inside Cafe Trieste
to wake myself up from the too early wine
drunk at an art exhibit opening
I worked selling photos for no commission—
one big bottle of white wine
a small bottle of red to carry home—
free lunch & plenty of cheese & crackers
plus promise of dinner tonight
at the photographer’s apartment—
all the compensation I get—
my own rent just went up
and my black dress ...
sweat-smelling already
before I put it on this morning...
the photographer splashed white dip
on the front of me—
didn’t offer to pay for the cleaning
people at the opening—his friends
treated me like an accouterment
not a real creative person
or a human being with an intellect
“you are so attractive...”
about all anyone ever says to me
I’ve been bemoaning
the constant effort I must make
to reveal the contents of my mind
(should I, or not? How best...?)
“people underestimate you...”
Joe told me a few times last nite
“I know...” I replied, “I’ve been dealing with
that, all my life...”
thinking, starting way back—that probably,
as I got older—-change would occur—
I’ve naively been expecting—anticipating even—
that i’d receive more respect as a mature woman—
but that hasn’t happened yet(and probably never will)
one good thing to come about
with the passage of time
the gaining of experience
is that I’m a hell-of-a-lot tougher now—
and I’m ready to kick-ass
to deal with the double standards
that used to seem so insurmountable
as to make even gutsy-me
feel weak and small—
she smears red Chanel lipstick
on her fingers tapping her lips
fake-yawning
as I spoke to her
across the barroom table
she’d sat the glass of white
wine down
For me?—she’d paid for
carried over from the bar
I hadn’t even ordered
she’d come seeking a reunion
I hadn’t asked for
she insisted upon
to give herself further opportunity
to behave badly
giving me all the wrong things
annoying me into giving her attention
but these ploys of hers
did not work on me
in the expected manner
instead, induced me
into avoiding her
even vehemently
I just had to...
and so the most disturbing part
of my hallucinated memory returns to me
swimming black out of that moist cold
haze of intoxication recalled
(I’m not intoxicated now)
his concern for me
—words in blind void heard—
no lip movement (could not see)
him telling me how I looked like
the woman in the Bukowski film
“Tales of Ordinary Madness”
—my toughness—- really vulnerability—
disconnected from the controls
placed on others
by general society
with no one—not even her one true love—
able to really understand her individuality
her need to be free,
a full person, regardless that she’s female—
and how the world thinks about her
as that—
men wanting only to use her body,
her love—to make themselves
feel good—about themselves
not her
no other woman befriending, really
always judging her with calculated envy
she the most vulnerable to suicide...
during the course of their conversation
he confesses feelings and understanding
in cryptic entrapping euphemisms
she offers counter explanations
causing her to realize
her vulnerable condition
in a flash of deep insight
she causes him to see
what his feelings disguised
from his inner vision, until just then—
her fragile state of mind...
“So suicide is a disease of singularity and selfhood...” William H. Gass, The World Within the Word
Marie Kazalia was born in Toledo, Ohio but has lived her adult life primarily on the West Coast and in San Francisco, with the exception of four expatriate years in Japan, India, and China. Marie has a BFA degree from California College of Arts and Crafts. Marie’s book of poems titled Erratic Sleep in a Cold Hotel has been published by Phony Lid Books. Marie also has two mini-chapbooks published by CC Marimbo: All-Purpose Tragedy and Megalopolis.
Marie Kazalia’s poetry and prose has been widely published in anthologies, and in numerous print and on-line journals, nationally and internationally.