things my spiteful friend alexis kramer has said to me

"alexis is capitalized."

"do not engage."

"you are so f*$&-ed up right now i can't even imagine being you."

"i will fight you, and if i can't fight you, i have a very large boyfriend in the back room."

"will you just shut-up about your thass?"

"i did not bite you with my fingers. that, my dear, is called a pinch."

"and the little one said, roll-over. roll-over."

"out of my bed. now. you will not insult my opossum."

and, again:

"out of the bed of love."

"hand me the wine bottle."

"kangaroo care?"

to stephanie: "don't call her a whale, please. i really can't deal with that right now."

"give me the pills."

"the fighting vaginae are wind-up toys. open your eyes and relax."

"get out of my bra. give. it. back. to. me."

"stop fooling around, and get on your back."

"feet up higher, missy."

"leave."

"take off your shirt. strip."

"those noises make me feel uncomfortable."

"someone, deal with this, please."

"excellent."

"language."

"please take off the stripper chain."

"what are you wearing? i do not care if he likes it."

"you have border-line personality disorder. don't argue."

"it will hurt, and i will not stop. besides, you probably like it."

"don't try to reason with her...she's having a moment."

"that's a nice dress" (steph). "she's not wearing underwear."

"kimberly, did you---i don't want to know..."

"and that is called being passive aggressive."

"are you wearing two pairs of pants? what is that?" "those are my panties. mean." (me).

"you just called me a bitch." ((((NOT TRUE))))

"you need to wash your sheets."

"before dinner? really?"


that, my friends, is a functional friendship.

memos to myself

three and a half years of college later, i'm still learning college code.

• never assume your professor won't notice the two bottles of wine poking out of your book-bag. ever. especially during an 8 am class.
• it probably isn't a good idea to switch pen color ten times, often mid-answer, while taking a test. 1) the professor will get a head-ache, and 2) "i have ADHD and changing colors keeps me on track" won't cut it.
• always capitalize on a professor's comment "you look delirious..." as you hand in an exam. turn as pale as you can will yourself to, and hope that he/she remembers your state of mind while grading.
• some people don't find hedgehog "anointing" behavior nearly as funny as you do--it's safe to assume it's never happened to them.
• bringing unwieldy flowers to a professor's chic apartment will only exacerbate the "to hug-or-not-to-hug (or to kiss-or-not-to-kiss should he or she be french) conundrum. stick with a bottle of wine.
• never laugh maniacally when a visitor from the physical plant department begins to scold you for "failing to control your fire." "but i'm fire certified!" is not a viable excuse.
• if a professor assumes you have an anxiety disorder after hearing you give an oral presentation, GO WITH IT! (caution: he/she may divulge his/her own history of anxiety issues and/or ask what medication you're on, if you don't mind him/her asking, of course.) prepare to demonstrate appropriate affect so that you can properly sympathize with your professor, and RESEARCH! RESEARCH! RESEARCH! those medications, generic AND brand-name, so that you can provide a credible answer. while you're at it, you might as well look up those ADHD meds too. (and find out who on campus is selling them). ((just kidding)). perhaps even those meds for restless-leg syndrome would be a good thing to verse yourself in....just imagine! you might never be forced/ expected to sit still again!
  
• don't ever work for or with your advising dean. bad idea. bad, bad idea.
• if you shatter a plate in the dining hall, just run away. even as the applause gets louder. telling yourself that it wasn't you almost helps.
  
• when a professor on sabbatical meets you in the pub and says "you look good!" do NOT hesitate in returning the compliment (?), especially if sabbatical has not treated him/her well.
• never laugh at or report a professor's oral sex joke. because you didn't get it, remember? it never happened.
  
• avoid the paths near the health center--i swear, the nurses spy!

more to come, i'm sure. let's keep learning!

phantoms

oliver sacks, one of the world's most brilliant, not to mention endearing, neuroscientists writes on phantom limb syndrome, in which "phantom" pangs are felt in a limb/ appendage that is no longer there. (no, i am not making this up....i don't think) for example, veterans feel shooting pains through missing (or prosthetic) legs, and trans-women have been known to "experience" phantom erections after their member has been removed. for all the biology nerds out there, here's the brief and sadly oversimplified explanation (that is, after all, the only explanation i really do understand): the brain is a resourceful thing! it's got two strips fondly referred to as the sensory and motor "homunculi" (this, thank you latin, literally means "little men"). each section of a homunculus (nominative-singular-second declension..WHEW!) corresponds to a region of our bodies. the sensory homunculus channels the sensations felt by every body part; the area on the homunculus devoted to each body part varies based on that body part's level of sensation (ie: a penis is going to occupy a MUCH larger portion of the sensory homunculus than would, say, a forearm--no joke). basically, if a body part goes AWOL, the region of the sensory homunculus devoted to that part will persist (ouch!) until adjacent regions take it over. craziness, no?

