Ilsa Seeks Rick

Words from the Woman in the Red Dress

I’ve been here, technically.

I have just been temporarily broken-hearted, working at a back-breaking pace, and trying to fix the broken machine of my body. Replacement parts hard to come by these days. The repairman scoffed,

They haven’t made this piece since 1958. Where did you even find this thing?

I have been gone, I’ve been away in Belgium and love.
He went back to Amsterdam two weeks ago, and my body tried to go with him. It’s been a rare occasion fit for weeping and insomnia. Too much coffee and a new round of prescription medication.
Loving him was the easy decision. I really had no say in the matter.
Eventual sleep and some healing.
Second star to the right and straight on ‘til mourning.

We made it through those weeks 
With promises of summer and its brief freedoms
Its burns.
The forecast takes a sudden turn.

August was strangely cold in New York this year
Based on the headlines, it would appear
That Demeter already knows
That she has begun to let the plants go.

He is obviously not gone forever, or even for long. November or December will come. The year will pass and then he will be home. Wherever home may be, but decidedly it will be with me.

Trying to convince my being of these things has been impossible. My affection is a stubborn one, it seems. She has a flair for melodramatic wailing. Denial is best mixed with mild panic and caffeine. The connotation and denotation of heartbeat. Mine is fumbling in circles around Manhattan side streets.

Sleep has been difficult.
My sister will tell me I need to take my lorazepam.
My boss will ask if I am eating.
The poets will not ask where I’ve been but I will wish they had.

Lauren Bacall is gone now
and nothing seems the same.

I haven’t been writing much all summer, but the words have been cold brewing.
If there is one thing I am good at, it is spilling coffee.

(I am also well-suited to assist in a medical emergency.
Should that fail, I write a decent eulogy)

I have stained all my shirts with sentence fragments.
False starts of love letters.
They leave rings on all the  wooden furniture.
Like autopsied trees.
I have loved you for so long, they read.

I stood so long today that my left knee, left. 
It declared a labor strike and began picketing outside the doors of my legs. 
The doors were red at some point, they have been worn down in time.
 The warm orange glow of an exit sign.
The walk home this evening was decidedly difficult,
embarrassing, and painful.
The whole time I was wobbling like a fool I was thinking
If only,
I could only being wobbling foolishly home, to you.
Lend me your bones for an evening.

“The coming home was always to you”
My grandfather wrote that.
I love like he did, I make the same grand mistakes. Sometimes, it makes me mean. 

I have loved the wrong ones. 
Or loved the right ones,
did not make them home.
Or the one. So to say.
I, like my grandfather, take no joy in admitting the wrong.
Prayer is sometimes an apology one tells oneself.
But I was thinking, whilst wobbling,
that I would gladly take all the wrong
If I could please this time be right.

I have been thinking about knees quite a bit lately.
My knees were baptized with the rest of my body, but they cannot bend in prayer.
About what a privilege it is to walk. About my Aunt.
That is a story of heartbreak for another time.

I am writing this to say I am still alive.
I am just saying hello to the world. Myself included.

 

The person you are trying to reach is emotionally unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone,

If you are satisfied with your message
You may hang up, or
Press 1
for more options.
………..
To listen to your message.
Press 1
……

To re-record your message,

Press 2
…..
To listen to your progressively angrier series of messages
Press 1
……..

To delete your message and pretend this never happened.
Press 4
…..
Or was it 5?
To question the impact of your mistake:
Press 5

To hear a lecture
on your numerous shortcomings
as written by you ex-girlfriends
and recited by your father
Press 5
……..
For a sleeping pill
Press 9
…….
For another,
Press 7
…..
She’s moved on. It’s late.
This may not even be her number.
You fool.
For a drop of morphine.
Press 8
….
To stare at the ceiling
Until the sun rises.
Press
6
…….

This message will repeat.</p

This is my best impression of Molly Bloom. Which is to say I am a complete Mess.

I wrote this letter with the intention
that it be read aloud.
Forgive the limits of my voice.
Of my lungs,
Of this gluttonous muscle that
Struggles as ever
To wrap its way around a phrase. Please.
If you cannot understand my words
then take the sound
(The syntax, the perspective)
and know
That when asked any question deemed important
My bones will always answer with your name.

I have taken you sublingually.
You dissolved your way to my bloodstream.
Then remained.

I spend evenings staring at my bedroom ceiling,
Arguing with my inner narrator
That if he insists on keeping me
From sleep again
I’d rather the conversation be about you.
You know, switch it up from my usual
statistically-induced-panic-attack.

This is my best impression of Molly Bloom
Which is to say I am a complete mess.

(Also, that I knew that line would make you laugh. Yes.)

