...and now coquette cries

because she needs his bevy of branches,
their wide 'y's sustenance,
to qualify the distance between things
as she leafs madly through dictionaries
as if they were novels written to identify
a specific meaning of measurement--
how far away far is;
because she yearns to know
the idea of election, taking sides,
as well as she knows muscle, stone,
and the feel of wood against her spine;
because she never meant to need,
not now, never needing anything
before from her cool romeos;
because she thought there was a difference
between love and sex
but tonight can't find it
no matter how many words she overturns
no matter what cardboard box she empties
onto the floor;
because night has ceased to be her friend;
because there are no answers to her questions;
because there is no food in brooklyn;
because her galahad is bleeding
and there will not be enough bandages
for them both
until she tears her clothing into highways
of kisses.

[third in a series of coquette poems, "Coquette eats huckleberries 'til she pukes, no?" In Heat Automatic Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 1, New York, January 1996; and "Coquettes Friend Delivers and Translates a Message" in Poetry Reload. http://www.plazma.com/poetload. html, June 1998.]

---

BREAKFAST POLITICS

the coffee cups, spoons, forks, napkins, knives.
i devise the corners of his life as night retreats like stones,
crashing and gathering in the folds under my eyes.
the busboy stands at parade rest, just behind my shoulder.
i think he was a cook in the army, dishonorably discharged
for inundating a colonel's pot roast with salt;
a revolutionary, who oils his pistols and shotguns
while watching reruns of "the honeymooners;"
drawing beads on ralph cramden. poor ralph.
he dies many times a night, his gross body
grosser still in death, as he tries to hold in his intestines,
eyes wide, hands covering the wounds in disbelief.
"fuck," he says, stepping out of character one last time.
would he fall into--or away from--the bullets
as mrs. cramden looked on, horrified?
the busboy sighs and balances the rifle across his knees.
he doesn't know gleason is already dead,
but before this night is out,
the great one will die a thousand deaths.
i name you renaldo. you seem so sweet
that no one but me would guess
what's behind your soft, brown eyes.



---

CALL ME

"Give me a ring," she says,
thinking the telephone
is a girl's true best friend.
"Give me a ring,"
in the imperative,
as if he owed her a great debt
of electronic impulses.
But he won't be fashioning
circles from quarters
for either coin box.

"I don't need you," he says.
And he doesn't want her key.

She's said, "Give me a ring,"
hundreds of times
not thinking about
the possibilities.

"Give me a ring
and I'll give you the world,"
the woman with the lever concludes,
locking and unlocking her fingers
like gears in a machine about to run amok.

JAN has guitar on and waits in foyer.

Mistress of Ceremonies Cat Townsend introduces Dr. Stern.

DR. STERN: Thank you Cat. It's a pleasure to be here. Yes. Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Dr. M.D. Stern, M.D., Ph.D. in psychology. As luck would have it, my offices are not far from here and when Jan told me during our session earlier today that she was performing at Cat's Impetuous Books, one of my favorite hangouts, and confessed to feeling a higher than normal level of performance anxiety, I offered to introduce her and hold her hand through this little trauma.

Unusual you think for a shrink to take the stage on behalf of a patient, er, client? Just so. But Jan is an unusual individual and first presented with delusions of grandeur two weeks before Valentine's Day this year. You see, Ms. McLaughlin believes herself to be Princess-at-Large.

Now, I normally prescribe appropriate medication, increase sessions, and sometimes in extreme cases like this even advise hospitalization, but I found Jan's particular delusion oddly compelling, especially in combination with the underlying complex multiple personality infrastructure. Call me a sadist, but I found the landscape of her particular madness is so compelling, I chose to let the flood run its natural course.

Among Jan's many personalities you will find a poet, film maker, composer, lesbian biker babe, zen nun, musician, novelist, pervert, style maven, actor, director, choreographer, and cheerleader.

Without further ado, I am pleased and proud to introduce long-time client, collaborator and friend, Princess-at-Large Jan McLaughlin.

JAN: Thank you Dr. Stern. Will my insurance cover this?

DR. STERN: [shakes head "Yes" with a knowing, "I beat the insurance companies all the time" smile.]

JAN: I think I got 40 minutes coming, right?

 

Princess-at-Large Issues Edict -
Poetry and Poets Henceforth Forever Banned