all this to say that i have phantom tonsils. more precisely, i have a phantom right tonsil. and it, as well as my right ear (which is, in fact, intimately connected to what was once a REAL right tonsil by a nasty lil' nerve), are smarting horrifically.

garrison-foster health center, here i come! how else can i maintain my status being your "most frequent flyer?"

and some thing never change

of me leaning over a bit too far to see the board: “this wouldn’t be happening, kimberly, if you’d sit in your own damn seat.” of me muttering an answer, only to turn bright red: “gooooood job, miss parker!” of euphemisms for sex (yes, this comes up far too often in 300 level classes): “i can see by kimberly’s giggle that she certainly knows a few.” of me avoiding a french professor’s gaze: “the question is not where you were last night but with whom.”

yes, professors love me. correction: they love to pick on me. i’m the easiest target they’ve ever known. they go for the quiet girl with the five (or six) perfectly aligned pens before her (should pen one’s, two’s, three’s, or four’s ink miraculously run out). the girl perpetually 10 minutes early (or 6 minutes late), who dates every page of her notes before writing a word. the girl who can’t control her smile when a professor cracks a remarkably inappropriate dead baby/ sick child joke. the one who fidgets nervously whenever someone’s in her seat, and who shows up frazzled with wet (read: frozen) hair, mismatched shoes, and her grandfather’s (stolen) flannel shirt that reaches to her knees.

i’m the rare exception in that peers have never teased me. the adults in my life have. the pattern was established early—from the time my aunt told me my aunt carol had shot off my uncle joe’s leg, through elementary school during which i managed to fail astonishingly at one sport after another, and ALL through highschool when the “let’s swear at Kimberly and see if we can make her blush” and “parker, that is NOT how that word is pronounced,” began.

and all of that simply to say, at college i’m right at home.

And Everything Has Changed

this past year and a half has changed most everything for me and so many things about me: my gargantuan tonsils, my hair color, height, bra-size, complexion, skin-tone, language fluency, wardrobe, menstrual cycle--you name it. my tattoo status (???), my bedding, my circadian rhythm, my favorite professors, my majors/minors, my workload, my attitudes toward actually completing that workload. this oh-so-long, while astonishingly short, year-and-a-half has changed my relationships, my perception of the world right-side up (and down), my attitude toward karma, the content of my prayers. or at least that's what i would have said a year-and-a-half ago.

now i choose to say that i've changed these things: i've changed my passive attitude, i've changed my presentation of myself, the mechanisms i choose to use in dealing with, or enjoying, strong emotions. i've changed my medications (and no, i am not licensed to do that), i've changed the things i've put into my body. i've changed those fantastically-fun DSM-IV diagnoses i choose to recognize in myself, and i've changed the tactics in my relentless battle to change those things i can't.

i stepped away from writing. i stopped crying. then i wrote unfeelingly, until i produced poetry where i managed to find feeling so long as i looked at it objectively, pretending it wasn't my own. it's bad poetry. and nonsensical. it's like emily dickinson before she began her correspondence with sue (and even THAT, i'm sorry to say, is one hundred times better than mine). but it helps to diffuse. to breathe. to make something out of nothing so strong that it feels overwhelming. it helps me to laugh about it. inappropriately. in horribly serious contexts. and THAT, my friends, is how i know that this here poetry is working. enjoy it (or please don't). but i hope you at least giggle, all the while recognizing that it makes all the sense in the world to me.

Wedding

green hydrangeas and lavender wine,

a loose-bodiced dress for me

you chose the forks with the silver tine,

and said how my sash should be.

we grew up together, I grew up too fast

while from you they held the remote

I knew your sadness could never last

when grandma bought you that coat.

and while mine was leaving, your father was there,

playing with cardboard blocks

he built you those rockets, and I didn’t care

I wanted your golden locks

and perhaps all that winter, the boots, the snow

and maybe your world made of glass.

and also your smile ( if you really must know),

and the brothers who gave you your sass.

but now you’re in white, he’s meeting you there

he’s standing—hands folded, a smile.

I wipe away the tear, its glare…

as you walk down the aisle

May Twenty-Sixth

she weeps without seeing; without knowing, she cries

you promised her worlds, you promised her skies.

she turns from the window, a tear on her cheek

she opens her mouth—she tries to speak

but the silence reigns heavy with the weight of you,

disgusted, she’s shameful—the words are too true.

she smiles, as if cracked—the yolk running out,

“inappropriate affect,” she says with a pout

“but please don’t blame them,” she begs, her voice rough

“they gave me their alls, it just wasn’t enough.

so what if they fucked me, so what if I asked?

so what if I put them up to the task?

i’m no longer grieving, it’s only just me

I’m no longer dreaming of what I might be

but please don’t think it’s you that I grieve,

please don’t think it, but please don’t leave…”

Staying In

Those simple lines once started free

They parted with gentle grace.

But when pretty girls—they lied—to me

I forgot to forget your face.

When smiles dwindled—drawn, then cold

I savored your touches, galore.

