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[oliviadgrayson]

What A Pretty Note This Is

Stashes of irresistibly deranged poems composed

in my best moments, never meant to be sent, but sent anyway— what did I say to so many people?

Dear People: you just passed me in the library; I leaned in and cupped my hands to cover up what I was writing as if you could see from five feet away,

it said, “I must stop sweating myself,” it said, “I must stop sweating myself,” it said, “I must stop sweating myself,”

it said, because I’m not all that; can’t even find my glasses on Monday morning for 40 minutes.

Dear People: Look at how interesting I am distracted on meds, doing what I want to do one thing at a time, always the wrong thing first because that keeps things moving.

I like to get dressed, then take a warm bath, play scrabble with my back to the board, and break up— I mean lose it, go to pieces, go bonkers; crumble before I get the chance to like someone I could really like.

Dear People: Today, a certain person about town said, “the profit of your experience,” but in a contentious way that satisfied my hundred-thousand staggering directions; I felt ashamed and entitled.

This made me sick, but I liked it, I liked it so much I even liked it. 1

Dear People: Choice is irrational.

These are unhinged texts sent by mistake, like the one I just left you about needing a pacifier and seeing my therapist twice a week because he was sure I was going to off myself.

He just left a voicemail from an unidentified number and shouted, “WHY?! WHY?!”

And I was like, this is stellar; this is the best voicemail I’ve ever received. I saved it so you can hear it.

He called back to apologize and say he wasn’t shouting at me, but at a driver who almost ran into him at a crosswalk.

I don’t know if he was making it up. Shall we share the punchline? These are just the annotations.

 1 Appropriated from Kid Gloves by Ted Berrigan & Ron Padgett, originally published in Grist #12 ca. 1967 from Bean Spasms.

 This poem was originally published in Talking Book.

[oliviadgrayson]

I love you!

Disk Space

How to Mean What You Say, So You Can Finally Get On With Your Life [Already]  In  2 Easy to do Steps!

Step One. Grab around your head, bash it open, and insert your favorite assertions. To get you rolling, here (below) are some popular ones researched, vetted, and validated by our staff of verity experts. Don’t be cautious, it’s never gotten you anywhere before.  

Sample Assertions: 

“The Spaghetti looks good.” 

“Oh mother my mouth is full of stars.”  

“There on the beach I could see it in her eyes,  I only had a Corona five cent deposit.”

“I gotta get into it/I’ll never get out of it/An’ I gotta be out of it/To get myself into it.”

“I dreamt I was Cleopatra in my Maidenform Bra.” 

‘”Punk rock died when the first kid said, ‘Punk’s not dead.’” 

“What, me worry ?”

“This is gorgeous; I’ve got to get out of here.”

“The reason I can’t stand your poetry is that you are very kind and beautiful.”

Step Two.  Enjoy the truth of your life. 

WARNING: If a brush with black ragged happens, do not panic, softer bits of the human turntable will worm its way back in. In the meantime, apply firm suction to your skull’s foiled glaring using the personally crafted crisis hose included; steady ooze should yield.  Once the ooze has drained completely –a few weeks, a few months, a few years– there will be plenty of room for reentry and amendments.

Best Wishes, The Staff

  2013 

Assertions attributed  not in order of their mention:

“I gotta get into it/I’ll never get out of it/An’ I gotta be out of it/To get myself into it/‘Cause I can’t get into it/Unless I get out of it/An’ I gotta be out of it/Before

 I get into it.”

                             —Frank Zappa from Dinah-Moe Humm

“I dreamt I was Cleopatra in my Maidenform Bra”                           —Slogan Norman, Craig & Kummel American Advertising Agency

“The reason I can’t stand your poetry is that you are very kind and beautiful.”                 — Anselm Berrigan’s one line poem read at “Bowery Poetry Club”

“What, me worry?”                   — Alfred E, Neuman; fictional guru of Mad Magazine

“Oh mother my mouth is full of stars.”                   —  Song of the Dying Gunner by Charles Causley

“There on the beach I could see it in her eyes; I only had a Corona five cent deposit”                — Corona’ by the Minutemen. Lyrics by  Dennes Dale “D.” Boon

[oliviadgrayson]

Boating.

[oliviadgrayson]

Any Sweater You Find On the Shelf Is Yours To Wear That Day

Communal life means everything belongs to everyone—

your brush is not your brush, your cup is not your cup, your boyfriend is not yours, but everybody’s.

I suspected I had an identity, but there were too many personalities and behaviors; I wasn’t sure where they ended and I began.

