Suicide Girl

January

A Hobo Stole My Digicam

I left it sitting there, on the grass
Time-lapsing the flies on the dead bird

I should've noticed him--matted beard
Crazy eyes, yelling at his shopping bags
But Marilyn Manson filled my head
and blinded my eyes...

Then it was gone.
I stopped, dumbstruck.

My camera, my love--so much, carried in its soul
And now in the clutches of Mr. Stinky.
Would he look? Would he see?

The photos I took for Suicide Girls
Simple, my friends said--just lie about your age
And now, in his filthy clutches, with me
Underdeveloped and Overexposed.

What if they get on the internet now?
Maybe then my mother will notice the cuts...

Build Your Own Emo Boy

I used to have a boy...friend
Saturdays his parents weren't home,
He'd hope for much more
I'd always disappoint

We sat, watching his Monty Python tapes
He'd ask why I didn't laugh,
And I'd tell him--I'm laughing on the inside...
Then offer to slice myself open so he could see.
He didn't like me like that
And went back to his Warcraft World
While I rummaged through his parents' things
Looking for proof of their infidelities.

I liked the "spam" song--I changed it to "angst", though
And sang it nonstop for three days.

One day he gave me a box, asked me to try it on.
"It's a Seven of Nine costume--it cost me 200 bucks"
I swore at him, and called him a trekkie perv.
"Trekker" he corrected me.
I took the costume away, and snip snip--
it fit the dog perfectly.

"You're going to break up with me, aren't you?"
I shook my head. "Not yet.
I must do much more damage before I set you free"

He looked sadder at my truth
So I chased him around the room
With my home piercing kit.

I don't see him much any more...
Because he never leaves his house.
That was my most successful relationship
No court orders in sight.

Sisterhood

Placards in hand, they march
In front of the
"Have the baby, raped girl or you'll go to hell" clinic

I pause--and one looks at me, her eyes full of sincerity
And passion.

"Sandra Day O'Connor's gone!"
I nod--and notice her sign.
"Keep your hands of my womb"

"What about your pancreas?" I ask.
She looks at me, confused. Nothing unplanned has ever
Happened in her 4.0 GPA world
"What?"

"I don't want anyone's hands on my pancreas."
She steps back, confused.
I laugh my crazy laugh
The one that makes my mother take her pills
and my father turn up the TV volume.

Then she sees, "Your eyes..." she whispers
My beautiful yellow evil Anakin eyes.
I bought them off Ebay--cheap

The previous owner was deceased
Apparently driving with them is unwise
Now I see through the eyes of a dead man.

I am the Slug Goddess

I don't usually get up early
Who wants middle class breakfast?
"You were home late last night"
Not by Transylvanian time, idiots

But those spring mornings, damp...
Dew-covered grass--they are out there
My loyal subjects.

They don't understand me,
(They can join a big club)
But somehow they know I am
I AM. If only they could please me...

Some do, a swirly pattern of slime on the deck
Makes me pause.
That one will be spared, as will the one whose dots
Mirror the freckles on my nose, that I hide so well;
(It's not clown makeup, dammit)

I bring saline judgement in my right hand
The sodium wrath that comes down from on high
Brimstone, without the treacle...

Tomorrow I will sleep in again
Judgement is a sometimes thing.

At the Bus Stop

They think they're funny, smug cheerleaders
Speaking louder for my benefit
"Rocky Horror playing somewhere, freak?"
I turn slowly, stare, and lick my lips.

I ignore both of them, as they giggle about the weekend ahead
Whoring themselves to whoever kicks the most touchdowns..
or whatever the hell those acne steroid freak boys do.

Then I see it--probably was a squirrel, before Goodyear got it.
Now it's a lovely compact model,
If you don't mind the oozing.

I find a suitable stick,
While they pretend not to watch
Fearing, perhaps, I'll swing it in my wrath.
But no, delicately I pick up the pancaked vermin,
Angering the swarm of feeding flies,
And approach them, grinning--I show my filed fangs.

"Get away from us you freak!"
If I had a dollar for every time I heard that...
"Look!" I shout, "It's your soul on a stick!"
They run, their fear unmasked, up into a nearby yard.

I laugh, my favorite, crazy laugh.
The bus has already pulled up, and I step in
Enjoying a laugh with the young bus driver
As we watch the pit bull chase them from the yard.

I sit near the front as we pull away
The driver eyes me in his mirror,
While I contemplate his dreads
"You're insane," he smiles. "I like that"
He invites me to "party" with his friends that weekend.

I smile and say nothing.
I won't let my soul become a pancake
Just yet.

Hating my Sheep

"Teach us," they beg.
I pause, and peer over my book
Lovecraft--the cover art usually shields me
But these two broke through.

I don't speak, but sit up and glare
At least a year younger than me,
Their piercings red, raw and new
I am the next step on their journey.

"Go eat a spider" I tell them.
They look at me blankly. I smile...
"Or milk and cookies, if you're weak"
Their fear is pleasing to me.

The next week is filled with tests;
They run naked at midnight in the graveyard
Panhandle in front of the school
Sit under my fast food table,
And bark like dogs.

"Is this... some kind of hazing?"
The question hangs there.
I shake my head.
"This is life." They think it deep
and nod without understanding.

Hiding from them is futile,
But then, I don't really blend in
And they find me and stare,
Expectantly.

"I want silence, not subjects"
But they are persistent.
Against my better judgement,
I even learn their names.

Then one night as I wander in,
My father waits--he's nervous, as usual
And stammers about a phone call
From some shrill suburban shrew
I just stare at my nails
And ten pretty skulls stare back.

