Slaminatrix.com

~FEATURED ESSAYS~
Enron Execs Need Rehab~~~Dare to Imagine the "Impossible" ~~~Rx for Blocked Creatives

~POETRY~
Classic Poems~~~Recent Poems~~~Italian Heartbreak~~~The Politically Incorrect Fantasy~~~The Truth about Her Lips 

~PROSE~
Essays~~~SlamMania~~~Story of a San Francisco Surf Legend~~~San Francisco Chronicle Articles

~ABOUT LISA~
Biographical Sketch~~~Upcoming Appearances~~~How to get a Slaminatrix book of your own~~~Contact Lisa~~~HOME

Is Nothing Sacred?

Used to be you had to renounce all worldly possessions
hop a steamer to India
locate a swami at the top of a mountain
and sit humbly at his feet for a decade or two
before you'd even see the first mile marker
on the road to enlightenment

Now there are convenient enlightenment plans
available for people of all ages, spiritual persuasions and income brackets
You can order a ready made guru
Meher Baba, Sai Baba, Baba Ram Dass or . . . L. Rob Hubbard ?
or choose from a wide variety of do it yourself options
Aruveda, Avatar, Course in Miracles-even holotropic breathwork
that's right, use your Visa card to breathe, dance or, with Tantric yoga,
blissfully copulate your way to higher consciousness

Why bother with years of prayer and meditation, fasting and selflessness
when for the cost of a book, tape, or at most a weekend seminar
you too can achieve spiritual mastery
and now, more than ever, at low, low discount prices

Why, you don't even have to seek enlightenment anymore
Like it or not, enlightenment is coming to you channeled
through the US Mail
Every week comes a new glossy package promising
peace, prosperity, bliss and a soul mate
in just thirty days or your money back

Since when do gurus need mass marketing, anyway?
Used to be their miracles spoke for themselves
effortlessly reaching masses of disaffected seekers without need of
a bulk mailing permit

In the old days, people went to doctors when they got sick
But it's a new millennium!
Your doctor is a health maintenance organization
and they aren't very successful with new age diseases-like mine
Oh, I won't bore you the details of my personal tragedy
let's just say I've had this intractable illness since before souls needed chicken soup
Even my MD ran out of prescriptions that didn't work anyway
my acupuncturist lost faith in her needles
and my dowser's pendulum stopped swinging
What else could I do?
I went ahead and booked a trip to the Amazon where I'll
find a native shaman who will
blow magic herbs up my nose
make me hallucinate prophetic pre-Columbian visions explaining the truth
about what is surely a psycho-spiritual malady
because studies show that viruses don't kill people-oh no!
people kill themselves with negative thought patterns

So now I'm preparing for this vision quest and I'm
researching arcane ethnobotanical literature in dusty libraries
and incense heavy metaphysical bookstores
and I think I am so special and so evolved and so New Age I'm Stone Age
till one day I'm click click clicking through cyberspace where I virtually trip
over an Ayahuasca ­vine of the Incan gods -homepage for chrissake
Shamanic healing is all over the net
I'm practically the last to know

But hey, lookie here
for only $1500 I can have a genuine shamanic experience
in the Peruvian rainforest
with the wild mushroom traveling road show!

and it's just not the same, is it?

when spiritual paths are hawked
like Caribbean cruises on the home shopping network
and slick guru promos overflow our mailboxes
when the Amazon reveals her deepest entheogenic mysteries on-line

there's nothing left to do
and nowhere left to go but
Hoooooooooohhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmme

Awash in the Aftermath of a Telephonic Tryst

it's two in the afternoon
you're gone now
and I'm lying in bed
rolling in the high of you
my eyelids heavy
tender places swollen

