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.
