3 Poems Rebecca Bridge
Beautiful in the Oven
Then God spoke
to say only good
things about Christmas.
It was the day, after all, that he
pulled Jesus from the udder of the
mother-lady, put him
in the oven and baked us all gingerbread.
Take and eat, take and eat,
when they are ready, but please now,
watch your fingers!
The baby is still hot!
Then God spoke
to say only good things about
beautiful women.
It is known, after all, that he
is preferential of all things white and
rubbery, he made the moon,
you know, the moon, lilies,
and beautiful ladies.
He looked at me and I heard him whisper, a shame,
a shame.
If I put her in the oven, will she sweat?
Re: Re: I Should Make Rebecca Read This Time Of Year
Rebecca Dear:
The air must be cleaner here for I have taken to remembering my dreams as little installments. In last night’s episode, my father gave me two things, wisdom and a car to drive around in. Being American, I found the streets too narrow, so I remained parked and invited over a Jewess whom I knew when she was in high school. She seemed impressed with my wisdom, and there was much going on and on about it. In the way that these things work, we suddenly seemed to have misplaced it. Hearing a noise from the dash, we stared sadly into the glove compartment. This is the precise instant that I awoke. Perhaps tonight we will act on the intense urge to reach in.
I know, dreams are boring even to the most TV-riddled minds. I can’t help but think we are six feet below the top of a mess. Did I mention Mitch? No? I’m in Hungary with David Hasselhoff. I’ve left him tied to a rock for safekeeping ever since I’ve been observing European culture and realizing that there might be some keys on Baywatch. Nobody ever dies due to all of that swimming to safety, there must be something we Americans are missing. It’s sad, really. I have only just now walked upon both Croatia and terrorism blah, blah, blah and I can’t even see a lifeguard tower here without thinking of incessant references to 9/11. Maybe it’s not all that bad. For instance, September will one day be wiped away completely and we can then give ourselves a larger Spring. That last thing strikes me as obvious and stupid, which in turn, sweet, leads me to you.
It seems to me that certain events would have taken place regardless of whether 6/2 happened or not, seeing as how my body’s sort of comparable to Shakespeare’s ridiculous asides, you know, an overdone stage whisper, if you will, and you’re so thin that you’re hardly more than a tiny, childish type of murmuring. A little screaming should have been more than expected.
It grows late and I mean, for fuck’s sake, my eyes have only just adjusted to the light in Hungary. I must sign off, but not, of course, before I bust my head once more on the door of journalism, you know, it is hard to see through these emails and editorials. Oh, I’m sure by now you have noticed the mindless manner in which dying children are inserted into my letter. It is really just to remind you that we’re both sick kids.
It occurs to me, does the world really know what your writing in parenthesis means to me?
Johnny
I’ll Love You Like Yellow Apples, Unparenthetically
We never had candles burning, we thought,
simultaneously, although it occurred to me
on a Tuesday and you came around to it many
months later. There is always the matter
of the age difference and, of course, the genders.
You have hands like hot dog skewers, and mine, pretty one,
are more of sausages, I was prone to saying, but this
is a fact I’ve been saving; not one butterfly, moth,
or katydid ever caused a typhoon across a continent,
these are primarily produced by your hands, love,
the little shaky things that they are. You spend so
much time sitting on them to save the Chinamen.
It is true, you love me like yellow apples
and I you like fudgcicles (sticky mess and all). When
we are through we will have a mulch pile and a town
built in the carrot patch for the beetles and grasshoppers.
Perhaps then it will be time to set up a
shop to sell all of these empty people as bookmarks
and beautiful words for the next couple of years.
What if we become known as the smartest business
people in the whole of the backyard! My how close
about us then all the neighbors will suddenly draw.
Beautiful in the Oven
Then God spoke
to say only good
things about Christmas.
It was the day, after all, that he
pulled Jesus from the udder of the
mother-lady, put him
in the oven and baked us all gingerbread.
Take and eat, take and eat,
when they are ready, but please now,
watch your fingers!
The baby is still hot!
Then God spoke
to say only good things about
beautiful women.
It is known, after all, that he
is preferential of all things white and
rubbery, he made the moon,
you know, the moon, lilies,
and beautiful ladies.
He looked at me and I heard him whisper, a shame,
a shame.
If I put her in the oven, will she sweat?
Re: Re: I Should Make Rebecca Read This Time Of Year
Rebecca Dear:
The air must be cleaner here for I have taken to remembering my dreams as little installments. In last night’s episode, my father gave me two things, wisdom and a car to drive around in. Being American, I found the streets too narrow, so I remained parked and invited over a Jewess whom I knew when she was in high school. She seemed impressed with my wisdom, and there was much going on and on about it. In the way that these things work, we suddenly seemed to have misplaced it. Hearing a noise from the dash, we stared sadly into the glove compartment. This is the precise instant that I awoke. Perhaps tonight we will act on the intense urge to reach in.
I know, dreams are boring even to the most TV-riddled minds. I can’t help but think we are six feet below the top of a mess. Did I mention Mitch? No? I’m in Hungary with David Hasselhoff. I’ve left him tied to a rock for safekeeping ever since I’ve been observing European culture and realizing that there might be some keys on Baywatch. Nobody ever dies due to all of that swimming to safety, there must be something we Americans are missing. It’s sad, really. I have only just now walked upon both Croatia and terrorism blah, blah, blah and I can’t even see a lifeguard tower here without thinking of incessant references to 9/11. Maybe it’s not all that bad. For instance, September will one day be wiped away completely and we can then give ourselves a larger Spring. That last thing strikes me as obvious and stupid, which in turn, sweet, leads me to you.
It seems to me that certain events would have taken place regardless of whether 6/2 happened or not, seeing as how my body’s sort of comparable to Shakespeare’s ridiculous asides, you know, an overdone stage whisper, if you will, and you’re so thin that you’re hardly more than a tiny, childish type of murmuring. A little screaming should have been more than expected.
It grows late and I mean, for fuck’s sake, my eyes have only just adjusted to the light in Hungary. I must sign off, but not, of course, before I bust my head once more on the door of journalism, you know, it is hard to see through these emails and editorials. Oh, I’m sure by now you have noticed the mindless manner in which dying children are inserted into my letter. It is really just to remind you that we’re both sick kids.
It occurs to me, does the world really know what your writing in parenthesis means to me?
Johnny
I’ll Love You Like Yellow Apples, Unparenthetically
We never had candles burning, we thought,
simultaneously, although it occurred to me
on a Tuesday and you came around to it many
months later. There is always the matter
of the age difference and, of course, the genders.
You have hands like hot dog skewers, and mine, pretty one,
are more of sausages, I was prone to saying, but this
is a fact I’ve been saving; not one butterfly, moth,
or katydid ever caused a typhoon across a continent,
these are primarily produced by your hands, love,
the little shaky things that they are. You spend so
much time sitting on them to save the Chinamen.
It is true, you love me like yellow apples
and I you like fudgcicles (sticky mess and all). When
we are through we will have a mulch pile and a town
built in the carrot patch for the beetles and grasshoppers.
Perhaps then it will be time to set up a
shop to sell all of these empty people as bookmarks
and beautiful words for the next couple of years.
What if we become known as the smartest business
people in the whole of the backyard! My how close
about us then all the neighbors will suddenly draw.
posted by Jim Behrle at 9:49 AM
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