Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Anna Coakley - Two Poems

They Call me Patience Destroyer

I bite until I break the skin
Impression of my teeth in fleshy folds
I’ll kick until bruises cover thighs and shins
Just to hear it

My neuroses go past that of an average hospital resident
My self never calling a behavioral facility home
But I’ve browsed

I was told I love you as a child
I was hugged
And yet somehow still deficient of attention
At least in my own mind
I’ve broken boys
Now I’ve moved on to men
Not noticing much needed change in effort
But just more time

Always preferring the company of the male persuasion
Finding females less appealing,
I’ve never been one for competition

So often used describe me
It’s not that I demand
just prod
An act most heterosexual men do not find pleasant
I try to control the shrillness in my voice
The nagging in my tone
But why be in love if it’s just implied?

Ignore the obnoxious size of arms
And my constant desire for them to be held
Why be teases when
we could feel highs
the purest of opiates can not even offer
and without the side effects
of dry mouth and drowsiness
if sedation is indeed the goal, then fine
replace my teeth marks with track marks
ignoring the God-instilled need for companionship
but what a companion I could be

And yes I may ask more than once
And I would be damned to ever cause feelings of neglect
But I would rather leave this life with the warmth
of a man in my bed with promises
of a reunion in whatever afterlife follows
and maybe some mild irritation
Than leaving with nothing but the avoidance of annoyances


Driving, at 25 mph
in ticklish air listening to
“Tonite, Tonite” craving highs
that only a full orchestra can satisfy.
The bulges and bubbles that make up
the organs in my chest
shake their asses to the rustle of the leaves,

Feeling not so much excited by being alive,
but more like comforted by the history we share.
Seasons past
giving soft hand jobs to blonde boys
in closets, guttural noise
being made and made from a
Worshipper-God relationship with Kurt Cobain.
The boys name I forget
but the tabs on bass to Smell Like Teen Spirit I do not.

Every November making a friend
or love that only lasts the three months.
Some times there’s overlap but not much.
It’s chronic, habitual.
Frustrated by the novelty and frailty of love

Making forts out of quilts to bury
myself in a nest of worn cotton fibers.
Not trying to keep myself in or someone else out,
just keeping warm.
All my friends ran away
to the circus so they could smoke pot in

But I want it for real
to sleep unburdened, free
I want to sleep
In a feather bed with eggshell white

Little puddles of drool forming in recesses of the corner my lips
Salivating comfort

A thin sheet of perspiration on the back of my neck
Sweating contentedness

And by the time I wake up spring would have left
And summer would have taken off
Fall would be moving in
and the temperature outside my car windows
will be the same as last year
“Tonite, Tonite” will come on the radio,
and I’ll look forward to what comes round’ this time of year

Anna Coakley, a former Miss North Central, is lightly involved with erasing the stigma associated with Mental Illness. She spent her youth in mosh pits being delightfully squeezed between sweaty, teenage boys. Currently she is trying to give as much comfort as possible to her ailing, aging dog Gypsy.

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