex Poem

The Call

 by Kim Addonizio

A man opens a magazine,
women with no clothes,
their eyes blacked out.
He dials a number,
hums a commercial
under his breath. A voice
tells him he can do
anything he wants to her.
He imagines standing her
against a wall, her saying
Oh baby you feel so good.
It’s late. The woman
on the phone yawns,
trails the cord to the hall
to look in on her daughter.
She’s curled with one
leg off the couch.
The woman shoulders the receiver,
tucks a sheet and whispers
Yes, do it, yes.
She drifts to the kitchen,
opens another Diet Pepsi, wonders
how long it will take him and where
she can find a cheap winter coat.
Remembering the bills,
she flips off the light.
He’s still saying Soon,
turning his wheelchair right,
left, right. A tube runs down
his pants leg. Sometimes
he thinks he feels something,
stops talking to concentrate
on movement down there.
Hello, the woman says.
You still on?
She rubs a hand over her eyes.
Blue shadow comes off on her fingers.
Over the faint high hiss
of the open line
she hears the wheels knock
from table to wall.
What’s that, she says.
Nothing, he tells her,
and they both
listen to it.

***

So don’t ever tell me that what I do doesn’t matter.  Because it does — and it’s the lucky PSO who knows this and honors it.

Lucky for us, Ms. Addonizio has a lovely and bountiful website.

Thanks to my sweetie, PQS, for sending this my way.  You know I adore you, don’t you?

xo, Angela

(if you’re wondering why I’m not taking calls, I’ve been quite ill with a respiratory infection … trying to get better and missing you much)

Harlot

by Jill Alexander Essbaum

                   (a definition) 

A woman in black with a wasted face,
              Small, bleak girl in a blue satin dress,
                            A nervy girl with a rabid pulse,

A loose-of-life lady, a beggar in skirts,
              A kitten at your keys, the witch who wouldn’t burn,
                            The red spot on Jupiter that could swallow the Earth,

A cavern into which you climb,
              The gangplank bridging swoon and sigh,
                            That wee bit of lust you drag alongside,

Who you cast like a pearl before a pig,
              Who you clothe as a housemaid in your wife’s rags,
                            Who frotts your thigh and bums your fags,

Who cooks the supper and works the avenue,
              Who has a different name each time she knows you,
                            And swears that she would kill for you,

The early bird that eats the worm,
              An orphan of the universe,
                            The coed seducing her teacher mid-tern,

She’s miracle, spectacle, pinnacle, side-show,
              Manacle, clavicle, tabernacle, afterglow,
                            A little button made of bone,

Who lodges in the heart’s hotel,
              Who people demand of what they will,
                            Who’ll do you in the swimming pool,

And play Cockney nurse to your Scottish physician,
              A cock-smitten gin-Molly with a sottish disposition,
                            The groupie who’s made it with all the musicians,

A wily mistress, Zion’s daughter,
              That stupor in the gaze of mourners,
                            Gravedigger, stonecutter, hearsedriver, shroudmender,

Who lies beneath you like a whore,
              And puts good use to sullen hours,
                            And blinks back tears of raving terror,

Your whole life’s happiness, grey as ash,
              Your piece-on-the-side, your secret stash,
                            A hot sauce and a tasty dish,

Who will dance until God falls out of his sky,
              And allow you to handle the merchandise,
                            But will engine your Titanic to an iceberg demise,

And will screw you to the wall with scant ado,
              Darkness done, she casts no shadow,
                            Fuck all, she’ll say, I’m having issues,

She’s the fiction invented for your arousal,
              The serpent you take up and the poison you suckle,
                            A frivolous income at your disposal,

And her weary nights wear on worriedly,
              And she fears she may die from lack of sleep,
                            And her wide-alive eyes are Eau-de-Nil green,

And her Free States masquerade as Confederate,
              And her tastes run noble, but her talents, proletariat,
                            Who flirts with trouble and trouble returns it,

She’s your Sanctum Sanctorum and your Hocus Pocus,
              Whole cities spring up from the ruin she once was,
                            She is insane, and she is in sadness,

Who will stick to you as a burr to cloth,
              Who blends her Stoli with Seconal,
                            The she-wolf with your crotch in her jaw,

Intransitive verb without an object,
              And if you loved her you should have said it,
                            And if you said it, you ought to have meant it,

Rahab, Tallulah, Joan of Arc,
              Hooker, Strumpet, Strap-on, Tart,
                            She’ll go up like a goddamn spark,

And singe your linens and char your plaster,
              And traumatize your mother and appall your pastor,
                            And she will do whatever you ask her,

The gangly book-mouse who cowers a bit,
              That soft-bottomed Ma with a child on her tit,
                            A concubine damp from her sash to her slit—

              Yeah. That’s about it.

***

Oh I am  so very, very charmed, enamoured, gaga over, fall-on-my-knees-smitten with the lovely Ms.Essbaum.  Yes, there is a book and a website … aptly named Harlot and  Harlot Poems, respectively.

The website notes that her poetry has been compared to "a cross between Dorothy Parker and a lap dance" and "John Donne in sexy underwear."  And you already know I adore Donne.