She asked him to "reign me in"
As if such were possible.
I'm a bad influence, apparently.
I'd rather be no influence at all
To wannabes who look for something
To fill the empty space
Where Hilary once smiled on their walls.

They vanish after that.
Lovecraft doesn't notice,
And neither do I.

Parentals

Dear, would you mind coming down to dinner?

Mortal food pleases me not, mother
I sit and contemplate my surroundings

Too middle class, too white, too suburban.
My room should have stalactites
And stalagmites,
Chewing intruders.

Honey, how come you never bring any boys to the house ?
Do you really want to hear the answer to that?

How about something angstful and easy...
The boys at my school are stupid
I'm not really as popular as the cheerleader sluts
I'm saving myself for...

No not even I can say that with a straight face
And that's what you want, isn't it mother...
A "straight" face.

I see you wondering as you timidly tiptoe into my room
Glancing at things you cannot begin to comprehend

So much.... black, really dear--doesn't it depress you?
You continued breathing depresses me, mater dearest
But I can't change that... just yet.

I see those books you bring home from the library
"How to Talk to Your Troubled Teen"
I peruse it them while you sleep.
My responses are more disturbing
When I script them first.

Please sweetheart, wouldn't you prefer a tidy room?
Fire is the ultimate cleanser, mother.

Maybe your father can talk some sense into you...

He can't even make eye contact
Maybe he's noticed his liquor decanters
Are slowly filling with water.

Or maybe...

I found his secret stash of porn--old school, VHS.
I did a little editing...
Videos of my birthdays, preschool graduations, and such
In place of the money shots.
I wonder if he's noticed?

I think it's time
For a bigger allowance.

The Hell It's Not Art

"Create" she said.

I looked at her, standing before us, self-assured.
So many before had stood there, in front of me.

Stress leave is often unexpected.

Still, perhaps this one isn't like the others...
She hasn't looked twice at the snakes,
twisting from the eyeballs of the corpse on my shirt

Maybe she'll be the first
Not to call my parents
(Like they'll be surprised)

I go home and begin my quest.
Art for shock's sake--Dali paved the way
And I know what works.

I get my sack and head out to the yard
It's been there, growing more artistic each day
So disrespectful to call it road kill
What once was crow.

Amazing, the power of a backyard composter
And a few of nature's most perfect little critters.

Ooze--my favorite.

I take my little avian pal,
And pile the parts that can be pried away from the ooze
Inside my bag.

Then it's off to my room.

My fine feathered friend
Provides all--the paint, the canvas, and...
Some new little friends who wriggle into my life
When I drop Mr. Crow to the floor.

I won twice with the masterpiece.
A hurried "A" scrawled as she rushed by and out the room,
And her bagged lunch she handed me later.

Somehow she wasn't so very hungry.
I think I will like being an artist

Neighbors

The list is long
My sins, their bleating, my consequences...

The anger simply builds.

It spirals out of control--the house shrew next door
Screeches her antagonism to the one who bore me

"She's out there every afternoon, suntanning without..."

Well, can I help it if her Prince Charming's a perv?
I see him watching me and I just smile and wave.

Of course I'm not really there to tan. SPF 150 for me.
Pale is an investment.

Tonight I'm persona non grata. One step too far, the parentals say.
I guess when I sober up I'll either blush or giggle. Maybe both.

The tequila went down smooth, and the walk home was more a stumble
With a purpose.
I looked at their porch, bleary eyed,
And somehow recalled their weekend trip to the lake.

I'd seen their son--a pretty boy a year my junior--
Take the key from under the rock many times.
In the darkness I found it easily.
The lock was my silent ally, and I drifted inside.

It hadn't just been the tequila tonight, and so
The munchies took my hands, and placed them
on cupboard doors.

I tried a bowl of cereal, but it was dry and I hate milk.
The chips--promising, but salt and vinegar--too bad.
Then I found it--half a cheesecake
The purge will come later.

I eat my prize and wander to the tv room.
There it is--a game cube and my favorite challenge
And soon I'm blasting creatures with abandon.

Too much abandon, and the china vase is toast.

I try to pick up the pieces,
But bending over makes my head swim.

I stumble down a hall, find a bedroom
Posters of Rose McGowan stare at me
Strangely comforting.

An hour later--but a moment in my time
I hear a scream. Too slow I rouse myself
They are upon me.
I play at being confused--
"Why are you in my room?"
They call the gendarmes anyway.

Just before the uniforms lead me home
I hear the shrew calling the alarm company
At least they like me,
That's two new clients this month.

The officers pass me to my mortified parents.
"What's your excuse this time?"
That one knows me too well.

I look up at him and grin.
"I'm Goldilocks, dammit!"
Goldilocks.

Pity the bears.

Suicide Girl

The joke shop's going out of business sale
set the wheels in motion.
It was lovely--a human arm, soft, malleable--
A replica just made for mischief.

I planned the details with careful glee.
My webcam--listed on a creepy site
"Hot girls live" or some such trash
Trolling the net for degenerates.

I hook a few, size them up, throw a few back
I show them nothing, but tell them lots
Stories made up to keep them coming back.

My name? Of course, I say.
I offer them a name to tantalize:
Tiffany Bennington. She comes to mind so easily--
The prototypical cheerleader from down the street.

The Inquisition has nothing on
what my imagination inflicts on her...

The time arrives--I've prepared my watchers well.
"Something special tonight" I promise.
They see my lace and settle in to wait.

Preparation is my strong point.
The bottle of sleeping pills, emptied
Replaced with tic tacs.
And nearby the arm--my treasured find.

