My Boyfriend
by Camille Guthrie
His Exterior
toes like blue glass marbles
nails like wax shavings
feet like those of an elephant
heels like narrow escapes
soles like yellow sponges expanding in water
legs like longitude and latitude
knees like neon headlights
thighs like open desert in a movie
hips like a leaping horse
a belly button like a luminescent watch
pubic hair like frontier instances
a penis like overnight mail
balls large as a boar-hound’s
seminal vesicles like tulip bulbs in a paper bag
testicle muscles like rising chords
an asshole like an undiscovered planet
buttocks like a fleet antelope’s
a sacrum like plein air painting
a back like a chalked sidewalk
a spinal column like a suspension bridge
ribs like a bookcase
a sternum like gum
shoulder blades like kitchen tables
a chest like a stuffed animal
pectorals like floating bars of soap
shoulders like observed facts
arms like lassos
fingers like sparklers
wrist bones like a shipyard
elbows like antidotes
hands like passports
an Adam’s apple like a great circle course
a beard like Whitman’s
a chin like a lichen-splotched rock
ears like a full bathtub
a nose like a birdcage
nostrils like subway tunnels
eyebrows like a captive audience
a birthmark like a stop sign
eyelids like a partial eclipse
eyes like effervescence
optical nerves like an orchid
a forehead like a window display
temples like singing crickets
cheeks like party invitations
jaws like handcuffs
teeth like sweet tea
a tongue like watercolors
a mouth like a silk lampshade
a face like a moving picture
a head like a jar of pennies
a skull like a geode
skin with a black line running down it
epidermis like a wool sweater
whiskers like a street sweeper
and hair like a cloudy day.
His Interior
cerebellum like a coffee grinder
cerebral lobes like a house on fire
cranial membranes like a construction-paper diorama
optical nerves like a developing Polaroid
cerebral fornix like colonial maps
pineal gland like a giant pinecone
circulatory system like cello strings
eardrums like a still life with oranges
forehead like television
backbone like a fiddlehead fern
nerve channels like transatlantic cables
uvula like a propeller
palate like a telegram
saliva like a rotating sprinkler
tonsils like action figures
stomach like professional wrestling
trachea like pirate radio
throat like a bold headline
lungs like plastic bags caught in a tree
heart like a supernova
pulmonary membranes like dirigibles
arteries like rush hour
diaphragm like the sound barrier
liver like a public trial
veins like Japanese characters
spleen like a rogue
bowels like surrealism
guts like an inheritance
small intestine like fake pearls
large intestine like stolen currency
colon like reliable data
rectum like a fade-out
kidneys like a barrier reef
loins like a mowed lawn
renal veins like gossip
sperm glands like lava beds
prostate like a fissure vent
bladder like a fish bowl
abdomen like a leather suitcase
muscles like an assembly line
tendons like pickpockets
ligaments like safety pins
bones like bones
marrow like realism
cartilage like strips of kelp
lymph glands like sentimentality
urine like sugar water
blood like melted crayons
and sperm like flies in amber.
How He Acts
If he laughs, it’s spontaneous combustion
If he mutters, it’s a retreating glacier
If he pouts, he sharpens his horn on stones
If he jumps up and down, its hard to look away
If he scratches himself, it’s with an aspen branch
If he gets angry, he fights with tooth, horn, and heel
If he spits, he fights his own kind
If he blows his nose, it starts a riot
If he sweats, it’s monsoons
If he coughs, it unlocks doors in the next room
If he argues, it’s over lost rituals
If he sighs, it ruffles goldfinch feathers
If he whistles, it’s overheard miles away
If he snores, it’s over nostalgic reveries
If he scowls, spears launch from his eyes
If he snorts, it’s over gilt lion-head spouts
If he shits, it’s historical documents
If he belches, it’s a diary
If he vomits, there’s finger-pointing all around
If he walks, it’s Chaplin
If he writes, it’s manifestos
If he goes shopping, it’s for lentils and peas
If he dances, it’s the Rites of Spring
If he swears, he’s a ryght cruell beast
If he drives, it’s among the Mountains of the Moon
If he bathes, it’s in deceptive surfaces
If he dresses, it’s a white linen suit
If he wonders, it’s if his own reflection
If he’s jealous, it’s of birthday parties
If he lies, it’s about mathematical errors
If he spends money, it’s on magic lanterns
If he goes to the movies, it’s Vertigo
If he listens to music, it’s the sound of running water
If he falls, it’s down a slope of turf into the bushes
If he recites, it’s from the Beast Epic of Alexandria
If he is seduced, it’s a river of electricity
If he is curious, he attempts to draw
If he calls, it’s about weather patterns
If he sings, it’s ‘Tyger, Tyger’
and if he escapes, he’s swift of foot.