Did I like Jane Austin? Or did I only like her because Anna did. Did I enjoy LSD-laced brownies? I don’t think so, but I ate them anyway and ran naked through the Nederland woods shouting, “I’m on drugs! I’m on drugs!”

At 15, with the courage only 15-year-olds have, I left the collective for a private attic space in Littleton featuring cable TV with infinite channels.

In exchange for rent and food, I performed suggestive dances for the landlord and his brother, Doug.

One dust-stormy evening, there was a vague scratching at my attic door. It was Doug.

I invited in him; whereupon, he yanked out a Saturday Night Special and shot a hole through the gypsum.

“Well, that’s that, then” he said, and let himself out, but not before offering to come back and patch things up.

“No need!” I said, (reeling with this new turn of events); after all, the opening was rife with possibilities!

Perhaps I would find treasures—a 1943 Lincoln penny! A book whose title I had forgotten! Nesting baby squirrels! An emerald ring!

Downtrodden, I saw only slag wool, and what appeared to be a wickless prayer candle.

As consolation, I immersed myself in Million-Dollar Movie, which ran the same picture 7 days a week, twice a night: Your Name set me on fire, A Silent Voice brought me to tears, Girl without a Face arose in me a blind hysteria from which I have never recovered.

This piece was originally written for the Literary Nest.

[oliviadgrayson]

Area Man

An open assortment of conversation hearts placed painstakingly upon your vanity—

moon beam passion fruit my love

were meant to flatter your inner recesses; your superlative alcoves.

How I adore the way your doe-eyes hemorrhage blushing-bride lacquer, how I am mesmerized

by your pretty vaginal attitudes, how not a second goes by when I don’t think…

Spellbound, I scrub the chronic pit-stains from my favorite Area Man T-shirt [11218] until it is

no longer comprehensible, grasping at its edges, fingers saturated, blood vessels constricting, nodding

daffodils as I rummage for my asthma inhaler—

angel darling my pet

it was right there, next to that self-help tome I had stolen from Strand: WHAT On Earth Am I Here For If Not For Your Sweet Face?

This piece was originally written for the Literary Nest.

[oliviadgrayson]

--From Cat Lament 

[oliviadgrayson]

Enhanced Hostility

Enhanced Hostility

She’s shy in an advanced way, and holds up her

end the conversation neatly arranged in a solitary

whorl, dismantling as you hold her, sweating blood

and soft feelings.

This leads to improved aggression, a black eye,

smashed ribs, rug burns; an array of florets arranged

in a violet spiral circling the limits of her cautious

urgency.  

  This poem was originally posted in Requited Journal

http://requitedjournal.com/index.php?/poetry/olivia-grayson/

[oliviadgrayson]

SIBLING AGONY I can not tolerate her huckleberry warmth, and that she piles on the mascara to draw attention to her eyes.

I am troubled she flosses in the living room, and spend hours envisioning where the particles of rank debris, once expelled,

have landed and lie buttressing into the folds of the throw

pillows where I rest my head, the pads of the keyboard,

the television remote; the pages of my favorite books. I am

 concerned by her off–the-record veneration of Leonard Cohen, Leonard Cohen, Leonard Cohen; Leonard Cohen—the rubbish flowers, tea and oranges; that infernal blue raincoat…

 I am gravely annoyed by the glacial speed with which she drives, her potlucks, boggle parties, crystal loving anointments and truth questing via Getting into the Whirlpool!

 I must thank her for lending me all that money. I will be paying her back forever and ever in stressed syllables—sudden guilt,nurses telling fairy tales on both sides of the glass; songs to slit your wrists to…

Writer’s note: This is a fictional narrative—not about my sister’s mascara habits or her adoration of Leonard Cohen.

This piece was originally published in Requited Journal 

[oliviadgrayson]

Just lay out your stanzas randomly, walk away for a while so you come back with fresh eyes, then piece together. (Not good if you have kitties jumping on the paper, though)  

[oliviadgrayson]

What A Pretty Note This Is

Stashes of irresistibly deranged poems composed

in my best moments, never meant to be sent, but sent anyway— what did I say to so many people?

Dear People: you just passed me in the library; I leaned in and cupped my hands to cover up what I was writing as if you could see from five feet away,

it said, “I must stop sweating myself,” it said, “I must stop sweating myself,” it said, “I must stop sweating myself,”

it said, because I’m not all that; can’t even find my glasses on Monday morning for 40 minutes.

