Ripping off a bandaid doesn’t paint the right picture. It’s more like taking a couple of perfectly unique pages from two completely different books – maybe one an intellectual mystery, and the other a soulful romance – and expending an entire hot glue stick binding them together so that the only way to engage in an exercise of violent separation would result in catastrophic metamorphosis of flittery bits of plasticky paper flying everywhere. You’d then take this novel composition, now like the Latin on a penny, and bury it under the earth for a thousand years to pinch and squish and crimp under a millennia of sediment deposition until, finally, they might resemble an indistinguishable sheet. Then, and only then, would the phrase “ripping apart” suffice. But no longer is it possible to sunder page from page, a reverse alchemy of paginal compatibility; instead, a tear creates a pair and each new leaf retains the fabric and the fiber of the other. See, the bandaid metaphor just doesn’t do it justice.
I’ll never forget Dad’s
ever-changing eyes:
blue in his Air Force tie
hazel in his Navy sailor whites
green in the camo pants
he wore in the garden
as his hoe attacked the weeds.
His hand-eye coordination was astounding:
with a hoe, a bat, or a golf club
he could hit anything
anywhere he wanted.
He could chip the golf ball
so it would land and stick,
or read a putt and curve
the ball’s roll ever so
gently into the hole –
his touch on the club
was light and elastic.
He never told me why he painted
the putter head gold,
then sprayed gold glitter on it,
or how he earned sniper gold medals.
I never saw him shoot a gun
Except in Disneyland’s Frontierland,
There, he rested the rifle on his shoulder
Squinted his eye, and pulled the trigger.
“Oh yeah!” he’d say as Goofy’s head fell over.
He wouldn’t talk about
the Japanese box full of
coins, a medallion, and a large
machine-gun bullet that showed
signs of extreme heat.
What Dad would do
Is play basketball on the driveway
teaching me to put
backspin on the ball
creating a “shooter’s bounce”.
“They had a hoop on the aircraft carrier
that picked me up,” he told us once.
Why did you get picked up?
“Kamikaze” was the only word we got out of him.
One time in the driveway when I was about nine
he started yelling, covered his eye, and
ran to the gutter, picking up something.
“My glass eye just popped out!” he said.
“Oh daddy, lemme see” I said.
He kept his fist closed, but his eyelid was
flipped up, red and gruesome.
I screamed.
“Want to see my eye, or
should I put it back?” he asked,
He turned around, pretend popped it in,
then returned to grin and grab me.
“It’s a joke from the war” he’d say,
but no more.
During his last day, I learned
-melted bullet was from the kamikaze
that strafed the ship
-it crashed into the captain’s bridge
-his ship went down
-Dad grabbed that bullet rolling down the deck
-burned his hand, jumped overboard
-swam to another chance.
So many other memories he never shared:
Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Korea
Those sights are buried with him.
And the glass eye?
One of the many tricks he played
to deal with the tense boredom of
waiting for the war: shooting hoops,
hitting mythical golf balls into the Pacific,
rolling and capturing baseballs on the listing ship’s deck.
Or, maybe that glass eye
kept the horrible sights he’d seen
from leaking out of the corners
Of his memory.
It is raining now as it was then
The pitter-patter on the roof
Will it never end
Today is a rebirth of the man he is
To leave the past, let a new life begin
All had planned so much for this day
When a devil wished for him to fail and go away
He couldn’t be destroyed by the demons within
This was his chance to prove at last
He alone could bury the past
Satan’s darkness connived for him to be defeated
To destroy his dream and the world he created
The battles he won but the war still lingers
He fought to survive and not succumb to suicide
The time had finally come for him to rise
An easy life was never his to choose but
The devil made sure he was raped and abused
To see him addicted to drugs and booze
He was a warrior to fight what Hades unleashed
To escape from that hell and finally be free
He hadn’t created a collection for over a year
He spent his time wallowing in meth and beer
Given uppers and downers to control his moods
Gossip and rumors were spread about the town
The devil wanted him dead and gone
Deep down he had the confidence to succeed
No need for drugs that a rapist would provide
To believe in himself and refute all the lies
He had proven his strength more than a thousand times
He walked away from the abuse and his will to die
The creativity that lives just behind his eyes
A ninja with a sketchbook and endless drive
Cutting and draping to see a mannequin come alive
A master chef in his own right, the workroom his kitchen
His utensils are scissors, pins, and a utility knife
And on this day the bells of freedom will ring
Guests applaud and then they cheer and sing
A star whose flame was burning out
Was reignited when the rain ceased
and the sun came about
And in the end, all will see
The success this brilliant designer will achieve
Somewhere west of Tucson
A paint-peeling trailer park,
Lies snugged next to Interstate 10,
Its structures resting flush
On a flatiron un-green earth.
