I wanted to come here
sit and write a letter
that would resolve problems
resulting from mistakes
made in the past--
misfortunes poor communications
indecisions never found solutions
here I am--with that intention
sitting in North Beach on concrete steps
under a sprinkle of rain
unable to find the opening lines
words to write or say
that will bring me what I want--
change my mind
thoughts and ideas
all too late to renew
transform into...
what I’ve finally decided right
too long uncertain
still not knowing
what words to grasp hold of
that tell the truth of feeling--
the thing unseen
unknown by me
that one rare being
it was a big deal for her to sit down in the chair beside him
at the wooden barroom table
where he played his mysterious card came with Marco--
saying “honey, don’t you understand...
I just don’t know the words you want me to say...?” to him
her thoughts tainted in a jumble of drunken hallucinations
and telepathic communications only she perceived--
He looked across the table at the Finn
“she knows how I feel about her--
I don’t know how she knows, but she does...”
leaving that hanging in the air for her to answer
as he seemingly attended to the next card
she spoke...” I have my powers of perception turned on...
Most people just too dull and all the same to interest me...
the ones I do talk to...different in some ways... but
their words do not effect me...but you...
I’m really interested in you...”
He stopped, turned his head and looked into her eyes,
“that’s not good enough,” he said
“well, anyone else would be flattered if I’d said that to them...”
“I’m not anyone else.” he told her
“I know, I just told you that...” she said
and somehow an argument ensued
then escalated--enhanced by alcohol and others
and she nearly got thrown out of the bar
(when she’d only been drinking orange juice)
instead
she slammed the heels of her black oxford shoes down hard
stood abruptly straight up
samurai fast and proud
zoomed out past the long bar
thru the door
(she knew that part had happened for sure)
when I meet a man
who’s more into getting me off
than ownership--
that’s when I’ll jump in the sack
with him (and suck his cock
and whatever in the hell else
he wants...I’ll do)
gladly please him--
but until all that occurs
I’ve chosen not to go down
that emotional drain of romantics,
where all the shit
gets dumped and flows
into who knows what
rat infested hole--
pipes into the dark
sewers of oblivion
where nothing has a chance
surrounded by the toxic
except that one rare seed that sprouts up
in spite of the poisonous
crap surrounding it
somehow draws nutrients
shoot up out of the hole
of a poet’s kitchen sink drain
into the fluorescent bulb light
where he gently plucks
rescues transplants to a pot
of nutritional soil
routinely watering
watches leaves unfold--
waiting to see if the plant
will produce--any fruits or nuts...
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.