Aug 5, 2010

10 years of not

i brush my teeth while reading poems
about a sick mother
and it reminds me of my own

september 27th
10 years since
she left me

i think about all of the things
she's missed
will miss
and how much i miss

know, how much i strive
to be who i thought
she was

fear, i'm all the things
she was not

crude, tattooed

there is an ache inside me
when i go to tahoe
and bathe in the water
where little pieces
or her were left behind

i still don't know if she took herself away
or if she was taken

still, she left me with an anchor of forgiveness
on a ship, that may not sail
as far as hers


if i died tomorrow

i'd miss the river
that perfect water
those slippery rocks
small, perfect rapids

if i died tomorrow

i'd miss fireworks
that slick neckline
those cold showers
warm, quiet nights

if i died tomorrow

i'd miss street fairs
that icy gelato
those plump weiners
loud, chirping symphonies

if i died tomorrow

i'd miss blackberries
that mini skirt
those flip flops
long, beautiful season


we made wet, gross, greasy sausage type love
tossed the bed like a hangover

start that fire
fan those flames

come on, gravedigger
play guilty for me

remember, i don't resemble those daydream goddesses
with their spun gold fleece hair

i spare too much time on chance, and forgiveness

aphrodite weeps

i begged him to

road trip to nebraska with the
only man i ever let under my skin

my brother was graduating high school
i hadn't been back in nearly 7 years

we passed the "north platte - 12" sign
as i begged him to jerk himself off

a strange question
he wanted to know why here, why now

because, there are oats here that need sowing
and my hands were busy with the wheel

the requested pulling
started slow

quicker and quicker i watched him
peripheral vision, sneaky glances


rolled down the glass
stuck his hand out
leaving white silk
floating in the wind

on a roadtrip to the place
where i was extracted

there's a "but"

i could have gone to the river today
but, instead, i wasted time

because life's too short
to look for you

as if i knew what i was searching for

i could have made love to you
but, you were holding me at arms length
hand on my forehead
laughing while i struggled
whispering "you should fuck my friend", instead

as if you knew what i am

i could have painted your portrait
but, my colors are too new
my palatte too clean

you, too ugly to be captured
so thoughtfully

Jul 11, 2010

-Marilyn, Our Lady of Bullshit-

His mouth was full
Couldn't utter a single truth
As though he were only hurting himself
An occupational Sadomasochism
On the chopping block
On the time clock
His only job was to please
Be carnal with me
But I have been shown a disservice
In the way he hurts us both
In the love he doesn't show
Holy Marilyn, Mother of Bullshit...
How do you forgive that face?
How do you forget that name?
How do you escape?

"Take heed, my wise enough to see through bullshit, and love,
more often than it is fed to you."

Jun 14, 2010

nothing but time.

how could i have known?

a child, breaking through that thin sheath
of life, of existence, of all the things
one does when born


25 years later

what could i have done?

a woman, holding on as tight as her strength will allow
to life, to existence, to all the things
they say you should


25 years into the future

what should i have learned?

a memory, of what once was
for posterity, for experience, for all the things
that should have been

May 30, 2010

you won't go near this with a 10 foot pole.

said he wanted me.
wanted me to be his girl.
wanted to be with me.
wants to know what i'm doing tomorrow.

he has no idea what stirs inside of me.
that there is a beast awaiting it's next meal.
that i have no control over how my heart feels.

again, he calls.
and leaves no message.

May 29, 2010

Vagina Dentata

I've never looked.
Never seen it.
That space below.
Not studied.
Not made friends.

It's appreciated by some.
Yearned for by others.

A myth.
A legend.
A small tale.
Carried with me like a storybook.

My trap.
My Pandora's Tool Box.
My junk yard.

A promise.
A mistake.
A truth.

Poet Mother
Warm Wet
Tender Pink
Soft Still
Tight like brothers
Silent Weary
Tough Tantalizing
Painter Artist
Drawing out your stars.


grandma's poppies are in full bloom
and i am none the more rich today
as i was 24 years ago

i have led expensive lives
but none have left me so empty as this one

he won't even let me feel his heart beat

smiley faces make me feel better

on the way to his house, i pass a street
bearing your name

we have drunken, unapologetic, sloppy sex

i crave cigarettes in the morning, piss red

and wish those black eyes had been for me
I stared at the marks on his face. The dents, the divots, the scars.

I begged the moon and the sun.

Make me permanent.
Make me a staple.

Cut the last two lines.

We do the things we have to...right, Momma?

We spread ourselves thin, we come up short.
For all along, we are on a secret mission.
To find love, and sustain it once it's ours.

We do the things we have to for posterity.
For strength.

We will give of ourselves until nothing is recognizable.

For Daddy

There was never a better time to love him, as I held his head beneath the water.

He never said he was sorry...for all the wrongs he'd made sure to do exactly right.