The tawny surface parched,
Curdled with tires, motorbikes,
And assorted indeterminate items
Encircling the environs of each
Lie rutted roads and driveways.
Towering above the encampment,
Akin to a cathedral spire
A gleamingly pristine, and freshly
Coated, white water tower,
So glossy it glistened and shimmered
Like it was indelibly wet.
And on its shiny face,
Announcing an allegiance
In bold blue and red letters:
Trump
Craving cachet with fancy
Italicized script, like make-believe old,
Heralding a promise of life,
As if the brand was the owner, what
Only the skies can bestow.
I’m scared that I’m a narcissist, by Kailah Peters
But really I think I just like myself
For the first time in 25 years
And this shit is wild
Like I used to introduce myself with sadness first
And now I lead with laughter
Because I’m laughing all the time
I stand on stage and ask strangers
To find delight in my bad dates
You need rain to make a rainbow
I need to crash a bachelor party in new orleans for the plot
My grandfather is trying to decide if I’m manic or just happy
I’m trying to convince him two things can be true at the same time
Now rewind and it’s a few months into living alone,
Putting bandaids on my broken heart
I decide I’m too comfortable falling asleep next to my vibrator
So I get on the apps
But it’s too soon
In come a string of faces I can’t see
Through the sting of my tears
Then I give up and make my tinder bio my venmo
And now I’m banned from tinder
And the cycle repeats itself
This time with charged batteries
So, I switch to bumble and meet B.
He’s tall, dark and mustachioed
My daddy issues personified
And maybe I should be embarrassed
that I’m closer in age to this man’s cat than him
But the sex is so good,
I’m trying to convince my therapist this is actually healing
Like I’m learning a lot about my attachment style
It’s true and it’s stupid, we can laugh, you should laugh
But in all honesty, it gave me the space to demote romantic relationships
And focus on more important things – like literally anything else
Now I’m writing a book
Getting promoted
And going back to school
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I’m building community
And collecting friends
Like grandparents
Collect stamps
Pan over manchester Tennessee and you’ll find me and my best friend
Stoned, twirling with the trees
I found god, and her name is the profound depth of female friendship (or barbie)
Morgan puts on coffee when I text I’m on my way
I drop off popcorn and brownie mix when Meg texts she got her period
We turn water into vodka
pull the moon down with the bounce of our ass
And still make it to an 8 am meeting dressed in slacks
I’m on my hot girl summer
Bad bitch act
I am floating in an abundance of love
Water flooding in from every direction
And yes, Ted Lasso is the only lover I talk about on stage
But it’s not because I’m oh so in love with the way he gives me drugs
It’s because I spent the better part of three years
Walking around the internet calling my ex the love of my life
Now they are my ex
And I have to keep living my life
So, I only want to do exactly what I want to do
I’m still me and some things never change
I’m still compelled to make art
Out of the paper mache of my heart
But I can’t stand to make anymore declarative statements I think I might regret
I don’t want to write a love poem, unless it’s about my friends
Yes – I want to love, but I no longer dive head first into the concrete hoping for water
I’m living fast and loving slow
Because I refuse to get swallowed looking
For acceptance and validation between someone else’s legs
And I refuse to critique the crazy ways I’ve put myself back together again
I’m scared that I’m a narcissist
But really I think I just love myself
Quirks and all
For the first time in 25 years
I wish I had a bosom
I would not put my fishing lures there
Rather, money from a friend for dope or rent
folded like an origami chicken so it would poke and itch
not slide to my belly button
A stash for Belle Lettres, you know, notes from foreign
lovers signed in lipstick kisses
I would need cleavage like suspension bridges
holding things dry from places I’ve not yet been
I would name her, this place of nothing from nothing
more
Pilar, like Hemingway’s boat, a place of refuge
decorated in Christmas stockings, she would have
a temper, like seas trying to rid themselves of salt
and crustaceans
I would let Bob sleep here and cats purring like Bowie
when he was Ziggy stardust
This dress, Victorian, I find myself lanced in and its whalebone
corset cinched above and below hate and men
A bosom to be proud of on parade day
draped in rainbows coffins
We would drink coffee together on some tropical deck
Almost big enough for a kitten or a baby rabbit
to curl into
Something to always pet and pet and pet