I tease them for a while--I know they hope...
But what I offer isn't what they dreamed of
Just a second--"it's showtime," I type.
Then I adjust the camera, down--focusing on "my arm"
The resolution isn't great, and time lapse is my ally.

The creepy pervs are likely halfway there,
When suddenly, the unexpected happens.
I disappear, then my arm, a blade, a cut...
A trail of "blood"

Next the camera shifts back.
I smile thinly,
the bottle opens, my hand extends,
I shake free the "pills" and down them
With a shot of my father's whisky.

"Ta da!" I type.
Then the camera falls
As I slip from chair to floor.
A moment later it ends.
My broadcast fades to black.

My experiment's begun.
Are these voyeurs beyond the pale? Will they?
Dare they? Might they call for help?

Minutes later, my answer comes.

Wake up Tiffany.
I see you have visitors.
Too bad the state finals are tomorrow morning,
You've got a long night ahead.

Your Secret Admirer

You shouldn't be surprised; being so very... trusting.
I mean, you left your backpack just sitting there
When you went to the office to get the message.

You didn't understand the message they gave you--
I didn't mean you to--just call the number your "mother" left.
I know what you will hear--and how long it will take.
I worked hard on that recording.

Your mother should have checked in the back of her van
When she and her boss snuck away.
My recording skills are unparalleled,
And I can pick a lock in 20 seconds.

I should care that you were traumatized,
The sounds of her indiscretions captured and revealed.
But I will be there to comfort you eventually...
When I am finished with the last shreds of your confidence.

Your backpack isn't uncommon. I found 20 at Walmart.
I only needed one, and now it magically hangs over your chair
So no one notices my rummaging.

The treasures are considerable; some of the photos I recognize,
and then I cut out their eyes--they don't deserve to look at you.
I hesistate and then I program my number into your phone.
I name it "Destiny". You will understand soon enough.

You should've been more careful at the party last week,
Unattended drinks are so very inviting.
How beautifully you slept.

So very peaceful--the vial of blood around my neck,
Liberated as you dreamt.
Have you even missed the lock of hair?
My sister's barbie wears it so well, hanging over my bed.

Now it's back--your belongings safely stowed,
My decoy back beneath my desk.
It's too bad just as you get back to class,
Wiping the tears from your eyes,
The Vice Principal will suddenly appear.

How will you explain, the bag, its contents?
Surely there's too much there for personal use.
You must be a dealer--it's so very simple.

Don't be afraid--the contact number for your mother
Now rings my cell.
Trust me, my love.
Soon you will understand. Everything.

I See You When You're Sleeping, I Hide When You're Awake...

It comes but once a year,
I can hardly wait--
My father's office party.

He's third in command,
But our house is best suited for a party
(so his bosses tell him)

For two weeks they prepare
Calling caterers, baking, buying booze
Putting a padlock on my room for safety
Of all who might glance in.

It's really a matter of taste;
I've decorated in Nouveau Nihilist,
With a touch of goth, although my mother's
"My god what's wrong with that girl?"
Catches the essence of my design.

As the party approaches, my plan is executed.
They know what is coming--
My eating meals with them is one of the signs
...of the coming apocalypse.

"So Daddy," I smile, hiding the fangs for his comfort,
"How will I tell the 'stupid slut' from the 'menopausal cow' again?"
He blanches. I continue:
"Your boss--will it be awkward for him
To have both wife and secretary here--
Considering everything...?"

"How much?"
His hand shakes as he pulls a wad of bills from his wallet.
"How much for you to go out?"

I shake my head
"I wouldn't miss it for the world--
I even have new makeup and jewelry for the occasion."
I swear he palpably shudders.

I hide in my room for a few more hours,
Then come down with a list of my... 'requirements'.
The last vestiges of a curfew surrendered,
The garage given to my band--he can park on the street,
And my own key to the liquor cabinet.
(We both know that taking the lock off
Would be a bad idea--have you met my mother?)

He looks relieved, surprised I didn't take the cash
That can wait--after all
This year Christmas is at Grandmamas.

In Lieu of a Life (dedicated to the Cynical Career Counsellor)

When Irish eyes are bloodshot

Your cousin's coming over, dear--won't you wear that green dress?
Not likely mother--and not for Shame... Us.

It's Seamus, dear--one word
I've heard it from you and father often enough--I was sure it was two.

My mother's cousin arrives, already "into his cups"
A lovely description for a stinking, bulbous man
Who lost his wit to whisky long ago.

Can this be young...
I won't say it--he uses that name.
No priest sprinkled Dythandra on me,
And none ever will.

My how you've grown
I notice where he's looking
Why do we tolerate him again?

He comes every March 17 without fail
Misses the Ides by two days;
I'd overlook his lateness if they'd give me the knife.

Celebrating St. Patrick--
He drove out the snakes,
But left the Catholics.

No wonder they blow each other up.

Why aren't you wearing green?
He slurs, later--so far into his cups
We'll have to throw a rope to get him out.

"I am", I explain.
Then I guide his booze-blurry eyes
To the lettering of the pro-choice button on my shirt.
No pinches for me.

If you want me, I'll be upstairs.
Listening to an old Sinnead O'Connor album.

A Road Trip

I see the ad online--Switchblade Symphony,
In concert, but too far away for a day trip.
I do have friends, messages fly
Our plans are made.

The parentals, choosing unwisely,
Pick this time to make their stand.
Seems the school's been calling about me
Yet again.

I don't argue, so much as glare.
Still, they are insistent,
And needing cash more than permission
I am marched into "counselling".

