Lists

[Doreen Peri]

(2005)

put me on the guest list and i'll attend your party,
decked out in the finest punk, hair teased up into
various parted parts twisted into braids
like the way your
mind saved
the departure
of irony
between
halfnotes traded for
sixteenths, rhythm
violated, rules jazzed,
hazmat suits needed
to protect a virgin ear,
since when you played,
my head spun
clear outa the top
of a soft
spot.

put me on your quest list –
mess with my linen,
starch my white
innocence –
the gift of
a bride.

list me in audience notes
inside cover art, folded over
beside the flush left
tamborine dudes,
laying a
bed
track.

i am a listmaker.
i make lists of chores
and matter. i cross off
chatter when it has
been achieved, then add
brevity between each line
or possibly syllable.

i add to lists
in order to
cross it off
what's done.

i am angry at the century.
it is too fast. it doesn't pay
attention to itself.

never use contractions
in poetry or touch.
they seriously imbalance
the rhythmn of a piece
and cannot be taken seriously,
and as such,
will be ignored.

can't, for instance, can't
possibly be as strong as
cannot.

and i cannot deny
that i can see myself
on your list waiting
to be chosen
for a walk-on
part,
at least,
parted
by tresses
twisted into
braid-sistahs,
coming on stage
coming on stage

oblivious to
review.

lines are lists in human form,
flesh pushed up against flesh
waiting for a teller
or tickettaker,
or green
light reflected off
bumper steel or the
feel of hot breath
down a subtle neckline.

scoop my rinds up.
use a very sharp knife
to dice the skin until you
can fill a thimble.
add ice.
stir.