Poppycock

Getting drunk on an afternoon in Studio City
Placed among so many lonely wayfarers
With their kids, and snowcones, and megapixels
And what kind of lens have you got there?
Going on a run when it’s 90 + degrees in the dead of Spring
Thinking that it’s crazy to be slowly
Inducing such exasperating dehydration
...Goddamn, you must be out your mind, son!
(Though he could be my father’s age)
I exit the car and approach the bleachers
Son of Todd, daughter occasionally
Wearing a dress today
That’s liable to attract attention
I laugh and smile like it’s easy
Spread laughter, tell jokes, keep paces with the menfolk
Or just sit silently
Intent to watch the game in my unworn hat
Remembering the feel of the bat in my hands
The butterflies in my stomach every time I’d prepare to swing
I reminisce
As I am eyed and I feel lazy,
Uncomfortable and sleight
Lost of my power of sight behind shaded sunglasses
I am unable to describe to them my lethargy
Merely able to lay my head down on my mother’s lap
As menfolk pass by, sometimes inquiring aimlessly
Seemingly hitting on me
Others vaguely interested
Like being sniffed out by docile retrievers
That like to play ball, who enjoy playing fetch
The 9th inning comes after I have already reached the brink of madness and lost
To heat induced lethargy with which I cannot compete

At the bar afterwards, Joe T. asks why a college co-ed would refuse a beer
Limit herself to two
Play it smart
(oh only if you knew)
Yeah, I’m not that interested in beer
I want something nourishing, but then…
That first sip is so icy cold, such a good first drink
I think of funneling the alcohol down my throat with a syringe
Chilling my veins, shooting it up like liquid coolant under my skin
I am uninterested in this 30-something scene for comic loners
Some of them obscenely drunk on the patio
(Some of them, my father and uncle, age notwithstanding...)
I look past the fading couple
Sitting next to a drunk
They’ve got dogs
And we have our two Shelties, and Lyle, my uncle’s graying dachsund.
Rendered moot by stupidity and old age.
We are at the Oyster Shack
Only familiar from various photos taken when I’ve been away
It’s the first time I’ve experienced such a place
The place
For drinking after the game, infamous
I notice the Codgers pennant on the shelf above the bar
And almost as suddenly, I am asked to sign.
But beforehand, I am casually ogled,
Looked over with cautious tendency
Not to deny a glance, I return them with eyes a bit drunkenly
Distracted, but more so bewildered by my father’s arrogance and complacency

What?! I am silently wondering
You gave my number to Sean?
When, and why did this happen?
I’ll have to wait til the car ride to find out
To hear my father’s story,
That they were both (my parents) disappointed to find out that I wasn’t meeting anybody, so he figures why not?
In the event of drunken honesty, the frays in our perfect familial social fabric starting to show, he admits to the crowd that I am
Lonely,
unhappy, even.
Possibly enough to date one of these poor saps...
And anyways, Sean is a stand-up guy, he says.
He’s curious and he’s funny, I think.
Oddly, he lives in Echo Park and I’m almost certain he does the weathered or
well-seasoned hipster thing.
I haven’t met anybody like him, but nonetheless. I am uninterested.
His greasy beard, his Pennsylvania hideaway,
his standing as the all-around favorite among the men on the team.
I don’t care…
This was a year ago, or more most likely.
And besides, I’ve been seeing Nick.
Nonetheless, I can sense what the heat is doing
Making their vision blurry
Bringing on the hominy smile
I probably smell like bacon to them
Comfortable and homey.
A little wary of the consequences…
Or not.
Yeah, I’ve been here before
Attracting sad old men
Wistful for something they think they can’t have,
But Maybe.
Who knows what they’re really thinking
Lonely hearts club men
Some of them even married
Some at the game indifferent
I don’t like the ones I can’t touch
The ones that escape the heat and the booze
Before they let it get the best of them
But I pity the fool who pays attention to me
On a hot day in the San Fernando Valley
On a bleacher at the Studio City Park
At an unsteady table at the Oyster Shack
Where I drown my lethargy in a funnel of hops
And barely muster the energy to mask my indifference
Drag my dad out to the car
After a prolonged exit
After I pay my respects to my uncle
And finally, make it to the car,
Where mom waits and I shed my disinterest.

Your Spring Dress

Your spring dress
Isn’t so much a dress
As it is a plaid cotton long-sleeved shirt opened at the third button on your hairy chest
Because I’m the girl who still wears the dresses
And you’re the man who wears the underpants, sometimes, in this sort-of relationship
It’s a surfer thing, you said
Which I might have understood
Had I not been anticipating the feel of your smooth skin against my body
I only called it a dress because it's the garment that attracts young love in springtime
When young ladies like myself are all aflutter and blooming
Noticing men who are looking at me, and noticing that you might be casually looking too
Beneath the billowy skirt of my sun-dried hair
Where your mark lies hidden
A reminder of the cusp of something new
That I certainly hope will last beyond September

I am no spring romancer
But you, my dear, are irresistible
In your slow way, you call me girl
And I feel a tingle under my skin, down there
I am alight in your presence
Spinning well before midnight
When my romantic side normally gives over to my lavish sexuality
This is the adjective I think of lying in your bed
The next day, this early morning,
Whenever it was when we opened our eyes
When I took my time in telling you how good your body felt against mine

Lavish, languor, sensuality
These luscious terms that I roll upon my tongue when I am thinking Sex in slow and undulating rhythms
To be honest, I am always thinking of sex
Though it’s not the same when I have someone like you to incite me
Then I get a faint aching; for you I am restless,
Requiring your body
This isn’t the best time I could conceive of
To start pining for somebody…
To start marking my weeks from the moment I leave your bed ‘til next Friday
But I am happy

I am content with this new memory to mull over
To have laid you on top of me
And watched you nestle between my forgiving breasts
You are sheer manliness
Both vulnerable and strong
I want to write you an epic poem
And watch you turn it into song
I want to watch you twist my words gently
Filling in the gaps with your music

I am all clichés in the early days of spring
All nonsense and tulips springing from my lips like nature’s candy
I talk of spring dresses because I am begetting the image of a coquette
Fashioning myself with the help of your hands
Those hands that labored on the weekends in high school
Tending ripe avocadoes before it was hipster-cool
Leading you in a slow dance
Over the boundaries of propriety and taboo
Asking you permission before I tell you
What I’m looking forward to doing next time
With you