Thursday, March 22, 2012


…In yesterday's issue of The USA Today they had this statistic:
How many books do you typically read in a year?
0 -- 14%
1-2 -- 15%
3-5 -- 19%
6-10 -- 19%
11 or more -- 33%
That was surprisingly better than I would have expected.
What do you think?

…An internet friend is putting out an anthology called "I Am Not Pizza."
The idea is we are all different. Some people are pizza, some aren't.
Each piece in the anthology has to include the line "I am pizza" in the poem and as the title. Same for "I am not pizza."
In the bathtub yesterday, I wrote these for her:

I am Not a Pizza

All of our clothes are on the floor
while we sit in bed
picking apart the pieces of Us
that have made you heavy
and as pale as the belly of a moth.
You say you were wrong
to love me,
that there are reasons for leaving
and there aren’t.

Behind us is the moon,
the month of June
staring at us as if we’re orphaned children.
We were so young then,
you a clown cashier saying,
“I have acne, but
I am not a pizza,”
my heart bulging like my eyes.

I watch you put your panties on
with your back to me.
I watch you put everything on,
then close the door
putting me away for good.

I’m Pizza

You told old stories about me,
admit it,
how I am thin-crusted, fragile and flakey,
tied together taut
with string cheese instead of cheddar,
waxy, gleaming grease,
my pepperoni pungent
but the red pepper flakes the only part of me left
that really packs a punch.

You withered while we waited for Us to arrive at a place
where it wouldn’t matter that
I am pizza
and you are not.
I’ve tried to insist that
opposites attract,
but you just sit there,
legs crossed like bread sticks,
you a bag of bones and skin,
starving yourself so there’s nothing
you’ll need from me.

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