My boyfriend peeled
the cotton skin over
his head lifting upwards
as though he were sliding
downwards into some bronze
hole, his body a rich thick
aromatic Sunday AM coffee.
He was cold he said
as the cotton slid
down like blinds. Dale
has AIDS he said
as he tied my arms
round his chest. I didn’t
like him much he said.
But my arms only tightened
like a Chinese finger trap.
I’m going to lose him.
Had I known, the moment after initially accessing the internet via winsock or an equally cryptic amalgamation of geeky gobbledygook, that membership to the exclusive clubs (known as websites) would require not just one ridiculously preposterous secret knock-knock (login) followed by an incomprehensible, ludicrous, wacky, loony, cockeyed, screwy, and off the wall cavalcade of letters, numbers, symbols, and smoke signals resembling hieroglyphics or purposefully enigmatic code which 99% of average humans can’t create much less reproduce, I’d have hung up my telephone receiver/modem and exclaimed, “let those living in a foreign country, speak a foreign language! Here, here we speak English: literal English: whole, cream-at-the-top, decadently-indulgent, Nym-sister inspired (Homo, Syno, and Anto), dipthong-declared English!
My internet usage is appropriate to my demographic but I currently store 200+ logins and corresponding passwords! Two Hundred! My password manager is the electronic equivalent of my pop’s workbench: more than half the crap he’s kept, when asked, he’s got no clue what it does, where it goes, when he used it, or why he’s kept it. Same with me – but don’t ever, ever delete any login/password combination – EVER – because that’s the one you’ll really need! And where do you keep the login/password combination to your Password Manager program?
I’m currently enduring the arduous task of searching through four years of notebooks (like the guy that pitched the winning lottery ticket) for a login/password combination I cleverly disguised as a common American idiom of which I was certain I’d remember because it was part of our vernacular in 2009 like Aberzombie. Remember Aberzombie? Can’t you just picture yourself around the Starbuck’s counter catty hissing that the size 2 no-foam-easy-skim-extra-hot-cappucino is such an Aberzombie? Like that: that’s like what I’m searching for: that’s not what I’m searching for.
To the internet community at-large (especially those responsible for the L-SAT level login/password combination requirements): Why not invent an easier (and more pleasurable) method of identification? I’d like to suggest a pair of lips closely resembling your husband/wife/lover; boyfriend/girlfriend; Clooney; Roberts; Jackman; Beyonce which, when kissed, captures your DNA and compares it to the DNA profile they’ve got stored.
Tongue however, locks you out. That’s just freaky-deaky.
We adopted a Classical Revival opaque-glass inverted dome chandelier suspended by “faux aged-brass chains” through which were woven obvious electrical wire then disappeared into a polished brass top which was surrounded by a poorly reproduced Victorian 36″ plastic ceiling medallion.
During some interior remodeling we decided our electricians would center a light fixture (yet to be determined) over the dining room table. I decided that the “Old Girl” (the opaque-glass inverted dome) deserved a shot at redemption thus finding a permanent location in our home.
The following photographs show the restored Classic Revival opaque-glass inverted dome and rod chandelier proudly hanging above our dining room table. The restoration included (3) new keyless sockets inside the bowl, new brown 16 gauge wire threaded through (2) 17″ lengths of copper pipe (per socket) and into rings attached to the breaker. The breaker and knob were cleaned and refinished in a muted, antique copper finish. 
I refused to reinstall the plastic ceiling medallion and instead hand made a canopy built entirely from century old oak moulding rescued from an Edgewater (Chicago) mansion before its demolition. I wanted the canopy to step down and inward toward the breaker. I chose an octagonal shape. In all, there are (32) pieces of moulding and each joint is mitered at a 22.5 degree angle.
I’m a true believer in the rescue and restoration of objects once-treasured-then-discounted-by-cheap-materials. I try to repurpose materials; it’s our duty to the environment to give all objects “a second chance.”
I think the chandelier has reclaimed its mojo.
My house was made
of second hand wood and colors
and built like a magazine cover.
A man, ready
to jump into the river
with a rock tied around his neck,
shoelaces tied together, I remember
what I want to say; I am a teenager
on my first date!
Patrolmen sit behind the smiling
Lady that smokes filter brands on the lighted board
down County Trunk G, waiting
for my cue.
Tonight I am someone who has lived
in this stage-prop house and upon hearing
slapping noises like hockey sticks
kissing a puck, I wonder like a child
to department store mannequins, if
houses were built stronger —
would people pretend to be
themselves.
I know Nebraska.
It’s by Iowa, next
To it, beneath it, west,
To the left . I know Iowa
There’s a river there, in Iowa
Where I crossed and
My foot tickled water
With a stream of red silk; I
Fell ill from there.
I’ve seen Nebraska.
From the sky, I think it was
Nebraska, or perhaps a quilt
Covering Nebraska, but it was golden,
Like your hair, as wavy, as thick
This grain atop earth.
Nebraska is not a place
I remember, not a place
From my childhood, I never
Summered there, it never
Appeared in an essay
About what I did or where
I had gone.
But now Nebraska stands
In front of me, bold, barefoot
A scarecrow perhaps amidst a field
Of green-to-yellow corn; Nebraska
Stands in front of me, fresh
Untilled, quiet
And yet quickly violent, tossing
Its earth high as a pin pokes
The plains. Nebraska,
You are a song in reeds
Which line creek beds; Nebraska,
You are the stretch of dusk
On a flat, broad edge; Nebraska,
you are sleepy, cool nights.