Dear People: Look at how interesting I am distracted on meds, doing what I want to do one thing at a time, always the wrong thing first because that keeps things moving.

I like to get dressed, then take a warm bath, play scrabble with my back to the board, and break up— I mean lose it, go to pieces, go bonkers; crumble before I get the chance to like someone I could really like.

Dear People: Today, a certain person about town said, “the profit of your experience,” but in a contentious way that satisfied my hundred-thousand staggering directions; I felt ashamed and entitled.

This made me sick, but I liked it, I liked it so much I even liked it.

Dear People: Choice is irrational.

These are unhinged texts sent by mistake, like the one I just left you about needing a pacifier and seeing my therapist twice a week because he was sure I was going to off myself.

He just left a voicemail from an unidentified number and shouted, “WHY?! WHY?!”

And I was like, this is stellar; this is the best voicemail I’ve ever received. I saved it so you can hear it.

He called back to apologize and say he wasn’t shouting at me, but at a driver who almost ran into him at a crosswalk.

I don’t know if he was making it up. Shall we share the punchline? These are just the annotations.

 Appropriated from Kid Gloves by Ted Berrigan & Ron Padgett, originally published in Grist #12 ca. 1967 from Bean Spasms.

This poem was originally published in Talking Book.

[oliviadgrayson]

Memories, Like The Crusty Surface Of My Mind

The silly lies we told to defend our dignity, the

Trinkets that meant everything—painted wooden Dolls, one hidden inside the other.

The scabs you compulsively picked like grody Constellations, clusters of fixed stars, an assemblage Of ossified meteors; it felt so good, how could It be wrong?

This poem was originally published in Talking Book.

[oliviadgrayson]

Shekels

As devastated as the Queen of Tunis in

Bloomingdales who was just informed

the Jimmy Choo silver sandals she wanted

don’t come in her size, her doughy arms

 flapping in a thousand diabetic directions,

the fleshy folds of her lips smeared in

mercuric sulfide as blinding as convex

reflectors.

.

All the while, Mother Pearl, her eyeballs

rollercoasting, her ashen hands puffed

up like polar bear paws to aid in efficient

panhandling, pleads, “People, don’t give

 me no flat coppers; what the fuck I gonna

do with those?

  Poem originally published in Literary Nest.

[oliviadgrayson]

AGNOSIA

Are you Jane, the party animal?

Jim, the affable misanthrope?  

Tom, the terror-crazed pedophobe?

Is it Wednesday or 1980 when

the goal was to transport Pac-Man

around a maze on a mission to

eat 240 fiends?

The other day, Emily and I went to

see All or Nothing at the Everyman,

“…you seem like a nice bloke,

you know? What can you…?

are we…?”

As we left the theatre, I passionately

kissed a stranger; his eyes fossilized.

“Sorry,” I whispered, processing,  

“I have a kind of dysregulation.”

“Don’t go,” he pleaded, it’s Friday

night and I’m all alone.

Just then, an elegant lady fell

spectacularly horizontal, flat

on her face.

The incident was high comedy, like

the exemplary slipping on a banana

peel.

I laughed, and then she laughed,

plasma and effluvia oozing generously

from her indistinguishably beautiful

smokescreen.

I held her softly leaking skull, patting

her spinal column busy not sending

messages to her brain, until the ambulance

arrived.

Later, she came to my house (how did she

know where I lived?) with a raspberry

cream biscuit laced in bitter chocolate.

I didn’t recognize her — I wish

I had, her face was a mess.

This poem was originally published in Birds Piled Loosely

[oliviadgrayson]

oh yeah...Razzamatazz

--you blew it

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZQJeY2bVws

�yO

[oliviadgrayson]

Women are really so much nicer than men/ no wonder we like them.  

  –Kingsley  Amis

[oliviadgrayson]

Add permanent ink to gain authorship over your body

because you are terrified that a rainbow is just a problem

in optics, a poem just stanzaic structure, and a cherry blossom,

tinged with the palest pink, is just propaganda to arouse

sentimentality,

and this is freaking you out.

Hold persistent ideas about shoes that must look a specific

way with laces you’ll never trip over. Believe you won’t

always look this way, feel this way, walk this way, or be

protected by that homeowners’ insurance you just

signed up for because you actually trust that nationwide

is on your side and liberty is mutual.

Know that that lobotomy they keep threatening to give you

will not resolve or protect you from the OCD that makes

you check your face a thousand times a day because

you can’t figure out if you’re really, really beautiful,

or really, really ugly.

This poem was originally published by Talking Book.