Posts met de tag “autobiography”

Even geen zin in reacties

me, myself and I, part 3: I remember the anxiety-fueled dances

and a guy who spits instead of swallows
dashing low over the fields, pink draining
slowly from the sky, shyly holding hands
after sunset – a damp ring inside my right

sized bell-bottoms signaling the fireworks
of mosquitoes, smoke, bug juice and blisters.
what does it say about me that I remember
lyrics to summer camp songs (they came

off by three-sies three-sies, grizzly bears
and chimpanzee-sies zee-sies) but not why
he seemed so handsome when I let him
spank me with a tree branch in the ditch?

children of the lord floated around with
gods-eyes and popsicle-sticks, tying knots
with red licorice whips, whispering about
a girl that started her period making out;

my name written backwards on a steamy
bathroom mirror. and no one was allowed
breakfast until after the flag was raised.

Third installment of a flarfed ‘autobiography’. Part one and part two.

Even geen zin in reacties

me, myself and I, part 2: worry, a lot of worry

when the barrage balloons went up
I was humping my lambskin rug,
wearing Superman Underoos, Buddy
Holly style glasses and a tweed blazer.

I remember the sensation on my gums
as I chewed on my crib rail (worry, a lot
of worry), eating boogers and wrapping
a fat rubber band around my privates,

over and over until they turned purple,
so I would get a cookie from the elderly
babysitter. our neighbors had a neato
dug-out, but my parents were too busy

spraying deodorant on cows, scooting
along orange shag carpet to seedy, late
night soirees with other singles (they
turned out to be friendly, so that ended

well). still, it gives me goose bumps
that families don’t interconnect through
grooves modeled after the crevasses
of their toes, clicking like Lego bricks.

Second installment of a flarfed ‘autobiography’. Click here for part one.

Even geen zin in reacties

me, myself and I, part 1: like a nosebleed

I was born like a nosebleed in the backseat of a greyhound,
rolling down a Kibbutz in Seine-sur-Mer, Ohio – four small
farms where pronouns were used very loosely and neither
animals nor plants spoke and sang. mom was 13, dad 45,

a paleontologist, a veterinarian, a naturalist and the arrival
of a God who vanquished hundreds of lesser ones – I ached
to hold him, but he was whisked away when my mother was
given an enema to break the waters. she still says that I am

one of her nicer moms, she says it’s why she flies at night,
dazzling amateur astronomers with her heavenly bodies,
appearing out of thin air, giving birth to dwarf galaxies
like dark matter, always leaning slightly toward the light.