ALL RESPONSES |
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Turquoise nails for breakfast.
Purple eye liner, henna
hair for lunch.
Afternoon appointment
at the tanning salon
for a suit of bronze.
A little rouge and powder
after dinner. Dress in magenta
for the night club lights.
Scrub your pink cheeks for bed.
For a moment, silent blue
shifts to black, fades to
dream in rainbows. |
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After failing the third consecutive geography test
her fourth grade teacher offered up advice:
Using 50 3x5 index cards
write down the states on one side
then flip over and add the capital.
Use colored cards to represent regions.
Repeat each state's capital ten times.
Nine will not suffice. Don't question reason.
Ten is the magic number for full exposure. |
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You cannot see her old.
She will not be old.
Only once, say in every nine
months, age blued her face.
Only once, mind you, briefly.
She will not grow old.
Provide, provide, Frost warned
all Aphrodites, or someone
will provide for you.
She provided an ending. Herself.
Describe the right color hair, the placement
of mole and eye shadow,
And you still haven’t got her.
Ha.
That was the itch. You could
and could not get her. Look
but don’t touch.
Impossible condition.
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One needn’t believe in Heaven
or Hell to believe in Marilyn
when seeking the fleece
of perfection.
Just put her on an island, wait
for the sun to vacuum its haze;
leave her for generations to declare
her a prehistoric image of beauty.
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Turquoise nails for breakfast.
Purple eye liner, henna
hair for lunch.
Afternoon appointment
at the tanning salon
for a suit of bronze.
A little rouge and powder
after dinner. Dress in magenta
for the night club lights.
Scrub cheeks pink before bed.
Lay on a red satin pillow,
turn off the colors and
sink into a blue dream. |
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Black and white photographs,
loss squared by time.
The songs of Harry Belafonte
you softly hummed.
Sweater, hand knit, recipes
handwritten and fading.
Your grave, unmarked
your body ash.
The red veins of maples leaves
in the gold dust of light.
The dream; You, about to step into
a lush garden, once again leaving
me.
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All those photos
in just the right light--
some glaring
some subdued
but never enough to
conceal the anguish
strange how light can choke
out the poetry
strangle a soul
strange how the lines
still shine
face to face |
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i always thought
andy warhol
was a glorified
screen printer
marilyn monroe
was a traitor
for making
stupid sexy
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Titanium white
bright
as Jesus
opaque; tint-easy
Ivory black; charred bones
no one knows whose
Phtalo green, blue green
green man’s green
Phthalo blue, storm-eyes
hurricanes hiding until morning
Cadmium orange, O’Keefes lilies
Byzantium purple, the gift of a shellfish
Burnt umber, warm hot chocolate
pools of pudding, her eyes
Cadmium yellow, more hopeful than golden ocher
and acres of wheat
Raw titanium, malleable for skin tone and female sex buoys
Payne’s grey, blue-grey, a touch of red,
the color she wore, she was, when found.
He pressed and printed her suicide.
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You ask her why life was so full
of lights
(she preferred darkness)
of pain
(she didn't feel)
of drugs and men
trying to take life from her.
The stage was cold
like the lonely nights,
empty like the liquor
bottles on the floor,
with the fingerprints
of many dreams left to dust.
She would tell you that
You ask her why life was so full
of lights
(she preferred darkness)
of pain
(she didn't feel)
of drugs and men
trying to take life from her.
The stage was cold
like the lonely nights,
empty like the liquor
bottles on the floor,
with the fingerprints
of many dreams left to dust.
She would tell you that
You ask her why life was so full
of lights
(she preferred darkness)
of pain
(she didn't feel)
of drugs and men
trying to take life from her.
The stage was cold
like the lonely nights,
empty like the liquor
bottles on the floor,
with the fingerprints
of many dreams left to dust.
She would tell you that
"dogs don't bite. just humans" |
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Monroe Monroe Monroe
Monroe Monroe Monroe
Monroe Monroe Monroe
Warhol Warhol Warhol
Warhol Warhol Warhol
Warhol Warhol Warhol
poem poem poem
poem poem poem
poem poem poem |
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| You think when you change your boyfriend or your blouse or your blonde, it'll all be different. This time. Only again it's the cigar burns on your breast, the brush downs, forgotten birthdays. Still, you create a new color and hope it's a new beginning. |
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It's alright baby,
I'm laying in my own ashes
just like you
It's alright man,
I watch rainbows until they crumble into splinters
just like you
It's alright baby
we're all holograms now
just like you
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Disembodied
Whisperer turned Accuser (from stage left.
