9/13/2017 1 Comment Poetry By Vicki IorioI Read Morgan Parker When I'm Hot I would have let you borrow my Morgan but I am moving down south at the end of the month for economic reasons and to help a broken heart. My rent will be low so I should buy you ten Morgans and raise you a Beyonce in the Gaga. August nights in New York City are august. Payback for the afternoon frizz and tit sweat and the boil festering on the lip of my labia that ends at my taint. I am spread wide on the bathroom floor administering hot compresses to this land mass I call Luxembourg. The cats stop and look at me, but since this procedure doesn't involve their food, they don't give a shit. I am trying to take a picture on my iphone of this cunt parasite. I only capture fat thighs and gray hairs. I am Lady Gagging. When I walk down Canal Street bra less with the almost- naked hotties, men avoid me like an accident. Beyonce is playing Orlando in September. Totality There is an eclipse growing behind my eyes There is an eclipse coming to a neighborhood near you. Coming late to the party I didn't get eclipse glasses from my local library Will 3-D glasses work as well? A shoe box and tin foil? Don't go out tonight it's bound to take your life there's a bad moon out tonight This is a hot and humid snow day I close the curtains, shelter in my living room Eclipse: the phase in which a male duck's markings are obscured by the molting of its breeding plumage My husband, strutting rooster, obscured me kept me inside made me listen to the stories of his affairs made me wash the cum stains from his molting underwear I carried this sorrow moon in my apron followed orders like a lunatic. I Didn't Say I Didn't Love Him He promised me a lady's pearl handle 22 if I married him. I am all thumbs and used this excuse for killing the thumbs off plants trying to grow in spite of me. Next time you're in Cleveland look up Jimmy the best man at my wedding, living an Andy Hardy life with his Jewish wife in Shaker Heights which I hear is da bomb like Long Island's North Shore or the Hamptons tony without Tony, my Italian husband who thinks hydroponic tomatoes are the work of the devil- only shit in the soil can grow the real thing. He makes his own wine and plucks figs from the tree in our Brooklyn backyard. You think this is as idyllic as being the wife of a sheep herder who looks like Liam Neeson on some island dot off the thumb nail of Scotland. After ten years of marriage he wants to do me doggie style on the living room floor while he watches the Mets (my therapist call this the marital tipping point) He calls it a double header matinee. I call it a matinee with a manatee with no humanity. I'd like to slit his cock open with a glass shard from my chardonnay but he belts me first and I cool my shiner with a frozen steak. Hedda Nussbaum didn't leave Joel Steinberg. I am buying a bus ticket to Cleveland. Jimmy's wife said she'll set me up in an apartment with furniture from her basement and a cuckoo clock that does not judge. To Vaginas I have Known To my pregnant mother's-when she was robust in a swing coat To the cigarettes and Manhattans I ingested in utero To my mother's hairless old slit did I really come out of that? To Freudian therapists who should kiss every mother's vagina because don't all problems stem from it? To the flesh colored stretch pants my math teacher wore To her camel-toe that caused geometric distractions To. Dr. Weisfogel, who made me take a mirror to my purple cervix To the lotus prints in her exam room instead of baby pictures To my vagina who birthed my daughter To my daughter who loves me on good days To Teresa who decoded the power of the pussy and became the boss To the slack she cut me when I had pussy problems To Deborah who fights the patriarchy To the cunt word that is our battle cry To a white book of odes that gives me permission To Sharon Olds who makes the vagina poetry To the cut, snatch, beaver, box, poon tang pie, gold in them thar hills To the fingers, cocks and tongues I invite inside Response to #1263 Tell all the truth but tell it slant-- O Emily, I can tell you about slant rhymes, half rhymes, half moons my slant, code name for my secret lips but you are talking about the truth sometimes slanted, hooded, fakery not the slant of my pelvic tilt. Did you ever tilt your world, rock the Amherst gloom? If truth be told gradually, you say so to dazzle. I think the truth should not be a blush growing slowly but a flash of light igniting veins exposing birds in the blind-- Bio: Vicki Iorio is the author of the poetry collection, Poems from the Dirty Couch, Local Gems Press, 2013and the chapbook, Send me a Letter, dancinggirlpress. You can read Iorio's work in Hell strung and Crooked, I Let Go of the Stars, (Great Weather for Media), The Brownstone Poets Anthology, The San Pedro Review, The Mom Egg, Crack the Spine, The Painted Bride Quarterly, The Fem Lit Magazine, Redheaded Stepchild Magazine, The Paper Street Journal, Poetry Bay, Home Planet News,Concise, Cactus Heart, Rattle on line,South Florida Poetry Journal, 521 Magazine,RatsAss Review, New York Times, blog site, Poetry Super Highway, Eratio Poetry Journal, In Between Hangovers.
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