I recognize the counsellor,
She's tried to break through before
I am resistant, but she holds my travel plans
Unwittingly, within her power.

I see her family photos, smiling--so... traditional,
Not that her... orientation matters;
I see such tastes as fluid and evolving
And so it begins.

"I'm ugly--no one wants me," I complain.

No dear, you're really very lovely,
Under all that white makeup...

And so our exchanges go--
I've already scripted my part,
And the mini-recorder is easy to hide.

I spend a day editing;
The results are better than I had hoped.

I call her direct line--she sounds so... ill-prepared
I just play the recording of her words
If their sentiment were real
Even I might blush.

She tells my parents what they need to hear,
And my trip is justly my reward.
Unfortunately one of my compatriots,
Is not a worthy travel companion.

You've never really tasted blood, have you?
Your own doesn't count.

I could lie, but why rise to her bait?
"Poser" is such a cruel word.

Our discount hotel is not so careful
About locking up their kitchen knives at night
A large one finds its way up to our room.

She wakes to find me sitting, crosslegged
Beside her on the bed,
Fingering the blade, humming.

"I just dreamed your blood tasted... salty"

She's gone by breakfast time.
Luckily for her,
'Twas only her ticket that was scalped.

the measure of me

It's that time again...
Standardized tests.

I know why they want to "meet" with me
I am a curiosity--they've seen my scores
All 90-something percentile
Classic "underachiever".

"Are you bored?"
Not when I picture you after school,
Seeing what I did to your car

"Are you taking something that...
Uhm, interferes with your abilities?"
I just twitch a bit, and then shake my head.

"Are there problems... at home?"
I shiver and look up
Like a wounded kitten.
"No," I stammer, unconvincingly

I toy with them--I could just as easily
Score within the norms.
But why pretend to fit?

Gifted programs, remedial classes,
Even home schooling--that was a short lived
Experiment in mutual torture

Then there was parochial school
The poor priest, so surprised,
I could see the fear when he realized
His holy water didn't hurt me.

Now I'm back, and yet another well meaning authority figure
Shakes his head and wonders what makes me tick.

A phone call; he steps out
The file is open--how can I resist:

"...exhibits sociopathic tendencies...
...potential arsonist...very dark...moody..."
And then a list, of all the stress leave
Attributed to moi.

He comes back--doesn't want me to leave,
but really, what can he do?
Better than he have lain awake worried
About what I may do next.

"Lovely flowers in your hair" he remarks,
Offering his hand--so formal as he stands.
"What are they?"

"Oh those?" I smile--he thinks me normal for a moment.
"I got them from my garden. They're... columbine."

I can't let my file get boring, after all.

My Summer Vacation

The parentals insist, each year
Upon a family bonding time.
Camping was a disaster--Fire, lanterns,
Pointed marshmellow sticks...
And my imagination.

Though I did enjoy the bats
Who joined me each night to play.

Something different this year--a surprise
They promise. I despise surprises
Unless they're of my design.

I fear their bland conformity,
And brace myself for Yellowstone.
But the plane takes us to San Jose--
The Bay Area.
I almost smile--San Francisco has its perks.

But then the hammer falls,
A rental car, and down the coast we go.
Anaheim our destination.

But not before we stop the SUV and add
My Aunt and her annoyingly tanned
California kids.

Poor Aunty Jan--all alone, with those two
How does she ever manage
On the court ordered half mil a year
Her financier ex must pay.

Her spawn are first smug and superior
I have no precancerous coloring,
So they feel me unworthy of their company.

This suits me, until the son--my cousin, Daniel
(I remember him from the Dan and Danny incarnations)
Decides to find me exotic, or perhaps dangerous.
And his tiresome pursuit begins.

All manner of discouragement fails to dissuade
Even my intimation that his sister is more to my...
Well, suffice to say, it just increased his ardor.

At the mecca of the rodent's empire,
I relent enough to sample the rides
The Tower of Terror holds few for me
And the roller coaster is tame,
Though my Aunt loses her filet mignon.

I give my suitor a hint of encouragement.
"We'll ride the Small World together"
His eyes light up. He runs away with me
As I shake away his attempt to hold my hand.

We see an opportunity--it's early, and we manage
To get a boat to ourself.

Inside, I know exactly what to do
(I reconnoitered the day before)
At the right moment, we climb out
And sneak behind some horrible stereotypes
Of Africa's children.

I pull out the handcuffs I managed to sneak in
And his eyes light up.

Later, the park security is eventually told
About the young man behind the animatronic
Natives.

Seemed no one heard him for hours
Over that shrill song.
I whistle it all the way back
To San Francisco.

My parents agree that next year
The two of them are taking a cruise.

Your Fall from Grace

You're staying for the summer,
My favorite cousin
Part of the parentals' plan
To "restore" me.

You seemed... more complex, before.

Now there's the hour of painting, filing, curling
Each morning, with pit stops throughout the day.

While we used to bond,
Now there's uncomfortable silence.

You meet the boy who runs the outdoor camps.
Seems his assistant backed out--he's desperate for help.
You talk about him to your friends back home
You don't know about my silent extension.

I also hear your laughs
At the expense of your "pathetic little wannabe vampire" cousin.

I don't complain when you propose to leave
All comforts of home shed for a month
While you help 10 year olds paddle a kayak.

Too bad you're careless.
Should've hidden that myspace password more
When you typed it five times a day.
Should've looked over to my window
When you got friendly down on the porch
With Mr. Wilderness.

Does he know about the boy back home?
My mother looks at me sadly.
Her hopes dashed, and fearing my summer
Somehow ruined.