It is dark):
everyone knows
there is something
something
on your face
yes yes yes yes
it’s a mole, they say!
painted on!
will it stay against
the porous screen
of your silky
lips?
(screams, gasps from behind curtain)
If a television could talk,
dramatically, huffy
(From stage right):
a beauty mark!
the concentrate
of your irregular
fame!
the mistake of the unmistakable!
It’s so beautiful!
She’s so beautiful!
I could end myself.
Let myself erode
In a sequins of unreal
Hues!
But, the mole, the moles!
they’re just raised
and discolored,
diamonds:
jagged pieces
of refined
coal.
Still, In the
naked pigment,
I will never believe
because the hue of who you
are is too far from
the viewed
technicolor truth
serene.
(lights slowly glow brighter
like vermouth being poured
into a martini glass)
Her voice undulates
congenially
like her curls (across the stage
like a wafted gas):
and who could
have rehearsed it?
the brown rise
of my diamonds dresses
poisons pearls
all in the loftiest
peril!
(the moon opens
the curtain, unbearably slow,
as if a mother opened
her make-uped child’s coffin
for the last time)
And for once
in the hallway
of my chemical
heart
I have become
the artist of my own
chimera,
the sickly film
of my painted
death.
(the curtain
opens like a dress
blown up by puff
of air
in the lights
her face looks
green
embalmed dead
she's with the limelight
on the floor)
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red, for cabernet lips
and clotted blood,
blue, for crying jags
and cold dishwater,
cyan, for wisdom teeth
and tummyaches,
magenta, for bitten nails
and unpaid bills,
yellow, for dirty laundry
and loneliness,
purple, for insomnia
and autumn air,
green, for moldy vegetables
and cellulite,
black, for painted eyes
and bruised thighs,
and warhol, ninefold, for nerves impaled
on the business end of a breakdown |
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She was so pretty.
He got shot then got.. What? Good?
at 70, What are you? |
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Dress me up in cheap
Drag from frame to frame slowly
Silk and silky screen |
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I miss the times when
a full-figured woman was
typically considered
beautiful, though I
try to think about the
former alienation of
naturally skinny girls,
thinking, “This is their time.”
I miss the times when
being five feet tall was
charming, though I consider
the girls who hunched
their way through our
school years and hope
they
or at least their daughters
are proud now,
standing tall.
I miss the times when
scandals were
covered up, and
we were allowed
to believe
in heroes. |
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I walked through the Walker
with my two year old nephew
and we looked (no touch)
at the art on walls
(Warhol's Marylin)
and the floor
and his two year old hands
wanted to touch
everything.
It all was "no touch"
and I was so very, very sad.
Impotent.
Since that day, he will not go
to the museum for fun. |
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Andy Warhol may have not been wrong
when he depicted Marylyn Monroe
in nine different way.
Certain is, she started a young girl with dreams,
blond hair and pink complexion.
Time changed that.
She was discovered and made into a star
she though she wanted
the glitz and the limelight
until she realized
it was loneliness in a golden cage.
Eventually she recognized that
where she looked for fortune
she found empty promises
but plenty of arms wanting to hold her...
The light changed on her face
but her expression of sweet sulking kid
is what the people in charge wanted.
No need for brains with such a body,
why complain about not been taken seriously...
Then you met the man of your dreams
and the husband of another woman.
Famous and handsome
he talked to you as if you mattered.
Happiness filled your empty heart
and gave new meaning to life, this,
until you realized you could not expect more
than occasional stolen nights.
Too many people around him to protect his name
while yours, carried no real value.
A star today, you were to soon,
descend into sadness
been once more, used by a lover.
But here comes another version of you no one knew,
the Marylyn that would not take another setback.
Ready to talk to him and the world about your love
you found it difficult to do
with all of those pills in your mouth.
People said of your death that it was accidental.
Some said it was suicide,
other cried aloud foul play and conspiracy theory,
but all that we know is that
when they found you sprawled on your white bed,
you looked like an angel fallen from above,
beautiful in your still child-like face,
dry traces of tears on your cheeks,
where salt mixed with foundation
and your red mouth seemed to want to send
a message for your men;
“...all I ever wanted was for you to love me”
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