So I’ve been hearing a lot about wrecking balls in the news lately, and it reminded me of an image from a poem I wrote about 20 years ago. (Don’t worry—I promise not to get naked and swing on one.) When I was in college, I took a Creative Writing: Poetry class. The professor was hot, and I’d been writing poetry pretty much my whole life so I figured this class would be a breeze.
I also happened to be taking a class called Novel of the Mexican Revolution at the same time. That course was taught in Spanish and focused on some really long, really tedious books that I had a difficult time plowing through. So my poetry class balanced that class out pretty nicely. Spend six hours reading one chapter in Spanish for one class; spend six minutes slapping some words down on paper for the other.
I especially loved this poetry class because I was able to use the F-word for the first time in an academic institution without fear of punishment. I’m sure my fascination with that word had nothing to do with what I wanted to do to the professor.
Anyhow, here’s one of the (bad) poems from the class. Extra credit for anyone who can correctly identify the “little white pill” referenced in the poem.
That damn little white pill,
styrofoam magggot.
doesn't work for shit.
My eyelids still heavy with wrecking balls
hanging from my lashes.
My eyeballs: red, irritated,
not focused.
And I STILL haven't finished
Villa,
Huerta,
Carranza...
Fuck you and your damn revolution.
My mexican blood has no pity now.
Guzman is a simile for rambling.
The brown circle
at the bottom of my cup.
Brown dots
sticking to the sides.
I ground it too finely again.
Just more
CAFFEINE.
And she stares at me with
those pathetic
insincere eyes.
stream releasing from the mug into her face
frizzing the ends of her hair.
FUZZ
in the middle of an artichoke.
I want to slap her
tell her to take her
stupid
smile
into her own
space.
Senses.
Keenly aware of
the bursting carbonation bubbles
across the room.