I smile bravely, and retreat to my room.
It's a gradual process, this destruction.

I find I enjoy being electronic you:

You're rude to your friends when you comment
Your blog details new friends and their chemicals
You ask your boy back home for more space
And Paris-like, you post the nightvision shots
Of your cozy times on the veranda.

Of course, the phone calls from worried or angry friends
Find only voicemail--
No phones or computers allowed
In Camp Wannagebizzee

It's a good month;
You return suntanned and smiling.
I hope camp boy has the internet
You're going to have lots of free time
When you get home.

Back to School

A familiar ritual
My mother dragging me to sales
Thrusting floral prints at me

Despite what your magazines say, Mater dear,
There is no "new black".

The first moments in class, the roll call
My name--if they're good, you don't notice
The catch in the throat and the anxious eyes

I stare, then let a little smile drift across my lips
In return: a shudder, a swallow, a hastily-scrawled note
The principal will be sure to hear
Sound reasons why I might be better... relocated.

Another first week ritual:
My annual skirmish with the forces
of sweat socks and volleyballs.

The Vice Principal sighs
"You know P.E. is manditory for your grade."
The same tired paper pusher who decreed last year
that 40 minutes to untie one's boots
Was insufficient excuse.

It's my, uhm, corset-thing
I see the wheels turn, while visions of all manner of frightening things
Dance in his head.

Then I hand him the "doctor's note".
(They shouldn't leave the letterhead handy
When the receptionist steps away from the desk.)
Attached is the informative brochure
I downloaded from the 'net.

"What teachers should know about scoliosis".

That round won, I return to the hallways
And then my year takes its first
Unexpected turn.

His kind hasn't been seen here before
Perhaps a fan of "The Crow", I think to myself.
I suddenly reevaluate all those pronouncements on orientation
That have shattered my few past suitors.

He doesn't see me at first;
Some cementhead jock made a smartass remark
To his steroid buddies
My soon to be friend turned instantly
And the joker was on the floor.

Apparently it only took a couple of such displays
To give him a degree of tolerance
Rarely accorded anyone in this incestuous petri dish
of preppy pondscum.

Our friendship was assumed from the first
Though I looked for hint of more
Sadly, one day as we sat near a football practice
Mocking the fools on the field
I noticed something else in his eyes

His view of the practice had something more...
Unrequited.
I sighed--here I am, hoist on my own petard,
or lack thereof.

Still, a friend is better
Than most years start.
Finally a biology partner who understands
The true joy of dissection.

Not my Scene

It's the first meeting of the year
Lunch time--room 309.
They wonder if the media will show up this time
To give the defenders of morality
Reason to get their signs out of the garage.

I sit in a back corner,
Unallied. I like it that way.

They're all there--those who've known since 6th grade,
Those who aren't sure,
Even the fag hags in training.

Tommy Hilfiger should've put more stripes in his logo--
He'd get rich off this crew.

They begin--volunteers self-disclose.
It's like testimonies at a revival meeting
Presided over by the "sponsor",
Who smiles supportively and leads the applause
After each weakling is finished whining.

I notice one butch glance in the doorway
She surveys the room--is about to move on
Then sees me, and steps inside.
Sadly, for her, not my type
But I never write off a game piece
When my games are so much fun.

Then our "leader"--the face of this club
Seen on local television
Each year when the evening news lacks
Plane crashes or hollywood scandal
He begins his self disclosure.

He tells of his adolescent angst,
The regrets of his sham marriage
The hatred of the community
Where he first revealed his truth.

I plead guilty to a smirk,
As I watch him choke up
And tears of sycophant sympathy
Glisten among a few disciples
throughout the room.

I've had enough--when they offer everyone a pin
To show solidarity in the hallways
I gracelessly decline.

Their prophet sees it all, and out loud,
in front of the group--his biggest mistake--
He asks why I don't want one.

(Perhaps it's payback for my listening skills
during his earlier pityfest.)

Normally not one to proclaim to the masses
What I can dagger through the hearts of individuals
I rise to the occasion.

"I don't need any pins of yours"--here I allow myself
a meaningful glance at "Rocky", as she has dubbed herself--
"I have enough body art of my own, thanks."

Then, I mock their weakness--their need for support
The world does not frighten me--I create fear.
"I don't need to spend my lunchtime playing therapy group
for an aging queen too cheap to pay a shrink."

The room is silent except for someone weeping quietly
off in a corner. Not cowed by my words, the teacher--
a few disciples crowded protectively around him--
Asks why I bothered to come.

"It's some cheap entertainment 'til the weather's good enough
for the skaters and the wiggas to start pounding each other
out on the back parking lot again."

I know when to exit for best effect, but as I near the door,
I make my only strategic mistake.
"Where did you learn to be so angry?"

I could've walked on--his voice was soft,
I might not have heard him.

But I stopped. They waited.

Life is what it is, I explain,
I ask no quarter and give none.

"Is that what your parents taught you?"

"My parents? A father who hides in is study,
lost in drink--spending all his time making online dates
He never intends to keep?"

"My mother--joining every committee in sight
To hide from her only child, who scares the hell out of her?"

I hate myself the moment the pathetic syllables
Escape my lips. I hate worse, what I see next:

Empathy.

I don't need it, him, or them.

I do break a lot of windows that night, though.

Unsafe at Any Speed

I

After the second "practice", visibly shaking
My mater called the driving school.
I was getting Mrs. Archibald--one of the good ones.
Good=unflappable.

She was, as I expected, formidable.
A cold eye assessed me--dismissed me
But she was paid to fulfill their promise:
"Creating safe drivers since 1992".