I haven't had a drink in fifteen years
but in this moment I am drunk
and dizzy from our dance
I'd be reeling
if I could stand

wanting more
I linger
no, loiter
in the still-present echo of your voice
getting lower
your breath coming harder
you-lying in another bed
touching yourself with whispers of me
you-in some anonymous hotel room
somewhere in the great American West
you-calling me
for I am too
too far South
for you to come
to me
now

then all we have is talk
but you're the pro, baby
you can do more sweet damage wielding words
than a hundred men humping
with all their spare parts

that's why I'm still here
wallowing in the memory of your voice
your voice prowling between a purr and a growl
your voice wrapped around me like a quilt in winter
coiled like a cool, cool snake in the heat of summer

your words penetrate me
deeper than any mere man of flesh
lover, you are three hundred miles away
but I can feel your throbbing pulse with every syllable
you tease me with sinuous verbs
slide inside on the backs of provocative adjectives
make me moan with multi-layered metaphors
and plunge hard core nouns into my willingness

seems I've met my match
in you-the strange force driving that wicked tongue
so when I squeeze
the last inch of symbolism from our collaboration
I hear you shudder on the other end of the line
and I explode, drenching you with superlatives
we're having sex in sestinas
making love on a lyric
you're banging me with blank verse
baby, don't stop!
but, oh! your very punctuation makes me gasp

and just like that, you're gone
slipped into the afternoon of a late spring cold snap
but your words I can keep
savor
luxuriate in the slow burn
they rise up in me

goddamnit, man!
you got under my skin
you, with your lush language and cryptic wit
I've succumbed to your sensual similes
inhaled your innuendo to intoxication
I live to lick loose the alliteration from your lips
and I can't stop rocking to our reckless rhythm
No, I can't even pretend to be cool anymore
I'm on fire
and you can't put me out cuz
there ain't no rules of grammar apply here, babe

I'm a wildfire burning through your line breaks

ain't nothin you can do but
sit tight
hang loose
saddle up
climb on
dive in
shut up
and
feel the heat

Debt of Blood

My name's Nila
Nila Marse
lissen up, now
cuz I'm here to tell y'all bout how
I never owed nobody nothin'

That's right, I been worked like a mule all my life
bustin' my ass and payin' dues to where I'm bled drier than a salt box
I raised eight brothers and sisters with no mama
and a no 'count daddy
Hell, he was worse than no daddy at all

I been workin' twenty years at the chicken plant
my fingers all hobbled up
my lungs so full of dust from ground up chicken bones
every time I cough, feathers fly outta my mouth

and I still ain't stopped workin' for Veon and the kids
him another no 'count drunk
useless as tits on a boar-hog

no sir, I don't owe nobody nothin'
looks to me like somebody owes me
somebody owes me a goddamn life

Sometimes I think about how much I put out for everybody
and how I never get a lick of respect, a raise or even a goddamn thank you, ma'am
I think about it while I'm guttin' chickens on the eviscerating line
I think about it every time some lil ole sugar tit gets light duty
cuz the boss likes the way she wiggles her ass

and whenever Veon comes at me in the middle of the night
and shoves his belchin', beer stinkin' body into me
I don't anymore dream of some young, handsome, god-fearin' farmer
Alls I can think about is sleep
or murder

Then there's other times
like when I'm up to my elbows in the trailer's busted toilet
the whole mess stinkin' till hell won't have it
I wonder if the ocean is really as pretty like it looks in the magazines
if the flower on a cactus smells sweet
I wonder if I'll ever get just one goddamn day of happiness before I die

Well, I worked all my days
suffered through them long nights
and prayed on my knees every morning
and when that day never did come
I lost the faith
Now I'm bitter like an old root
Hell, I could crack a walnut shell between my teeth without even flinchin'
I've took to slappin' my kids
cussin' the boss when his back's turned
and puttin' pepper in Veon's coffee
but nothing's changed
'cept we all got meaner

Now my mind's like on fire with hate
my job, my man-hell, even my kids
leeches all of 'em
suckin' the life out of me

Well, Nila, I says to nobody in particular
since nobody pays me no mind anyway
Well, I says
there ain't a hell of a lot left to suck, people
my marrow's done tapped out
bones hollow
'fore long, there won't even be blood a'crawlin' through my veins

but I tell you what
for all my hatred
I don't blame no earthly creature for my misery
so much as I hold God responsible
for giving me such a shitty life

and when I think about it like that
I know it's God what owes me
God owes me that debt of blood

