ABC Wednesday had us up to the letter “M,” while Three Word Wednesday‘s words were: Evident, Illusion, and Tragic. Here is an example of why we must always remember to tell our girls they are worthy and wonderful – and our boys, too. Amy
Megan’s Mind
Her illusion was her reality
That they stared at her in school
That every zit was a tragic flaw
That her muffin-top was the subject of gossip
She had never been kissed (not even at summer camp)
Mirrors served as evidence, judge, and jury:
She was a blight, a sight unworthy of the world
But she had no real friend to share the verdict with
The school was abuzz Monday morning
Why did Megan hang herself Saturday night?
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Home, sweet home, Madison, WI and Lake Edge UCC. What a lovely reception for us both – you’d think I’d have a more uplifting poem today, but I felt compelled to put this entry in.
This is a cautionary tale… any teen who thinks Pharming is cool and that shoving substances up their nose is fun should think twice. I know; I’ve been there, and this entry is, sad to say, all too true, from many years ago when I was incredibly stupid (and, of course, immortal – weren’t we all?). Parents, talk to you kids. Cop to what you did and let your kids know what’s out there is King Kong compared to the spider monkey shit we did.
NIGHT SHIFT AT TONY’S
Silence of the grave.
The dissipated, pasty-faced coke dealer in his lair: A
hermetically sealed apartment.
No light, save lamps; no breeze, stale air.
No windows open, lest the cool breeze
of Venice Beach disturb piles of priceless product.
It’s all about balance, really.
Delicately spooning precious powder
from bag to scale, wordlessly persevering
during each transaction. Accuracy rules.
Tony’s in the zone.
His place stinks vaguely of chemicals and
days-old takeout – plus a trace of evil.
I mule for the whole crew back at work.
He accepts the cash, hands over the stash.
I smile; he grits his teeth and says take the back stairs.
Tucking the baggie in my bra, I make my way back to work
behind closed doors. Tamp the coke onto the mirror,
razor it into proper sections; every granule counts.
I obsessive-compulsively trustworthy,
entrusted to split the parcels.
Why do I make the run? Because I’m so disgustingly honest.
I fill, never spill, never nick off the till,
and emerge with portions of potion for
my anxious co-conspirators.
We scatter like roaches for hidden dark corners and
restroom stalls, emerge smiling,
frozen-gummed and destined to perform at peak
for at least an hour.
Once Tony cut the stash with laxative and we all
spent our high on the toilet, but we still went back for more.
We paid good money for this slavery and couldn’t make our way past it.
Not in those days, the blinding midnight sunrise of Colombia on Westwood.
Then there was Sam, shaking hands spilling his stash.
He ended up snorting it off the filthy men’s room floor.
I mean, really.
How low can you go?
Try cocaine and you’ll find out.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Three Word Wednesday, we were given: Buckle, Evade, and Wedge. OK, I fudged a bit on “wedge,” but art requires slight adaptations here and there… Enjoy! (You probably won’t if you were ever subjected to this bullying.)
WEDGIES
The ultimate teenaged bully stupid stunt.
Grab the nerd by his buckle
so he cannot evade this torture
Then pull on his underwear waistband. Hard.
Next to swirlies (those delightful dunks
headfirst in a flushed toilet, which can be
perpetrated on either gender), performing wedgies
is the sign of the true moron.
The wedgie-wanton often become
successful used-car salesmen and
captains of dart leagues at beer-soaked bars.
They rarely, if ever, get laid… let alone married (for long).
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This came from a “wordle,” a group of words you can form into a block of art; to create one yourself, click HERE.
Thanks to whichever poet’s blog contained the block (and I apologize that you remain anonymous, I was all over the place today). I can’t reproduce it here, but all the words from the block are in bold. Enjoy! Amy
FIRST TIME (wordle)
Smoldering like an ash-pit and
lush with promise, but
clunky teenage moves
His one hand, awake, cupped my breast
The other was passed out under my back
then resurfaced to hold my head for
a quick nibble at that well-hung boy
The First Time
At Poetic Asides, we were asked to write about stacks. Stacking, unstacking, stacked decks, stacked (you can guess), unstacking, dismantling. Click on the Poetic Asides blue link to read them all! Here’s one of mine, attempting to form a poetic pyramid!
GYM CLASS
Never picked for
basketball or soccer.
Short, uncoordinated, shy.
The leftover, default choice.
I excelled in this singular activity:
The Pyramid. I was so little and so light
they proclaimed me The Ultimate Top Block.