Oh, and there are more books of poetry (and, yes, SD, I want them all.  please, please, please):  Oh Forbidden, Heaven, and the soon-to-be-published Necropolis.

I have another one from Ms. Essbaum I will be featuring soon … much shorter, but simply scrumptious and quite funny.

xo, Angela

Elegy XIX: To His Mistress Going to Bed

Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
Until I labour, I in labour lie.
The foe oft-times, having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing, though they never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven’s zone glistering
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breast-plate, which you wear
That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there:
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that now ’tis your bed time.
Off with that happy busk, whom I envy
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown’s going off such beauteous state reveals
As when from flowery meads th’hills shadow steals.
Off with your wiry coronet and show
The hairy diadem which on you doth grow.
Off with those shoes: and then safely tread
In this love’s hallowed temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes heaven’s angels used to be
Received by men; thou Angel bring’st with thee
A heaven like Mahomet’s Paradise; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know
By this these Angels from an evil sprite:
They set out hairs, but these the flesh upright.

License my roving hands, and let them go
Behind before, above, between, below.
Oh my America, my new found land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,
My mine of precious stones, my Empery,
How blessed am I in this discovering thee.
To enter in these bonds is to be free,
Then where my hand is set my seal shall be.

Full nakedness, all joys are due to thee.
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are as Atlanta’s balls, cast in men’s views,
That when a fool’s eye lighteth on a gem
His earthly soul may covet theirs not them.
Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings made
For laymen, are all women thus arrayed;
Themselves are mystic books, which only we
Whom their imputed grace will dignify
Must see revealed. Then since I may know,
As liberally as to a midwife show
Thyself; cast all, yea this white linen hence.
Here is no penance, much less innocence.

To teach thee, I am naked first: why then
What need’st thou have more covering than a man.

***

*sigh*  Yup!  I’d fuck him.

Sorry, Avon Bard, I do like John Donne more than Shakespeare.  There’s just something a little more immediate about his stuff. Although you may quote the The Sweet Swan to me, for me, about me any time and I will continue to swoon.

The Works of John Donne

About John Donne

John Donne at Wikipedia

Cathedral

by Rodney Jones

Over time it occurs to me
I am building a shed that will burn.
Footer and sill, whatever I do
flames blue and translates to ash.
The nail shrieks as it enters the joist
and streams out, shrieks
and drips a metal tear
from the elemental eye.

What I do not know is here.
I worship wood and the instant.
What is over, I can never finish.
The angel of work is sweat.
And still as I move the brush
many faces look back at me.
The stain vanishing into the knot
reminds me of something I forgot.

***

In a later entry, I will tell you were I found this absolutley astounding poem.  In the meantime:

Rodney King’s book of poetry, Salvation Blues: 100 poems, 1985–2005, is AVAILABLE AT AMAZON

About Rodney Jones AT BLACKBIRD

An interview with Rodney Jones at STORY SOUTH.

Put your weenie away and pay attention!  Are you paying attention now?  Are you feeling it?  Absorbing?  Luxuriating?  Thinking?  I hope so, because I will be asking you about this the next time we talk.

xo, Angela

Man Writes Poem

by Jay Leeming

This just in a man has begun writing a poem
in a small room in Brooklyn. His curtains
are apparently blowing in the breeze. We go now
to our man Harry on the scene, what’s

the story down there Harry? "Well Chuck
he has begun the second stanza and seems
to be doing fine, he’s using a blue pen, most
poets these days use blue or black ink so blue

is a fine choice. His curtains are indeed blowing
in a breeze of some kind and what’s more his radiator
is ‘whistling’ somewhat. No metaphors have been written yet,
but I’m sure he’s rummaging around down there

in the tin cans of his soul and will turn up something
for us soon. Hang on—just breaking news here Chuck,
there are ‘birds singing’ outside his window, and a car
with a bad muffler has just gone by. Yes … definitely

a confirmation on the singing birds." Excuse me Harry
but the poem seems to be taking on a very auditory quality
at this point wouldn’t you say? "Yes Chuck, you’re right,
but after years of experience I would hesitate to predict

exactly where this poem is going to go. Why I remember
being on the scene with Frost in ’47, and with Stevens in ’53,
and if there’s one thing about poems these days it’s that
hang on, something’s happening here, he’s just compared the curtains

to his mother, and he’s described the radiator as ‘Roaring deep
with the red walrus of History.’ Now that’s a key line,
especially appearing here, somewhat late in the poem,
when all of the similes are about to go home. In fact he seems

a bit knocked out with the effort of writing that line,
and who wouldn’t be? Looks like … yes, he’s put down his pen
and has gone to brush his teeth. Back to you Chuck." Well
thanks Harry. Wow, the life of the artist. That’s it for now,

but we’ll keep you informed of more details as they arise.

***

Even if you think you don’t like poetry, how can this one not charm the pants/panties off you? 

Thanks to my constant gardener, PQS, for sending THIS my way.  And … you can HEAR GARRISON KEILLOR  READ THE POEM OUT LOUD.  Simply scrumptious.

xo, Angela