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post #92
bio: jen

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that week

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Oh Mandy
When the Lights Go Out
Think Of Something Beautiful
Exercise Video for Robots
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Bar Napkin Poetry

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My dear sweet friend and mentor
Had lunch with me yesterday
Over soup he discussed my play
You put so much in your first draft
He said
There's a lot there.

Oh good, I said, so I shouldn't give up this writing thing.
I was being slightly coy, a bit mysterious
I was looking for a reaction, but I was also a little serious.

No Jen, you won't stop, even if you wanted to.
Damn, he knows me too well.
You can't stop---even if you're working twenty hour a day jobs, you'd still do it.
Shit. I'm screwed.

Why couldn't my work have been something better? I didn't even like high school english class.
I was good in math. Accountant---numbers all day, but knowing me, I would've gone into math theory and found a new formula or equation.
When I was four, I wanted to be a doctor. When I was twelve, I wanted to be a pilot. When I was fifteen wanted to be an actress, but froze up during an Our Town audition.
Be a teacher? Never liked school.
A fireman? Hate smoke.
A cop? Hate guns.
A plumber? My faucets always leak.
A librarian? Been there, done it.
A secretary? Hate offices.
A journalist? Uhm. No.
A waitress? No experience.
A bartender? Possible, but how do ya make a fuckin Cosmo?

So I'm stuck
Doing what I do
Putting words down
Word after word
Not stopping
Cause I can't.

I don't have a strong vocabulary
Big words send me to the dictionary
Then I forget them the next day
I'm not too good at spelling either
And sometimes I ignore grammar.

What comes out doesn't smell so good
And it's full of things I've eaten.
It's recognizable but distorted
Fascinating but repellent
And I keep hurling it at the world
Because I feel better once it's out of me.
Fill up sheets and sheets with it
Then sleep in it
Then wake up wet and sticky
Smelling sickly
Shower Shower Shower
Wash the sheets and use them again
Turn them over
More More More
More words and more words
Printed neatly---Sister Aloysius gave me good hand writing---never smacked my hand with the ruler---I was quiet---I was thinking
And more and more and more
A bad taste in my mouth
What if a snake did crawl up through the toilet and bit me on the ass?

I can't make all the shit go away. I not a magician or a commercial Hollywood technician.
Words of comfort and inspiration ain't really my speed either. I'm not a preacher or a warrior leader. I laugh at politicians.
I'm the kid who laughs at what others find repulsive. I smile and stare at the puke on the floor.
My friend Mike called me a freakazoid---shucks, I'm just plain weird.

I recently went to a panel of experimenters
A band of avant garde brothers
The only one who said anything of worth
Was the one who said he felt alienated from the others
He had made his own language
But with years, he had the wisdom to explain that he didn't know
He just does it over and over again
Every year, a new play, every year.
And the audience stares in horror---you can see them---the house lights stay up
And I laugh at its sweetness
And someone usually farts too.

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