(For just one class a year, they found me of use)
Sturdier girls lined up below like so many
Dawg House cheerleaders, and proudly
bearing the brunt to come… five rows
I had to carefully ascent to claim my
place as “Cleopatra’s Crown” (hey,
this was gym class, not history!)
A sudden sniff from Row Two.
Sue sneezes and CRASH!
Our proud
pyramid
reduced
to rubble:
A jumble
of giggling
Jenga Jills.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Poetic Asides, today’s prompt, “No one wants _____,” brought to mind an incident so funny, so ironic, so disgustingly true… and to think I volunteered to edit the copy for the yearbook and was turned down. The principal said, “I have professional secretaries to do that work.” Riiiiiiiight…
No One Wants (or likes) (or should depend on) SpellCheck
Savior of those who type in haste?
Harbinger of the lazy mind?
Neither.
It’s just SpellCheck, here to stay. Like the flu.
Example #25,286:
Parents participated in the yearbook
by writing personal notes to their graduates.
Mine included a line employing the vernacular:
“You’re gonna do great things!”
Fresh off the press, she ran all the way home
to show me an impressive array of signatures.
She had made lots of friends, and they all
noted she was “HOT!,” “Valedictorian,” and “Out!”
Turning to the parent’s dedications, she said,
“In the words of Al Jolson, ‘You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!'”
There, bearing my signature, was the side-splitting line:
“You’re gonad do great things.” GONAD??!!
SpellCheck, ShmellCheck.
SO MUCH MORE
Love is not best expressed
through sex, yet sex sells
on the squawk box. From
VH1 videos to BET, you
can bet our youth are so
deprived of anything more
thank the depravity of the
booty call. Of women as
moving, bump and grinding
blow-up dolls. Of men with
faces only a mother could
love, whether country stars
(ten-gallon disguising their
hair plugs and plaiding their
paunches), Promise Keeping
Brothers who still leer at
the camera, or rappers who
pull teeth in favor of diamond
implants. These images imbed
like a cancer; only one answer:
The parental counter-punch.
Demonstrating healthy, loving
relationships. Turn off the
TV and unplug the modem;
talk about what lies beyond
the birds and the bees. Soul.
Spiritual bonding. Looking
your partner in the eye, not
sneaking peeks at anatomy.
Friendship first; hormones in
harness; self-esteem before
chasing the false, fleeting
dreams of sexy steam.
Warning! This is about condoms and sexual responsibility and the futility of abstinence education!! Hey, I tell the girls, “No umbrella, no singin’ in the rain!”
CONTAIN YOUR EXCITEMENT, GUYS
In this age of The Pill
Please remember, the thrill
isn’t all it is cracked up to be
While you scope out the cuties
Do be mindful that cooties
will be waiting if you’re condom-free
There are Abstinence teachers
and well-meaning preachers
who will tell you to marry ‘fore “sailin'”
If you take my advice,
you will think once or twice
about abstinence and Bristol Palin.
It’s not only the babies
but some toxic “maybes”
passed on through that condom-free sex
HPV, Herpes, AIDS
the Incurable Shades
will haunt all who do not “man up,” Tex.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Our word at Sunday Scribblings this week was CURIOUS.
CURIOUS GEORGETTE
She trudged through our high school halls, lost
Aimless, claiming no one as her love,
let alone as her friend.
Defenselessness, defensiveness, born of low self-esteem…
Her mirror reflected no redeeming qualities – only questions.
She never knew we admired her aloofness.
It seemed like proof that you could survive high school
without a claque to back your every utterance
Graduation for Georgette was a slam of her parents’ back door
and a bus to the Left Coast.
The most she could score was a waitress gig,
but the tips were sometimes rolled in papers
or powdered, in neatly folded, palmable packets.
This was bliss. The otherworldly state, what was missing.
Communal living, easy giving
A belonging, a sense of family at last.
She offered her body to many men and
contracted various venereal diseases.
Still, she was pleased that she was wanted (though warted).
Dabbling in acid: Placid conversations with river frogs.
She produced artwork – optical delusions infused with
confused contortions of her new reality.
The hissing kiss of hashish in a hookah led to opiates of a wide variety,
side-winding her to limited life choices.
Not heeding her inner voice
(with its annoying mantra: “CAUTION!”),
she finally gave way to the needle.
Super Georgette, the heroin of her own life story.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Down the hold, harasses by nasty queens (and other tarts)
who wanted their money, honey.
Mad slatterns offered a spot in their stables,
and she complied… lied to her parents when she’d call for money
“I’m behind in my rent”
(I make rent using my behind)
smaller and smaller georgette shrank
until one day, shanked and shriveled,
she ceased to be at twenty-three.
Curiosity killed the kitten.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 