poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Poem at the Uptown Cafe

Sit with me next to the most beautiful limestone vagina,
she says, "I'm still there" but she's not here. Three beautiful blueberry
corncakes for the pretty little lady. (It hurts less when they are actually beautiful.)

"An ass like two apples in a sack," says the man in the booth behind me.
It's not that I don't understand,
milk, eggs, butter, cream and babies come from ladies.
Setting the vagina on fire, I realize it is plastic and it smells bad.

Broken beasts dance to the jump-edge of rooftops in every city in the world.
The perfect always think they are god-birds
on pretty plastic feet they jump,
vaginas burning and corncakes so sweet.

The best part of the naked girl
projected behind the band on the screen at the concert
was when she hit the cymbal in time with the music and Wayne hit the symbol too
as if to say, "It's not that I don't understand," but

and the man behind me says, "Her idea of the out-of-doors
is going to Bloomingdales." And the man sitting across from him says,
"Oh, okay, walking the streets." I am confused by their exchange.
I want to tell them that Wayne is the naked woman.

First her necklace (projected twenty times as large)
said Brooklyn in cursive gold and then at the end of the concert
(after she gave birth to the band on her back and had a child's birthday party for them)
the necklace spelled out B-R-O-K-E-N.

We're all her, that's what Wayne is saying. And Wayne says stop the war.
Someone on their cell phone says in that silly one-way talk:
Children are expensive./ Living hand to mouth./ I didn't say that./ I didn't even imply it.
The Norse word for great-grandmother also means: story of how the world began.

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