The first time we were together
you seemed so nervous
I was afraid you might shatter
Might shake your veins
Hiss steam from your joints like a crazed radiator
Dissolve into dust,
Into some
powder-form moonlight.

Might lean in to kiss me
Then spontaneously combust.
Not in a double-entendre sense,
In a literal sense.
Which would have been a terrible thing to have to explain to the firemen standing in my apartment.
Let alone my roommates.

The are lot of things I should be doing besides writing this for you.
A lot of things more important than loving you and
There are hundreds of things
I am inifinitely better at than writing in general
like,
Spilling my coffee
or
Bumping into table corners
or
somehow eating an entire hamburger without smudging my lipstick.

But,

Loving you
is something that I am
Like, sort-of-okay at.

I mean, not great,
but definitely still better
than I am at writing poems or subtlety.

Though not nearly as good
as I am at not drinking coffee,
and
may I just say
that if anyone is going to mess up my lipstick these days
I would really like it to be you.

Wherever it is that you and I end up before we wind up dead
I hope that we find time again to have a 20 minute transfer in
the Antwerp Railway Station.
And,
did you know?
That your watchband is always too loose.
I have noticed
That if I ask the time of you
You would rather jerk your elbow violently until the face jumps around your wrist to be read
than ever let go of my hand.

It seems important.

At this moment,
To record these things.
Our story.
I am not entirely sure why
and I certainly have not come close
to doing it justice.
The best I can come up with is,

Do you remember the day?
In New York City.
In the rain.
We were standing underneath the overpass of the subway.
The drops kept settling on your glasses.
You just kept looking past them
You know, at me.

Exsanguinated in the Antwerpen-Centraal Railway Station.

Like everyone’s been saying we are.

These days
These muscles of metaphor
Beat faster.
They loiter outside the skin’s side door
Look for trouble like they don’t know better.

The mosquito’s song-
A reprimand, shooed away,
You can’t just hang around here adoring me.

Slow burn of the wait
Soaked in sun
and a shop-awning’s-worth of shade
Scowl teeth wrapped in sugar cane
Say,
Go ahead, officer,
Tell me I can’t stay.

Limb kissing the lighting
Late night longing of conversation
Relentless pursuit of the clock’s alarm
Twenty minute layover in the Antwerp train station.
He warned,
       “You will love this”

Transfer between a pipe dream and a love song.

The boy who breathes jazz percussion
but don’t know a thing of swing.

Knees bruised by cobblestones,
And all his bending
Toward the begged question
Big love eyes always waitin’ on.

Mornings when the light sneaks in
I fixate on the long stretch of his windows.
His skin a fan of sandalwood.
The open. The perfume. The flutter.
The days with him when I wonder.

My night owl ways have gone,
My insomnia cure is pretending
To be where you are

(If it’s July twenty-fourteen in New York,
What time is is in Casablanca?)

And the moon-
Don’t get me started on her.

Today, in a message,
you called me a poet warrior.

Today, I screamed at you in a book store.
Knowing you were not there
did not stop me.

You have put me in a difficult position today.
I have no choice but to adore you.
I’m sorry,
These decisions are made above my pay grade.
I am just the messenger.
I am just another
Insufferable sentimental fool.
Built to falter.

The starlight can suck it,
I am keeping you.

Receipt For the Purchase of a Plane Ticket to Amsterdam, As Scrawled by T.S. Eliot using His Non-Dominant Hand.

I would love.

  These days I have little to say
  Which Billie Holiday has yet to sing.
     As though the radio knows I am listening.

  A symptom less pulmonary.
  An extension of skeleton.
  Rib shaking.
  Subtle vibration of bones.
  Antique shop echoes
                           from a Victrola Silvertone.

  Ghost of song.
  Difficult to explain.
  Listen.
      Oh, darling- listen.
  Watch the notes catch the light.
  Dust settled on a conversation long forgot.
  The repeat of a chorus stuck in the mind-
                                             I would love. 

  Could sell this love
  For a steep profit.
  If we just stuck a label on it.
  Called it,
     Vintage.
  Genuine.
     Hand-made.
  Artisanal.
  Repurposed salvage of symbolic muscle.
  Upcycled lost souls.
  Called it,
Retro.

  Good old-fashioned American trouble. 

You Are My Favorite Lie of Omission

It’s like a switch sometimes.
With me.

There are days for no reason I’d risk the scratch of electricity
To cut it off.
Skeleton of emotional fuse box.
(Sometimes my knees click when I walk. On and off.)

If New York lost power you would return to before you existed.

(“Oh, let me remember you.”)

I could smile into the evening for once,
I could justify my panic.