He stopped stirring anything in me when he forgot that I am the wind.

He is a man now.
Part of the ocean.
The father I always wanted.
Part of the sea.

Just like I'd always need.

May 4, 2010

late night ramble.

he saw those tears.
and i warned that they were not his to keep.

i once stood, impressed. proud.
for it seemed, i had been reformed.

but, now i lay here, sheepish.
because those tears were his, all along.

and i've been reformed.
just not the way i should have been.

Mar 4, 2010

broken record.

you layed that record down.
and i'd follow suit.

"let's get you out of those clothes"

pulling cloth away like corn husks.
seeking to use every inch of me.
especially the noise inside.

goosebumps turn skin into braille.
here are my directions.
follow them carefully.
follow them recklessly.
don't follow them at all.

spare no word, no letter, no inch of this pockmarked flesh.
just collide with me.
creep all over me.

that record never skipped.
like my heart.
like you moved.
and i never once missed a measure.

a grind.
a stroke.

i made the rhythm.
i made it beat.

Mar 2, 2010

I was reviewed and didn't even know it.

B.L.'s Drive-bys: A Micro-Review from B.L. Kennedy:

Finding the Ultimate Treasure
by Marilyn Souza
28 pp, $5

I recently had the chance to get to meet this poet a few months back, and I have to admit that I am immediately drawn to her word combinations and to her hopes and fears. But there’s something missing here, and what it is, I just can’t put my finger on. Not that we have a case of bad writing; we don’t: Souza is a talented writer, but her chapbook, Finding the Ultimate Treasure, is haphazardly though creatively constructed, leaving me with the feeling that, to quote the poet: “You tasted like a mistake.” Don’t get me wrong; there are so many different ways that one can approach this text. One can read it as one long poem looking in a very disjointed way for an outreaching validation, or one can read it as a collection of so-so short poems whose interconnectedness leaves the reader with an uneasy feeling of “what just happened?” I want to praise Souza for this short, but, as I said, rather disjointed collection, and I do recommend the book. If you’re up in Grass Valley or if you happen to catch Marilyn on one of her trips down to Luna’s, I would suggest buying this book. In closing, I want to reiterate that Marilyn Souza is a fine, focused but as of yet unchallenged young author whose words will leave their mark on your psyche, but who is in constant danger of giving in to surrounding influences instead of trusting her own voice.

—B.L. Kennedy, Reviewer-in-Residence

Feb 28, 2010

being eaten by a frenchman. oohlala.

i taste like 1000 dreams
split right open
falling from the sky
to your mouth

take giant gulps
let me slide down your gaping throat
how warm is it?
how fulfilling?

have you ever known heaven?

or have you been shown the cruel taste of an angel?

Jan 13, 2010

semi precious.

72 feet.
there were so many nights i spent clutching a warm stomach, praying for a miracle.
beckoning that wayward child to come find me.
you had your reasons, your actions, your words.
i just had too many daydreams that weren't coming true.

at least you could do push ups.

i couldn't break land speed records enough to cut through the wind as fast as i need.
i'd need to lift my feet off of the ground, spread theoretical wings, take flight.
land myself somewhere new, somewhere proper.

somewhere that would have me.

somewhere miracles take place.

where it is, as it was, and was, as it will be.

but you're questioning my reasons for wanting to soar.
telling me it's not safe to leave the ground.
warning me that what i've got...

are daydreams.

not miracles.

Jan 6, 2010


There is a ringing in my ears that I'm very familiar with. That "ding dong" song that chimes in when things don't go my way.

When I know it's either "hurt, or be hurt". I've got to be the one doing the hurting.

But this time around, I'm sitting back, laughing at myself for all the things that, on the outside are hurting me, but on the inside, I could care less about.

What if something seeps in?

What if for one second, I let my guard down, and see what other people see?

What if there really is another side to the story, and I'm not the one at fault?

There were so many lines drawn to it from the past. So many connect the dots and follow the leader paths that I'm not sure where I am or what I'm supposed to be doing there.

He acts like he doesn't know me.
He acts like there's more to me...and it's rotten.
He acts like I'm the biggest, craziest trainwreck he's ever seen.
He acts like I'm the best thing that ever happened to him...sometimes.
He acts like, there will be a day when I am not myself.
And I will fail
He acts like I'm further away than I am.
Acts like I haven't made much of an effort.
He acts like I don't write him poetry.

When I, haven't once vocalized anything that's been gnawing away at the top layer of my skin like a slow mouth.
That I KNOW who I am. And won't be made out to be a bad one.
That I KNOW I'm not crazy or rotten. I'm just different.

And I want to express my inner beauty as well as outer beauty in the safest, most beautiful way I know how. That I will not apologize for past actions of those around you, and those you've left.

I will not apologize for me.

And think it's about time you realize it.