How exactly do you... create them?
An unfriendly eye regarded me; disregarded me.
"Keep your eyes on the road".
I pulled out the ones I stole from biology class
And tossed them out the window.

She started to say something, then,
Thinking better of it, shook her head
And scribbled some notes on her clipboard.

We parted--Will you be my instructor next week?
She snorted, then walked away.

II

Two instructors and 17 lessons later,
They deemed me done.
Roy, the one who "survived" scribbled out a certificate.
"Show them this--it might help."

But Roy--you still haven't answered my question
Do you "create" them in test tubes,
Or the... old fashioned way?

He never answered.

III

Waiting at the DMV for my road test.
I know how to read people--there are three
Who can grant me the freedom of the streets.

The first--I know her kind.
All business. Everyone should fail the first time
I slip one place back in line.

The second--buzz cut bodybuilder.
Should be a football coach.
My fashion sense will sink me
Before we leave the parking lot.

Third time lucky--I slip one more place in line.
He's younger, awkward--
His voice cracks,
As I stare directly into his eyes.

He stammers directions as we leave the parking lot
Too overwhelmed to ask me to turn down the music
Meatloaf is way before my time
But "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" is still a classic
And torture for a 28 year old still trying
To complete his adolescence.

Nonchalance is my specialty,
And I sing along with the words and sounds
That flush his pockmarked skin crimson.

He seems not to notice when I miss the shoulder check
He comments not on my rolling stop,
My parallel park--5 minutes to perfect
Earns no critique.

We roll to a stop, back at the DMV.
So--how was I?
He quickly hands me the affirmation
Of my driving expertise.
Dampened by his anxiety-moistened hand.

My first trip--the discount used lot
I have to hurry--
The hearse won't last long.

Field Trip Stowaway

It's an odd sensation--something's afoot
Yet I'm out of the loop.
My usual detachment seems insufficient
For somehow it's about me.

At lunch I hear them talking--my name
That name--I won't speak it--
and muffled phrases:
"She'd love that"
"Maybe she'd find a boyfriend there"
"It would be like christmas--or should
I say Halloween for her"

I glare at them but cannot allow myself
the luxury of asking.
Superior is as superior does
And my mystique is what shields me
From the "prepulent" rabble

Still, something is up, and I must know.
I take my usual approach--
Long smoke breaks in the girl's washroom
Hidden in the stall, I listen
But to no avail.

Then I stand behind the foyer pillar
But no one reveals anything more interesting
Than the identity of the narc
Old news--we spotted his wedding ring tanline
Even before we cringed at his
1997 ghetto slang.

Then a clue--a too-loud jock
No doubt compensating for steroidal shrinking
Sees fit to yell towards me as I pass:
"Hey Morticia--gonna find a prom date on that field trip?"

Now I have something to work with
And soon discover a notice
I'd passed by dozens of times
Without regard:

GRADE 12 BIOLOGY FIELD TRIP:
"Bodies in Motion" I am intrigued.
"...featuring almost 200 authentic human specimens
preserved using the extraordinary method of Plastination"

I gasp. This is school--a class--
They will see this, experience
What has been only fodder
For my fevered dreams.

I must go. I move at a pace faster
Than my usual apathy allows.
The biology teacher is eating lunch
As I blurt my wish to "take advantage
of this amazing learning opportunity".

He looks at me coldly.
"I remember you. The fetal pig kid."
I am horrified--it hadn't occurred to me
That last year's liberation of my pickled pet
Would still rankle in his formaldehyde-damaged brain.

"Uhm, yeah--but that wasn't me," I stammer.
He shakes his head. "It's for the senior biology class--only."
I am not beyond begging, but his eyes make it clear
So I go elsewhere to plot my strategy.

Our town is too small, and the chance to see the exhibit
Miles away in the city
Shrinks with the waning fall daylight--
It's scheduled to move on
Like a rare comet--passing this close once
In our tedious lifetimes.

I turn to my old standby--the counselling department.
They all fear me, and I know their secrets.
My typical requests--excused from P.E.,
early dismissal, free cafeteria food--are always granted
Without a moment's hesitation.

Still, this one requires all my wiles,
And after hinting at recordings and photos
That might exist--they comply.
I have an "independent biology study" class
And the field trip is now curricular.

The biology teacher scowls--tells me the cost.
I hand him twenty bucks--my share of the bus.
He glances at his list and then a wicked smile...
"Sorry, kid--the bus is full."

I leave the money--deposit for my place
On the "waiting list"--then wait for him
To go to answer the call I make to the office.

During his absence, I scan the class list.
I see my targets--it's survival of the fittest.
And even if I hadn't called the tip line
About the stash that somehow ended up in his locker
The drug-addled loser would have likely skipped
The opportunity of my lifetime.

My father raises an eyebrow as he glances at my mother
While she signs the travel form.
They know not to ask too many questions.

I have my camera safely hidden in my boot.
It will come in handy today.
I need a picture
For this year's Christmas cards.

Unwilling Accomplice

He sits at the back--just like me
Looking bewildered when he hears:
"Just find a partner for the project".

We don't attract partners--
Or any human contact, really.
The difference is,
I work at it,

While his leprosy occurs more naturally.

It's awkward at the end--
The teacher peers over her charges
"Anyone not have a partner?"
We say nothing, but then
A little cheer whore obliges:

"Those two don't have partners"

The teacher smiles and assigns us each other
With no more thought
Than I gave the beetle
I killed before breakfast.

He looks in my direction
Won't meet my eyes.
I'm not going to make it easy
But then the blonde princess titters
So I glance daggers at her
And join my new... friend.