I spoke to you softly, heart unrolled,

You swallowed me whole—alors?

I cut my hair, it fell in strings,

Like tired thread in the sink,

So I dreamt of castles, of brittle things,

Of the Smirnoff I managed to drink.

But the night girl calls me, sad, alone--

I put up my boxes and books.

Throw on a robe, my hand on the phone

To hear he wanted my looks.

And I wrap my arms ‘round her—

Push hair from her eyes,

Think right back to that sink.

I look at her costume, the sequins—a guise

And though no tear falls, I blink.

She sits for an hour, gets up and goes,

My role again quietly played.

Consoler of sadness, of tired-lost souls,

But what would I’ve done if she’d stayed?

Would I’ve pulled down the windows, the coffee, the tea

To shut out the cold that crept in?

Would I’ve laid a broken hand on a knee

As if to love a gesture, akin?

Sung to her softly the lullabies known

To beat out his crime and his kiss?

And after it all, my sad song blown,

Would she breathe out those notes I’d missed?

Regression

If I told you Maine winters were warmer than you,

If I told you their skies were more blue,

Than your eyes when they froze me so it seemed

I had forgotten to shut the flue?

That the autumn had fallen—more heavy than rain,

And mulch had swallowed the ground?

And Seasons were backwards, solely my gain?

Swallows swallowed but made no sound.

If the crows hadn’t settled up quite so high,

If they hadn’t grown so old,

I might have braved the concrete sky,

Where the sunshine fed the mold.

If I swore to you spring would always come last,

That I’d forever need the cold?

That moonshine melts the snow too fast,

That I’d curse it, were I bold;

If I promised you thunder, lightning aside

Because you feared its clash?

If I took your hand and with mine tied

Together—the child’s pink sash?

Would you find me then, come far from now,

When brick empties and students run free?

Would you suffer a gesture, a shake, a bow--

Would you even acknowledge me?

Cicatrice

Where once there stood a woman,

Now there lies a girl

Where once there lay a single string,

Now he finds a pearl.

But that pearl hung around her neck,

Treach’rous as it was bold.

It made a blister on her breast,

Left her tired as she was cold.

He saw it as it happened,

He never made a sound.

He raised a hand up to his mouth,

Led the mary-girl aground.

The pendant shifted slightly,

It grew loose upon her throat.

And when she left that frozen city,

She forgot to tie her coat.

Monsieur

purple scarves with a knit so fine,

and i’ll always feel your hand in mine

place bossuet and a place so ‘free’

will carry swiftly those memories to me.

sparkling eyes, a hint of scruff

gentle fears curse a heart so tough

gardens by moonlight, cassis, red wine

needless to say, there’s a traveling line

des biscuits de sable, of sugar, of sand

au centre-ville up a staircase so grand

cobblestones braved on teetering heels

remember, remember how good it feels?

windows with shutters sur la rue tillot

bring aerial views of worlds far below

vending machines in la science mirande

furtive smiles as you touch my hand

passing vignettes of Sunday afternoons

of coffee, of sibyls, of vanille in spoons

j’inscris mes mots on red leaves at the park

throw my fears to the wind, i’m home—it’s dark.

i climb into a bed more foreign than free

to dream of lost inches, lost bodies, lost me

you promised me something, i gave you my all

you whispered sweet nothings, i let myself fall

with the windows open, the shutters unfold,

you always remembered i needed the cold

but some things you let slip, from memory, from mind

mes vingt ans, mes soucis, my preference for wine

your scent will soon leave me, the feeling you’re near,

the smell of old leather, of physics, white beer.

because you never could tell me, try as you might

the one i loved most, was it red or was it white?

Mire

there are demons here in me

in places darker than deep.

my monsters lurk in a miry soul

that they might rise and speak.

there are devils here, about

more shallow than I’d prefer

to force my secrets to a head

when I’ve no option to defer.

though I wrap my body in blacks and greys

and I talk my fears away,

though I create my chain and count the days,

my composure starts to fray.

no mnemonic can help me now,

my memories can’t atone.

but ‘talking cures’ I won’t allow—

with my demons I’m all alone.

Smart girls

they say that thin girls ache down deep,

bones shattering against the ice

that coffins crumble and sad eyes weep--

vault-girls jump and pay a price.

that pills swallowed make you sick

and ripped tights just won’t mend,

that pretty girls’ll have their pick

with doe eyes they won’t lend.

they never tell you the way it feels

when smart girls lose their smarts,

when shallow wounds refuse to heal

because smart girls give their hearts.

when books drop from trembling hands

‘cause the finale just won’t come

when she says “it’s over”—that’s the plan

but she just can’t find that “done”.

they always accept, “it’s just a phase—

you know I’ll be back soon.”

they never question the peculiar way

her march doesn’t match her tune.

they neglect that scent, that bourbon, that beer

because “classy” was always the word;

the gum in the dresser, the spot on the mirror

the marks only half obscured.