This poem was written in response to a post I saw on the web by a white, male poet that described common devices of poets he considered to be "amateurs". The list went something like this:

"◘ start your poem with the word “and”

◘ speak exclusively in first and second person as if every poem is a personal letter

◘ use coffee and cigarettes and whiskey to denote pain and maturity

◘ throw in as many over-the-top words as possible, like "ethereal” or “wanderlust”

◘ mention greek figures like apollo or icarus to add depth and culture

◘ continuously start lines with “listen” to make sure your reader is still paying attention

◘ avoid using capitalization or punctuation in any situation

◘ put line breaks completely at random to break the reader’s concentration

◘ finish your poem by repeating the same line three times

◘ if you can’t think of a title, just use a line from a song from your favorite band

and that’s it! if you follow these simple steps, you too can have an excerpt from a book you’ll never write"

Naturally, I felt compelled to meet his challenge with a piece of work that resisted what I viewed as privileged gatekeeping of an artistic medium that is quintessential in making the voices of the marginalized heard and understood. This poem is a product of that challenge---the musings of a fat, latina, lesbian, feminist poet.

--

and it’s just like you, really.

poseidon in your big rain boots.

another deluge in

new york city and i

left my coat

at home—soaked, suede shoes,

it figures.

and you must look so fine, i know,

in the bars

johnson’s on rivington

or niagara on avenue A

i can picture you now, in your leather

jacket and your

big

bad boy blues—

and which is it today, icarus? theseus?

little boy lost? little bo peep?

is it coffee or cigarettes?

whiskey or rye?

no, whiskey and rye

you’re a real american boy, now—

it figures.

i catch you in my compact mirror,

a glimpse—the lights change—

green

to

red

another cab cuts the corner

too close,

i jump back

into the arms of

john wayne, looking fine as silk

in that old stetson hat

john, holy, holds me like

a loaded gun

whispers

“im gonna teach you to be a real cowboy”

when he spits his chew out

on the sidewalk

i put my bubble gum

behind my ear—and ain’t it

just ethereal? acataleptic?

catalytic? analeptic?

it’s the petrichor that always get you

or is it the miasma?

no, you listen, no

you writer, you liar, you thief.

this is the american dream.

you, me, 6th avenue, john wayne.

i can avoid a yellow cab

but i can’t avoid you.

it figures.

it figures.

it figures.