I pull a desk beside his and roll my eyes
We read the lab instructions
In uncomfortable silence.

He picks at his cuticles 'til they bleed;
While I draw portraits Tiffany with electrodes,
Decorating her skin.

It's mind-numbingly simple
Earth Science is to real science
What podiatry is to neurosurgery.

We are required to meet on the weekend,
Our task: a trek into the park
To number the carbon-based lifeforms
In one square meter of greenspace.

We meet at his house;
I'd rather not give my parentals false hope
Of pseudo-social interactions,
Plus his family's expressions
When I arrive--too delightful to miss.

It's a short trek to our research site,
Then we look about for the best spot
To perform our grubby census.

He defers to my determination--
I can spot decomp
From a quarter mile away.

Sure enough, our little piece of nature
Yields the sad remnants
Of a family of racoons

No doubt the parents were eaten
Or squashed by an SUV
Too soon for their offspring to survive.

We count the things that call the little corpses home
and I take a few quick digicam pics
While my partner tries hard
Not to look squeamish.

Soon our list is complete
Bugs, grubs and maggots
A veritable city
Just beneath the surface.

As he starts to leave,
I pull out a freezer bag.
He waits awkwardly
While I kidnap the lower life forms.

Monday is a grand success.
I actually meet a deadline
And Tiffany has an unfortunate
But assuredly accidental
Mishap with red ants.

It's quite a scene--she screams and flails about
Before fleeing the room.

Her partner, with his nonchalant good looks
Quietly passes me a note:
"Next time I work with you".

Tasting the Oxymoron

Seems a bit strange, the new "requirement"
For all senior students:
25 hours of "Volunteer Work".

We have an assembly, Nuremberg light--
All the overinflated are there
To guide us on our way.

Even the mayor is in on the act
Seems everyone wants us to know
Just how much our "volunteering"
Will be appreciated.

I snicker with the rest,
When, three speakers in,
They introduce the rep. from the Boy Scouts.
Short pants should have an expiration date.

After the agitprop, we mill about
Wandering from table to table
Seeking our respective niches.

I go outside--gymnasiums have always made me nauseous.

My hope they'd ignore me, sadly, is dashed.
Two weeks later, I'm called to the counselor.

"We need to find you a volunteer placement, dearie"

I shudder.

She pushes some brochures in front of me.
I shake my head, but she insists.

"It's required. Everyone has to do it."
There is no compromise; her eyes are like steel.

Fine, I think to myself.
They can't say they didn't have a chance to avoid this.

My volunteer placements are shortlived:

Seems the "reading to the seniors" program wasn't thrilled with me
(I didn't see any "no erotica" sign anywhere in that building)

Then there was the preschool.
I simply took a picture of each child standing beside me,
Then sent the lovely photos home.

Apparently enrollment dropped significantly the next day.

I knew my stint as a "candy striper" would be doomed from the start.
Apparently they didn't believe me
When I told them my assignment card
Spelled it with two "p's".

Finally they pulled me in the office and admitted defeat.
Still, against all hopes, the poor wretch just has to ask:
"Isn't there anything on the volunteer board you'd like to do?"

I smirked, then glanced at the array of cards.

Suddenly, my eyes lit up, and I snatched a card from the wall.
"This one." She glances at it, and starts to say something.
Then, thinking better of it, she hands it back along with a printout--
Directions to my last chance.

My thrill is short-lived, though.
Seems my new "employers" are selfish--
They won't let me take anything home.

Damned blood bank bastards.

Faint Praise

The letter arrived like others before it,
School letterhead, wisely hidden
In a plain envelope.

My mother was home that day, unexpectedly
And found it before I had the chance
To feed my friend, the shredder.

"You are cordially invited..."
Odd. Usually they begin:
"We would like to discuss some concerns..."
Is it a trick?
Like those who are invited for lottery winnings,
But find only traffic court awaits.

No such... luck.
To my mother's hardly concealed glee,
She and paternal parental
Are invited to
"A celebration of excellence".

She finishes, triumphantly, and glances at us
Across the remains of my favorite dinner.
You'd think it was her achievement
This epistle arrived to proclaim.

My father was more circumspect
He glanced at me, awaiting a cue
Some clue to guide
His "spontaneous" reaction.

I searched quickly through the catalogue
Of all my best expressions
And settled on disdain.

The queen of this moment was not disheartened
By my lack of enthusiasm--she hardly could have expected any.

It was her moment--a small vindication
That my existence, traumatic
From the moment my arrival on stage
Destroyed her body's chances
To reproduce again...

...through the dozen meetings with school counselors,
Those "paraprofessionals" with little more to offer
Than platitudes punctuated with nods
And worried clucking.

But this--some small allowance by the system
That I was worthy of more
Than tired phone calls from frightened adults
Afraid to meet my glare.

In best award show tradition, there was no hint
Of what kudos I had won.
This, of course, allowed my mother's imagination
The freedom to run rampant
Through fields of academic glory.

I knew in an instant
The source of the situation.

My art teacher--young, "offbeat"
As I once heard an older staffer prattle,
Had chosen to name me
For some token award.

Clearly nouveau nihilism
Is in this season.

The evening of the ceremony
My "wardrobe" was there, laid out on my bed.
I can still be surprised at times
By the poor woman's naivete.

Still, a proper fashion statement
Would be difficult to pull off--
Any disciple of the "offbeat"
Only panders to expectations
When seeking to offend.

Finally, annoyed, I settled for my traditional
"What the hell are you looking at"
Combination of black eye accentuation
Accompanied by the rhythm
Of the heaviest boots in my closet.

