By Kimee E. Santiago
So it’s another Saturday when hanging on to your bag
As your most accessible companion you
Pore over bestsellers only to put titles down
Denouncing bookstores for selling rubbish
Bound, reviewed and shamelessly called books that
Shuffling through racks of clothing
is a better mind-feed of tasteless effects magnified
by snobbish brands branding you nameless
no more, hiding subordination under skirt
tucking fucking bills and bosses into belt loops with
your fingers like one hooks index and thumb
on a cup of coffee and company, where you wish these
bills bosses boredom would all go swirling and
dying in dilution but hell no---
your coffee has more water than coffee
your table for two is table for you
alone after another Saturday of fruitlessly shopping
for good conversation.
1 comment:
I can own this poem. I am this persona.
This poem, again, has a Whitmanesque quality to it.I love the assonance-alliteration mix in "tucking fucking bills and bosses into belt loops..." Reading this poem fuels ones sense of isolation and loneliness. A second look at the poem reminds me of Allen Ginsberg, that sensational American poet of the Beat Movement who wasn't afraid of the "f" and "s" words and who glorifies his "hole" (Read: anus) in one of his poems. And, by the way, he had fits of depression and was committed to an asylum, where he met and fell for Carl, another eccentric poet, after whose death he wrote "Howl (for Carl)," a eulogy in poetry. Read him, dear.
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