Anxieties so faceted, they sparkle.

My must you be so sexy and neurotic.

Tonight,
I was trying to make a point about women.
I lost
track.
I meant to discuss the social implications of birthday gifts in modern mating ritual.
The symbolic value of exchange.
The habits of the domestic feline.

Women love questions they can answer by saying ,
“This thing means I am adored.
I am loved this many dollars.
This long.
These minutes.
This unique circumstance of timing, neurotransmitters,
and fate
Made particularly for me.
Would never fit you,
though you may envy it, if you’d like.
Thank you for asking.”

Mostly I keep you secret.
Woman questions she can answer by saying love.

You are my favorite lie of omission.
Gone until the phone rings.

Baby, it’s hot as hell outside,
Take off your damn clothes.

I don’t really want anything for my birthday.
Perhaps, a pair of wire cutters.

Sun Salutation of Low Ceiling.

Cannot seem to wake  today.

In my bedroom.
5 p.m.
I stretch toward salute
Sun of low white ceiling.

A room considered large for its rent,  in Brooklyn.
Last tenant painted the walls forest green.
I curl towards the soil.
Bend into a child’s pose my knees are never capable.

Doctors built me legs that walk
and knees which refuse to pray.
They cease their bend at 87 degrees.
They pause to ask questions.
(My joints are agnostic, it seems)

Fetal position that my limbs never understood.
Vulnerable organs always open to the world.
I have never learned.

I beg my blood to move on these late afternoons,
Illness kept me in bed well past noon
There is writing to do.
There is the coughing up of consequence.
Must coax circulation to the window of this skin.
Call it out with a love song.
Soft crack of pebble on the window.
Threat of shatter, of romance.
Equally dangerous. Equally likely to call you from sleep.

Sugar moon skin tone
Stolen from my diabetic mother.
Everyone blamed the full moon on her.

There is no such thing as moonlight.

Picket fences gone out of style,
The millennial boys all bearded
Drinking the way towards a bourbon shortage.
This is our whiskey rebellion.

I moved to Brooklyn and now even my poems are gluten free.
There are BMWs parked along
Only one side of Lorimer Street.

 

 

Statistically speaking we are some grand, terrifying percentage of doomed.

Ignore the color of the sky
Outside your window.
The sun reminds you of everything you should be doing
Besides this.
Tomorrow already started.
You are already late.
You may feel free to blame the fact
That men don’t wear watches these days.
The sun draws his blue lecture on punctuality
Along the silhouette of the trees.
The moon just tells you to call me.

Call this,
Sunday.
For a long time it was reserved for a different kind of man-
For my grandfather’s apartment.
In many ways the ocean you live across
Separates us less than his illness kept him from me.
One cannot simply
Buy a ticket across an old man’s memory.

Proud old men
Still die.
We build cities on top of their bodies.
They leave behind Sunday.

I read today
That the Sunday edition of The New York Times
Requires 63,000 dead trees to print.
I found this statement vague and unsubstantiated.
Suspicious.
The mathematics illogical,
Sources unclear and lacking in detail.

And yet, zealous imaginary crowds
I encounter on Facebook
Spread lies like new age paperboys
With all the shouting and selling
Though, less of the quaint headwear.

Proud old institutions still die.
We build lies on top of their bodies.
Sunday remains.

I read today
That in a sample of over 200 couples in long-distance relationships,
The average mileage between their bones
Was 125.
(I like to believe we are over-achievers)

Statistically speaking we are more prone
To idealize one-another
We divulge more.
And,
“These two tendencies become more manifested when they communicated in text-based, asynchronous and mobile media.”

(This is my version of romance)

Statistically pillow-talking
We are some grand
Terrifying
Percentage of doomed

Proud old romances still die.
When this one does,
I will build poetry over its body.

I will visit its grave on the occasional Sunday.
I will leave flowers.
I will guess at what sort you’d have liked me to offer.
I will never have asked.
Should my insecurities lead me to falter,
I will leave you carnations.
As they are both inexpensive and
Available in a variety of colors.

I read today
That the 7-day week was born in Babylon
Bled hrough Judaism.
I found several hilarious bits of propaganda attempting to argue,
That, evidently, when God was done sculpting
Earth, Eden, Adam, and Rome,
Woman born of bone.
He took the time to define
The standards of our modern calendar.

But really,
The 7-day week began with the religious significance all of us fools place on the moon.
In the end,
It’s always about the moon.

I’d venture to guess she likes the way you stay up too late to stare my way.
Perhaps she also misses New York City.
Or she likes the way you slant toward slumber
Yet, you wait for her to leave.

Every morning I ask you to tell me what the birds say.