Just as we began to pull out of the driveway,
I made some excuse about needing my gum
And ran back into the the house.

The jar with the snakes I captured in the garden
Was easily concealed under my jacket.

I shall justify my acclaim
With a little demonstration
Of spontaneous "performance art."

I hope my mother's brought her migraine pills.

My Summer Job

The parentals keep secrets so badly
The brochures, laid under only a couple of newspapers
Hiding on my father's desk.

Tuesday nights--the routine never changes.
They bowl
I prowl.

"Summer Camp Jobs--Good Pay, Great Times!"
I'd rather stick needles in my eyes.

Still, forewarned is forearmed.
I look over each one--the first two are religious camps,
I laugh out loud.
The Baptists and Jews would love me.

Then the next--a cheerleading camp.
I could push the progress of humanity 100 years ahead
As an arsenic-laden kitchen lackey.

I scan the rest--equestrian, swimming, tennis...
Not likely.

Then I see the one they've underlined.
"Lake Akinokee Arts Retreat"
They are clever--they've spotted the only camp
With the potential for me to warm
From loathing to apathy.

They drop hints over the next few days:
"What do you plan for the summer, dear?"
and
"Wouldn't you like to have some money for the fall sales
At that lovely new corset shop that opened in the fetish district?"

Like they've ever even shopped there.

I play dumb.
"I just thought I'd stay here,
Cherishing the people I love."

That was overkill. They realize I know the truth.

I could probably have worn them down,
Pointed out my intolerance for sunlight,
Reminded them of my tendency to sleepwalk.

But they have a trump card, and play it well:
Aunt Mabel.

A battleship of a woman, she always arrives
Prepared for war.
Her handbag laden with pamphlets,
Explaining why rock music is a tool of the devil
And gay marriage a sign of the apocalypse.

I might stay and clash with her,
But for her pair of endlessly yapping chihuahuas,
Which she calls her "children".

I extract a few concessions before I concede;
My room locked, forbidden,
And no questions asked next fall
When I spend my summer earnings
On my long awaited dermal ink.

The camp is all I feared--trees and a lake
And no "personal music devices" allowed.
Apparently we make our own music
Voices of the damned, no doubt.

I am, as new staff, assigned to a team.
My leader is perkier than a coked-up cocker spaniel
And she shows me my bunk, beneath hers,
Surrounded by a dozen more of her ilk.

"We'll have such fun!" she exclaims.
I stare at her, wondering,
How long it would take them to find her body.

After the first few days, I find my niche,
Or at least a job assignment,
That allows me the least amount of human contact.

The "painting cabin"--little more than a greenhouse with easels,
But it's far removed from everything else
And buys me brief moments of solitude.

Turns out it's also near the aptly named "makeout rock"
Where my digital camera captures
Useful leverage for later bargaining.

I scowl through the endless "fireside evenings"
Where we sing tacky, politically-incorrect songs.
Passed down from generations of campers previous,
With refrains including "the red man our brother".

Then another exercise to loathe,
We're all assigned a "secret friend"--
Someone to buy special presents for
During our twice-monthly escape to an actual town.

Had I been blessed to draw the name of some stepford in training,
My task would have been simple.
Laxative chocolates or something slimy.
But such was not to be.

I unfold a paper to read "Philip".
I sigh. He's the life guard who tries a little too hard,
Perhaps oblivious that his ectomorphic physique and unfortunate complexion
Seal his fate in this shallow pond.

I've heard stories through my less than satisfactory earplugs,
Giggled after lights out in my cabin.
Seems Philip has courted a half dozen of my roommates,
And each sends him to the next target--their goal:
To each have a chance to skewer his hopes before Labor Day.

Against my natural predilections
I surreptitiously gather information.
Seems he likes toffee, and tries to charm with card tricks.
Unfortunately, one of the female lifeguards,
"Accidentally" dropped his deck of cards into the lake.

I make the purchases, then steathily sneak them to his mailslot.
He is clearly pleased the next day,
Demonstrating for all, his legerdomain.

It would be heartwarming,
Had I not left my heart elsewhere for safekeeping
Before condescending to waste eight weeks of my life
In this fresh-faced hell.

Meanwhile I receive my "gifts":
A "Girl's guide to cosmetics" and
"Chicken Soup for the Adolescent Soul".

Unfortunately for my secret benefactor,
Carrying cash is not her practice,
And I easily discover the secret friend
By checking out debit receipts
In our cabin's wastebasket,
And matching to the offending card
When all others are asleep.

The benefactor of my largesse, meanwhile,
Has managed to figure out my identity.
Seems the rest had already proven
Their lack of compassion sufficiently.

He sought me out, quietly, thanked me.
I shrugged it off--no point in denial.
Nonetheless, an..."acquaintanceship" blossomed.
He knew not to presume more.

We had one bond--our loathing of the others.
My time alone cleaning and setting up the art cabin,
His standing watch for hours at the swimming dock,
It was natural our imaginations had free reign.

We took our revenge patiently on the entire camp.
Seems an old science camp that once occupied this place
Left some supplies around--we find a length of tubing
Perfect to cover the ceiling vent the bats use,
And reroute them into my cabin.

We steal the square dance cds,
And replace them with death metal
I purchased on another trip to town

And the printer that makes the poster-sized copies of student art work?
Seems it also does a lovely job
On those photos I took so surreptitiously
Of antics at Makeout Rock.
The most graphic ones posted everywhere--
Of the girl who provided my self-help books.

Revenge is a dish best served 24 hours a day
It helps to kill the hours--'til it's time to collect
My well-earned tattoo.