Hey everyone. I don’t have time for a long update. Suffice it to say the novel and my money issues are sapping all my strength. More the latter than the former but I’m trying to strike a balance. Here’s one of my recent lame attempts at poetry. Enjoy.

FULL CIRCLE

She sits down – “This coffee is wonderful!”
I smile like a person
who wants to be left alone –
My expression says,
“If you knew that I enjoy
having sex with men,
you’d stop talking to strangers.”
Her generation is not well-learned in such perils.

I tell her I don’t drink coffee –
It makes me jittery,
like small talk.

She sings a song to herself.
I name her Gloria.
She says, “I should be doing other things.”
“It’s good to relax every now and then,”
I tell her. “This might be the last
cold day of the year.”
She stands, still singing
waddles away.
The sales clerk comes in to stoke the fire.

Gloria’s butt is big and droopy
like mine will be, given time.
I wonder if anyone loves her.

had I engaged her, would I have been
subjected to photographs –
middle-class suburban grandchildren
fresh-faced and widely grinning?
Or would she have spent
her whole life here –
eighty years, the books her friends?

Was she plugged in the whole time
and is now losing her connection –
is her grandson on spring break
telling a girlfriend
to just relax – he’s got a condom?
Or is she feeling eighty and just now
just now
finding out she had this cord
this need
that Dostoyevsky and Maeve Binchy won’t fill?
Why did she talk to me?

Twenty-five and connected without plugging in.
Wireless generation.
I was taught better
than to plug in -
some outlets have faulty wiring. I watch the news.

Gloria and her droopy butt are gone.
The fire crackles.
On the last cold day of the year,
like a thousand miracles,
rays of sun
break through.

I am applying for a job at the Oklahoma Gazette, which is absolutely my most favorite publication – you know, after “Vanity Fair,” “Vogue,” and “National Geographic.” It’s how the hip and cool among Okies keep up with what’s happening – art shows, concerts, the new places to eat or be seen. They need a freelancer to write a monthly column on the visual arts community – a position for which I am perfect, and which I really, desperately need. Forget the fact that I need the publishing experience, the deadlines to keep me on track, and the name recognition. I need the money.

Pray. I don’t care if you don’t believe in God. Muster it up just long enough to get on your dimpled, well-lotioned knees and pray. For those of you who do live by faith, pray even harder. And laugh at how I just tricked our non-believing friends into praying.

Money won’t be as much an issue once September hits and I have my wonderful, fabulous graduate fellowship to fall back on. Not only is it less tuition I have to pay, it’s a $1000 a month stipend. That will keep me afloat. To get ahead – which I desperately need to do before I finish this degree – will require more. I’ll still have my computer lab job, but that’s getting me about $400 a month at best. Which, granted, keeps me from drowning, but is far from where I’d like to be. I’d like to not have to worry so much.

Mainly, though, the Gazette job will do two things for me that I really need: it will make me keep writing and be accountable to someone other than myself to do it. Yes, there’s this degree and my classes, and that’s great, but I’d like to have more. Also, it will force me to get involved with the arts community, to start observing again like I did when I lived next door to the Guggenheim.

I went to the Bite the Apple Erotic Art Show at the Individual Artists of Oklahoma gallery this past weekend. That was so interesting. I called Todd to ask what I should wear.

“Well, do you have anything rubber, or plastic, or leather?” he asked.

“Todd, think about who you’re talking to and ask me again.”

I wore jeans, my pink dress shirt, a black blazer, and my kicky Cole Haans with my cowboy belt. I looked like an Oklahoma art critic. The fact that I finally have fabulous, Velvet Monkey hair didn’t hurt.

The show was fascinating. There were a lot of tasteful nude drawings. One of them, entitled “Jason,” bore such a striking resemblance to paintings of Jesus that I was torn as to whether to study the piece in depth, or look away.

There were a few velvet paintings by southside artist Rawb Carter. In each of them a woman of color was depicted as some sort of animal, or alien; she always had a tail, was often green, and dressed or backgrounded by leopard print. She was always hypersexualized, and I found myself thinking about how minority women in advertisements are always seen in this same light. Has advertising begun to influence the way we see the human form? Race? Of course it has. Look at Andy Warhol. Still, I must say, overall the works of Rawb Carter struck me as something that should be on the hood of a low-rider truck, and not in an art gallery, even in Oklahoma City.

The real beauty of the show, however, is the fact that the attendees themselves choose this night to become works of art in themselves. Todd’s appraisal of recommended dress mostly had to do with the fact that the following night was the Fetish Ball, which is the second night of the show. This, unfortunately, I missed because I was at Galileo watching K.C. Clifford. But even on Friday night, one could not help but consider some of the outfits works of art. There was, of course, the fashion show and poetry reading. As a literary experience it left a little to be desired; mostly I felt like I was in a Mike Myers movie. The clothes, while racy and shocking – who wants to see a skinny boy in a plastic and rubber corset? – were a delightful and fascinating departure from the norm. And you mostly couldn’t resist having your picture made with the guy in full bondage gear attending the bathrooms.

Wine and beer flowed freely, and if people were challenged or shocked by what they saw, they kept it in, because they, too, were on display. Even someone dressed as normally as myself could not help but feel scrutinized, studied; what was I trying to say via my choice of outfit? Mostly, I was trying to say, “Vanilla.” For me, the safety word is “Hi.” I said that I was a student, looking in on a world about which I know – thankfully – so very little. The people, the art – sex is like that. At times, one must ask the questions, if not dive right into its world, even if just to observe.

The above is not an audition for the Gazette, nor an example of what I might be writing for them. It’s shitty first draft stuff, just me thinking aloud about how much I enjoyed the Bite the Apple show.

K.C. Clifford was Saturday night. It was undoubtedly her best concert ever. Part of this may be due to the fact that my heroes, Laurie and Jaye, managed to get a table right in front of where she performed. Also, she debuted several new songs, one of which she described as a sequel to “Find My Way Home” and which made me cry. Also, I got the lyrics to the Barbie song wrong. So here they are, corrected:

If Barbie were alive she’d be six-feet one
And her neck would be eighteen inches long.
And if that’s not enough, her hourglass figure
Is 41-16-34
By George – She’s deformed!
So how can other women perform?
Kill Barbie now – before it’s too late.

Not a big change, but I mostly just love that song. Here are some words to the first verse that I really like:

This is not your perfect world
No matter what you think
And I am not your perfect girl –
Titanics tend to sink.

Pray about the job, because I need it. Not need in a spiritual sense, mind you, and I’m certainly not entitled to it. But in most other ways, it is necessary. Also, thank the Lord that He has already blessed me so abundantly.