Two Poems
By R.B. Glaser.
COLORS, CONTENT, CONTRAST
All the mfa kids call me up on my house-line, Hey come out with us,
Let’s do some funny, crazy, poemy things then all trade lines and write a big fat poem!
Hmmmm, I say
I gotta go, I say, My mom needs this line, Wait MOM, hang on a second Mom!
Then I hang up like there’s been a struggle
I chill out on their campus anyway because when I’m old enough, that is an option
For now my life is close at hand and hasn’t gotten all perverted
I stroll around the library, looking very undergrad, blending in fine
Those mfas think I’m badass cuz of the end of the summer
a week after the homeless guy hung himself at Smith, I hung from a rope around my waist
tied to the same tree, a cigarette drawn on my mouth with marker
Northampton gathered around and giggled
It wasn’t political protest how the article said, I was just bored and interested
This school year I have gotten very advanced in art, cuz they messed up
and gave me art class: COLORS, CONTENT, CONTRAST three times instead of one
So I’m in Mrs. Dormer’s period A, D, and F classes and am not taking Math or Science!
I didn’t mean it as art, really! But the mfas said, Art mimics the unintentional, blah blah blah
The one Lila has appointed herself big sister and tells me things about boys, what to expect
how to do things, but she asks me for advice too
She walks with me on my walk from school and asks me questions about her nose
if it looks like an adult nose, if it makes her look snobby
or maybe like she’s from an oil painting?
Maybe? Hopefully?
and then about the author’s photo, when there is one
if taking it naked makes people think you are a slut, or just daring
A slut, I say, and then it seems obvious
When kids aren’t including me in school, I think, screw this very early stage in my life
I will end up where I ought to
in black and white photos of Art Movement Groups
in pictures from the 1920’s, Paris 1880, Berlin 2020, with a ferret scarf around my neck
a painter in the new movement, blah blah, haven’t thought it up yet
Third from the Right, behind the infamous Donald Duck triptych
before it was destroyed in the fire
second from the left, twice married, 3 times divorced, Lady Jane Gruber the 1st
blinking in this photo because the flash made her so happy!
The Bat
on the beach we found a bat and ball
I wanna swallow that ball the ocean said
but he said it shyly
the sunset was pastels was perfect and
harmful
the sand was wet and would not dry
This is Georgia O’Keefe’s dream the rocks said
Georgia O’Keefe is dead the sunset said back
sympathetic and gloating
the beach involved us in some baseball
one of us was the batter
stretching out in a stance
wiggling his bat high
recalling little league like it was a girl he’d once known and then fucked
the bat hit air
the ball rolled itself to puddles
GOD IS UP IN THAT SUNSET
HIT HIM TWEEN HIS EYES we yelled
KNOCK HIS TEETH OUT
he didn’t exist and we knew it
FUCK HIS SHIT UP GOOD
but then again what was that sunset all about
FUCK THIS GOD HIDING OUT IN THE SKY we yelled
HIT HIM IN THE BALLS
during the baseball we dug our names in the sand
the apocalypse was a daydream as it has always been
between us and between everything was a boner of love
the batter hit the ball into the water
missing the sunset
just narrowly missing the sunset
this dream of O’Keefe’s wasn’t the whole vagina/flower thing
that everyone’s always bringing up
this one was about rocks and how they feel when they’re by themselves
the gauze the weather nets on making everything the right colors
yelling at the sunset only made us believe in god a bit more
we weren’t scared that a hand would grab us from the sunset
we wanted a hand to grab us from the sunset
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
R.B.Glaser has been published in 3rd Bed, Columbia Journal, [sic] journal, CapGun, and on ThisRecording.com. She’s studying writing at Umass-Amherst. She likes rottweilers, the NBA playoffs, and taking the bus from New York to New Jersey when everyone is totally silent and its the daytime.
First published in 3:AM Magazine: Saturday, November 17th, 2007.