January 2, 2008
New Year's Resolutions
Okay so here they go.
My intention for 2008 is to acknowledge
Some of my resolutions:
- lose weight - isnt this everyone's resolution? I mean, I wouldnt be a human being if I didnt have this as my resolution. Virginia and I had a good laugh about this last night when we talked about our weight and what we had eaten. She was cracking up at my failures and so was I. My eating is just plain illogical. Thats all there is to it.
- go to gym more. This is along the lines of the first one. But we all know that going to the gym does not equal losing weight or vice versa. Well, some of us know that.
- be more sociable. I stay home because I dont want to meet new people. I get frustrated because I dont meet new people. Do you see where this becomes a problem?
- read more.
- learn more about yoga. Well, up until February when I graduate anyways.
This image sums things up nicely! With the cow and the circular self fulfilling prophecy attitude about it.
Im doing okay on my resolutions so far.
Will go to an AYR meeting and then Im going to the gym. And will study yoga stuff tonight. Which involves reading. Right?
Right.
Pats self on back.
But its only day 2 and there's still 363 to go.
My intention for 2008 is to acknowledge
Some of my resolutions:
- lose weight - isnt this everyone's resolution? I mean, I wouldnt be a human being if I didnt have this as my resolution. Virginia and I had a good laugh about this last night when we talked about our weight and what we had eaten. She was cracking up at my failures and so was I. My eating is just plain illogical. Thats all there is to it.
- go to gym more. This is along the lines of the first one. But we all know that going to the gym does not equal losing weight or vice versa. Well, some of us know that.
- be more sociable. I stay home because I dont want to meet new people. I get frustrated because I dont meet new people. Do you see where this becomes a problem?
- read more.
- learn more about yoga. Well, up until February when I graduate anyways.
This image sums things up nicely! With the cow and the circular self fulfilling prophecy attitude about it.
Im doing okay on my resolutions so far.
Will go to an AYR meeting and then Im going to the gym. And will study yoga stuff tonight. Which involves reading. Right?
Right.
Pats self on back.
But its only day 2 and there's still 363 to go.
shopping.
i like this bag.
but i like the other one, too.
Hmmm.
that girl just picked up
the one i liked first.
now, i think i like
that one more.
i'll just wait...just wait...
until she puts it down.
then...
but i like the other one, too.
Hmmm.
that girl just picked up
the one i liked first.
now, i think i like
that one more.
i'll just wait...just wait...
until she puts it down.
then...
More really nice poetries.
I Love the Way Men Crack
I love the way men crack
open when their wives leave them,
their sheaths curling back like the split
shells of roasted chestnuts, exposing
the sweet creamy meat. They call you
and unburden their hearts the way a woman
takes off her jewels, the heavy
pendant earrings, the stiff lace gown and corset,
and slips into a loose kimono.
It's like you've both had a couple shots
of really good scotch and snow is falling
in the cone of light under the street lamp—
large slow flakes that float down in the amber glow.
They tell you all the pain pressed into their flat chests,
their disappointed penises, their empty hands.
As they sift through the betrayals and regrets,
their shocked realization of how hard they tried,
the way they shouldered the yoke
with such stupid good faith—
they grow younger and younger. They cry
with the unselfconciousness of children.
When they hug you, they cling.
Like someone who's needed glasses for a long time—
and finally got them-they look around
just for the pleasure of it: the detail,
the sharp edges of what the world has to offer.
And when they fall in love again, it only gets better.
Their hearts are stuffed full as éclairs
and the custard oozes out at a touch.
They love her, they love you, they love everyone.
They drag out all the musty sorrows and joys
from the basement where they've been shoved
with mitts and coin collections. They tell you
things they've never told anyone.
