the burlesque poetess(s)

for edrie broken toy, having knee surgery to-day
teaser #1 from my MFA thesis collection/book/manuscript/ms, ASSASINATION BRUNCHEON. i capslock b/c my mentor & i honestly haven’t decided what to do w. my weirdly capitalized titles…and this is what she does, in her books. poemtitles anyway.

in support/love/recognition of the magical dynamo miss edrie broken toy is, while she is under the knife (probablement truly right as i type this) getting her knee surgically cadaverously repaired…i want to share some of the writing she and i have done together. it seems appropriate that we celebrate this creative dynamo soul who is a talented writer, novelist, accordion player, singer, businesswoman, music manager, costume clothier, delicate wireforest creature, lovingenerous soul, magical bean, artist magician to all she touches… she is in my thoughts. i want her to be in yours with good healing energies. ANYHOO, this piece is previously unshared, except as as a performance as part of my MFA residency this past summer here in cambridge. it is in my “fall in love with strangers” zine/merch in its first draft form. this is like, it’s 3rd heavily revised and relineated version. so, i love this woman, i love making art with her, she is one of the most important things that happened to me in 2008. i will have known her 2 years in january, and i know i have made a friend (and facefuck wifey) for life. be kneestrong in support of edrie broken toy, look at what walter sickert (also, adored, plentifully, cadaverously) made! —-> tell me if this link don’t work

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carved out of/written with prose by Edrie (One of the broken toys)

The very idea of a heart.

Break mine like a Zodiac cipher.
Capture it— ask for the key,
for both of us to examine
on the table. Take a turn, my ribs
gape and can wait.

If my first love were a man: a chair
to table, fork to knife. My heart, a shake
‘n bake Sunday dinner. If it were
a woman: perhaps arranged in a vase,
arteries sur la table.

An artful display. Martha would be proud
knowing the taste hearts have for jails.
If my first love were my father
it would rifle through the freezer
for transfusion, platelets, bowls

of ice cream, don’t tell mother.
If it were my mother: tisk-tisk.
Dirty thing, get it off the table.
If my first love were a blue teddy
bear: it would be mute with a star

and a moon in lieu of eyes.
He would lay on his side wondering
how much fear he could hold (at bay)
for me. If it were a book (even):
page 47 would read itself aloud,

“The woman said that the only reason
she noticed the man was his unusual
hat.” If it were a poet:
perhaps they would send a map,
verse crusted with cartographer’s lust.

Perchance a parable
about a fish that says to the poet
that’s caught him, “These are my guts,
please be careful with them.”
If my first love were grandmother:

veins would be crocheted. Spider silk
would seal my chest and cross-stitch
my heart. I will be more careful
next time. “Now run along dear,
as long as the knots hold.”