6/7/2016 0 Comments Two poems by Mel BikowskiMotive don't ever get the idea that I am a poet. You can find me covered in acrylic paint, buzzed off the repetitious drumming of a house music beat; swaying my hips and diving into a grin that says, 'yes'. Let me tell you, I'll claim I am a dancer, painter, and mother before I show you one of my poems. I squish them between a large brown tote and my shoulder clutching them close to my teal heart that when exposed to the spotlight will show up sizzling and red and hot. A woman wrote me one time to tell me she liked my blog and I wondered if she was playing a sick joke on me. I wondered what the motive was behind such a compliment. Why a nice girl like that would spend the greater part of the afternoon glued to the internet investigating my words. I hope that she at least had some lemonade or whiskey to smooth her palette after she swallowed my confabulations leaving them to digest with the other shit that she might of ate before she found My few poems that I have let out of the bag. They do seem to enjoy being snuggled up between the kitten videos and snapped shots of people's faces sitting in their cars. I wonder do people really feel their vibrant beauty the most when sitting stopped in between destinations? I wonder if this woman found my blog while sitting at a stoplight. Maybe ignoring her husband. More in tune with recognizing the space between my heart and her heart. I replied with a simple thank you because I couldn't really destroy her and tell her that her praise left me to want to punch a hole in the wall or tear up my couch pillows like a bored puppy waiting home alone for his master that abandoned him for money, desks, and donuts. I still don't believe her that she likes my blog; but I can't pass up appreciation that she called me a poet and hey, maybe she will be right one day. Maybe she will be right. Regular Anyone can dance. We have all the equipment: Muscle, bone, intestines, gas, phlegm. I went to a parking garage in Washington DC Somewhere in the belly of Adams Morgan The streets wrapped around like our gastrointestinal tract. We’re dancing while we’re still trying to digest all the shit. Graffiti is sprayed on the door to the entrance: A blue black rose with chicken scratched lyrics Rose, rose, rose, rose, rise Next to it. I think it’s some sort of subliminal message on our political perspective or maybe someone was drunk took a sip of their wine and forgot they were writing rose. I brought my own bottle of wine. I made it myself with my in-laws in Florida My sister in law was there. She wanted to name it after our children because I guess we are all drunk on love. Babies will do that to you: They are a love drug. And I’m addicted. And I don’t care. Beyonce’s song Love Drunk came out on the radio Around the time my daughter hit the charts. I wonder if Queen B knew I’d be standing here in this dim lit warehouse drinking wine called cousins; drunk; and in love. I’m wearing a shirt the color of watermelon & my husband is wrapped up in his hoodie Hiding his questions. Hiding his thoughts curled up in the music. He’s digesting the shit, but he’s always been better at pooping than me. He’s regular everyday. Bio: Mel Bikowski: She is one with the many face God. She wears many faces in this life. Poet, Mom, Wife, Artist, Dancer, Lover of Dance Music, Traveler, Friend, Lover. She has poems published in Elephant Journal, GERM Magazine, and Quail Bell Magazine. Her Website:www.melbikowski.com
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