well my little honey bastard adam duritz inspired this little poem. i know
it's off topic, but no one's being hateful or nothing. and it is such a
relief. anyway, well, i just posted tons of poems of mine on my
dirty-whores newsgroup if you want to read them. man. i think my poems.
well it's weird that people ususally prefer my netposts to my poems. but
the story of stella starr, a gogo dancer, is like 18 poems long. a little
story. a very, very long poem. just like everything, you know?

okay, oh, i'll put on my "bus" columns too. i even write about adam duritz
in my movie reviews, in my first trip to Washington story. but i swear to
god i saw someone who looked just like him. only in gucci shoes. but he
was all dressed in gray and didn't have dread locks, but a gray barrett.
funny. i said in my column 'it seemed so symbolic'

i am so funny with no where to go.

but here's a little poem. i mean it's fluffy, i guess. some of my poems
are sooo brutal. hard to read. verging on chaos and rage. verging on,
only. i am an excellent poet i think. but everyone says i'm indulgant. i
don't know. but this makes me feel happy, this poem. even if it's spent
like me.


Honeymooned       
   
Too drunk for eight o'clock, I walk home.  
The sidewalk's as deep as my knees:  
the wet cement of a dream I pour 
each night, threatening to harden
around my ankles like regret.  

Home again, I turn on TV, change 
into pajamas, eat.  I spell
"the man in the moon" 
with Alpha-Bits cereal,
hold the bowl's soft curve
to my lips and drink every letter.

*Rising, he consumes 
what would be my last horizon.*   
He's not just the man in the moon, 
not a tired metaphor, 
he is the entire night.

Chubby yellow stars wearing sunglasses 
giggle and wave as we ride by on a comet.  
He bathes me in the little dipper, 
dries me with his sonic breath, 
makes love to me with the force 
of impatient dreams wasted on stars.   

The night before we marry, 
he tucks me into the 
slow curve of a quarter moon.  
I hold onto that sliver of light,
shivering with want.  

I spend the night practicing 
my independence by repeating 
*you can't talk to me that way* 

as if I could ever defend myself
against the only sliver of light 
in my universe.  Whatever he asks

*I do.*






copyright 1994 kathy jo kramer







and in my class, the main debate about this poem was about chubby stars.
how could stars be chubby? what the heck. i mean all over my refridgerator
are these chubby yellow stars wearing star-shapped sun glasses that leo
had gotten for doing good at school. man. well okay, later