You see.
This came from my grandfather.
I’ve never told anyone this before.
Before my grandmother,
There was her.

War breaks hearts and lungs
Reminds men that they, too, need oxygen.
There was a moment in 1945
When my grandfather needed a reason to live.
The moon wanted him to stay.
So,
She gave him Sunday.

When he died,
He willed it to me.
I’ve been holding on to it.
Just corroding away in my pocket.

I’ve been thinking.
It suits you.
So, if you’d like,
You may have it.

On Tue, May 20, 2014 at 3:44 PM, wrote:
Ignore the color of the sky
Outside your window.
The sun reminds you of everything you should be doing.
Tomorrow morning has already begun.
You are already late.
You may feel free to blame the fact
That men don’t wear watches these days.
The sun draws a blue lecture on punctuality
Along the silhouette of the trees.
The moon will just tell you to call me.

Call this, Sunday.
For a long time it was reserved for a different kind of love-
for my grandfather’s apartment.
The ocean you live across
Separates us less than his illness kept him from me.
One cannot simply
Buy a plane ticket across and old man’s memory.

Proud old men still die.
We build cities on top of their bodies.
They leave behind Sunday.

You may have it. If you’d like.

I read today
That the Sunday edition of The New York Times
Requires 63,000 dead trees to print.
I found this statement vague and unsubstantiated.
Suspicious.
The mathematics illogical,
Sources unclear and lacking in detail.

And yet, zealous imaginary crowds
I encounter on Facebook
Are spreading lies like new age paperboys
With all the shouting and selling
and less of the quaint headwear.

Proud old institutions die.
We build lies on top of their bodies.
Sunday remains.

I read today
That in a sample of over 200 couples in long-distance relationships,
the average distance between their bones
was 125 miles.
(I like to believe we are over-achievers)

Statistically speaking we are more prone
To idealize one-another
To divulge more.
And,
“These two tendencies become more manifested when they communicated in text-based, asynchronous and mobile media.”

(This is my version of romance)

Statistically pillow-talking
We are some grand
Terrifying
Percentage of doomed

Proud old romances still die.
When this one does,
I will build poetry over its body.

I will visit its grave on the occasional Sunday.
I will leave flowers.
I will guess what kind you’d have liked me to offer.
I will never have asked,
Should my
Insecurities lead me to falter,
I will leave you carnations
because they are inexpensive and
Available in a variety of colors.

I read today
That the 7 day week was born in Babylon
Bled hrough Judaism.
several hilarious articles attempt to argue
That when God was done with
Earth, Eden, Adam, and Rome,
Woman born of bone
Evidently, he took the time to define
The standards of our modern calendar.

But really,
the 7-day week began with the religious significance all us fools place on the moon.
In the end,
It’s always about the moon.

I’d venture to guess she likes the way you stay up too late just to look at me. How you wait for her to leave.

I never mentioned this,
But there was a moment in 1945
When my grandfather needed a reason to live.
The moon wanted him to stay.
So she gave him Sunday.
He willed it to me.
I’ve been holding on to it.
Just sitting here rusting in my pocket.
It suits you.
If you’d like,
You may have it.

Let me tell you a story of

Starvation as prayer.

Nest of negative space
Home built upon fault lines.
Floor plans
Of the empty spaces on her.
Ever expanding, renovated.
Construction permit written in lipstick.
Bones
Grown wasted.
Warped with winters only known by time.
Saturated in longing.
Wooden doors no longer close properly.
Locks long parted from skeleton key.

A slow reduction of her fruit
Simmered with sugar over low flame
Ever present threat of burn.

Escoffier never translated
Carême’s recipe for
How to not love the wrong ones.
She’s at a loss,
Contemplating the consequence
of her weak American heart.

The Baumé of her blood.

Inverted. Caramelized
Maillard reaction of soul
in the presence of protein.
and flame.

Dispersed in solvent of poem.
Osmosis of ache and oxygen.

Hidden. Rhizomatic.
(These blooms lie.
Ask her, instead,
of what lives beneath the soil of her story.)

Medical chart diagnosis:
Love-letter induced delusion.
Prescription for
human contact and/or casual sex
recommended.
(Though, insurance will likely not cover cost of plane ticket, options limited)
Grief of love not yet lost.
Grief of something not love,
Just, not.

Dissolving her own skin.
Flesh eating fit of numb.
Less of her left to miss him.

When the shop owner asked
Where she went.
She meant the unnecessary parts of the girl.
The hips. The breasts.
Stores of energy carelessly spent.

The girl answered,

Amsterdam?
Or something.
Lost in transit by a Dutch mailman.
Floating somewhere in an ocean.

Washing up on the sand at Coney Island.

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