Fresh from loving her, they come glowing
like souls slipping into the bodies
of babies about to be born.
Then a year goes by. Or two.
Like broken bones, they knit back together.
They grow like grass and bushes and trees
after a forest fire, covering the seared earth.
They landscape the whole thing, plant like mad
and spend every weekend watering and weeding.
Mating Saliva
A girl in a green mini-
skirt, not very pretty, walks
down the street.
A businessman stops, turns
to stare at her ass
that looks like a moldy
refrigerator.
There are now 200,000,000 people
in America.
Platonic Love
We dine at Adorno and return to my Beauvoir.
She compliments me on my Bachelard pad.
I pop in a Santayana CD and Saussure back to the couch.
On my way, I pull out two fine Kristeva wine glasses.
I pour some Merleau-Ponty and return the Aristotle to Descartes.
After pausing an Unamuno, I wrap my arm around her Hegel.
Her hair smells of wild Lukacs and Labriola.
Our small talk expands to include Dewey, Moore and Kant.
I confess to her what's in my Eckhart. We Locke.
By this point, we're totally Blavatsky.
We stretch out on the Schopenhauer.
She slips out of her Lyotard and I fumble with my Levi-Strauss.
She unhooks her Buber and I pull off my Spinoza.
I run my finger along her Heraclitus as she fondles my Bacon.
She stops to ask me if I brought any Kierkegaard. I nod.
We Foucault.
She lights a cigarette and compares Foucault to Lacan.
I roll over and Derrida.
“What Do Women Want?”
I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their cafe, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.
I love the way men crack
open when their wives leave them,
their sheaths curling back like the split
shells of roasted chestnuts, exposing
the sweet creamy meat. They call you
and unburden their hearts the way a woman
takes off her jewels, the heavy
pendant earrings, the stiff lace gown and corset,
and slips into a loose kimono.
It's like you've both had a couple shots
of really good scotch and snow is falling
in the cone of light under the street lamp—
large slow flakes that float down in the amber glow.
They tell you all the pain pressed into their flat chests,
their disappointed penises, their empty hands.
As they sift through the betrayals and regrets,
their shocked realization of how hard they tried,
the way they shouldered the yoke
with such stupid good faith—
they grow younger and younger. They cry
with the unselfconciousness of children.
When they hug you, they cling.
Like someone who's needed glasses for a long time—
and finally got them-they look around
just for the pleasure of it: the detail,
the sharp edges of what the world has to offer.
And when they fall in love again, it only gets better.
Their hearts are stuffed full as éclairs
and the custard oozes out at a touch.
They love her, they love you, they love everyone.
They drag out all the musty sorrows and joys
from the basement where they've been shoved
with mitts and coin collections. They tell you
things they've never told anyone.
Fresh from loving her, they come glowing
like souls slipping into the bodies
of babies about to be born.
Then a year goes by. Or two.
Like broken bones, they knit back together.
They grow like grass and bushes and trees
after a forest fire, covering the seared earth.
They landscape the whole thing, plant like mad
and spend every weekend watering and weeding.
Mating Saliva
A girl in a green mini-
skirt, not very pretty, walks
down the street.
A businessman stops, turns
to stare at her ass
that looks like a moldy
refrigerator.
There are now 200,000,000 people
in America.
Platonic Love
We dine at Adorno and return to my Beauvoir.
She compliments me on my Bachelard pad.
I pop in a Santayana CD and Saussure back to the couch.
On my way, I pull out two fine Kristeva wine glasses.
I pour some Merleau-Ponty and return the Aristotle to Descartes.
After pausing an Unamuno, I wrap my arm around her Hegel.
Her hair smells of wild Lukacs and Labriola.
Our small talk expands to include Dewey, Moore and Kant.
I confess to her what's in my Eckhart. We Locke.
By this point, we're totally Blavatsky.
We stretch out on the Schopenhauer.
She slips out of her Lyotard and I fumble with my Levi-Strauss.
She unhooks her Buber and I pull off my Spinoza.
I run my finger along her Heraclitus as she fondles my Bacon.
She stops to ask me if I brought any Kierkegaard. I nod.
We Foucault.
She lights a cigarette and compares Foucault to Lacan.
I roll over and Derrida.
“What Do Women Want?”
I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their cafe, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.
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