Nila don't owe nobody nothin'

the writer's group

OK , so you're in this new writer's group

for years you've been avoiding them
like a plague of phone solicitors at dinnertime
but all your friends are going
and if you don't get with it
before long they'll all have Pulitzers
while you're enjoying life as a jingle writer for local used car commercials

OK, so you're at this new writer's group
even though you fear them with the fear of the damned
because you're so utterly naked
you and your purported art
and being thus exposed there's a sporting chance you'll be revealed - instantly!
to have all the creative talent of a salad fork
but the go-go optimist in you that rears her perky head from time to time
says why yes, precious, this is exactly what you need
to water the drought that's started to manifest
in the form of no new work in two months
nothing, nada, zip, zero, zilch, squat
but don't freak out or anything
you don't want to give it any energy

then comes the dreaded writing exercise
and you hate writing exercises
because they demand you be creative on the spot
but you've never been quick witted
you're terrified of improv
and now you're entire future as a writer hinges
on the outcome of this one descent into hell
so you do this stream of consciousness thing that turns out not so bad
and brings forth hearty guffaws from your fellow writers
Well, Hallelujah, people!
say hello to the first poet poised to go platinum!
but wait
everyone else gets to read their work
one piece is elegant and witty
another lyrical and profound
and two are the riveting beginnings of novels you'd love to read
suddenly, your piece is crap
you are crap
and now everyone in the room sees you as the pathetic poseur you truly are
you might as well crawl home
burn your notebook
and get a job selling burial plots to the indigent
well, OK maybe it wasn't that bad
you switch to attack mode
you go around the room making mental notes as to why none of these sorry wretches
will ever reach the heights of artistic success that you'll someday enjoy
ambitious as mud
the backbone of a banana slug
about as resourceful as a Quaalude on Valium

once you've dismissed your friends on the basis of something, anything
other than their talent
which, alas, cannot be denied
you feel like scum squared
because now you're a secret energy sucker and purveyor of bad juju
in addition to having all the creative talent of a microwave oven
and you even hate that comparison
because you don't believe in microwave ovens
and people say what do you mean you don't believe in microwave ovens?
and you shake your head because
you can't explain it to someone who doesn't get it spontaneously
so you decide maybe you need to join an improv group
in fact it's time to rethink your entire approach to life
how can you call yourself a poet anyway???
I mean, this hardly qualifies as a poem!
its a bit, a sketch, a whiny rant
so go ahead and convert
make it official
move to LA
become a stand up comic
yes, get famous!
but you're avoiding this one minor obstacle
comics have to be quick on their feet
when they get heckled they can't say
uh, excuse me
I need a couple of hours of alone time with my computer
before I can get back to you with a witty rejoinder-nooooooooo
so, can the writing exercises
it is time to find an improv group
maybe learn to sing while you're at it
that's how Mae West got started
and some dance classes too
Mary Tyler Moore hoofed her way onto the Dick Van Dyke show
and into the hearts of a billion boob-tubin' baby boomers
yeah, that's it, a singing, dancing improv act
I'm fine now
I'm cured
I'm ready to autograph your microwave oven

SWM seeks nice Pentecostal girl

I don't want no city girl
city girls is hard as stone and twice as cold
I sure don't want no downstream girl
one's been fished out, if you know what I mean

No sir, I don't want just any ole girl
God and Mama knows I want me a nice Pentecostal girl

I want a old fashioned girl who wears pretty dresses and bras
one who don't flop around like some damn milk cow
a girl I can be proud to bring home to Mama and then
we can set on the porch swing holding hands lookin' at lightnin' in a summer storm
I want to take her to the Arkansas Cowboys for Christ Rodeo
so's we can cheer them boys from Sunday service
I'll get her a spot in the shade

I want me a nice Pentecostal girl to go out and have fun with
I'd take her bowlin
we'd go fishin and play miniature golf
and if her daddy ever asked
I could tell him true
I wouldn't take my little gal's flower til our weddin' night

Now, y'all might be wonderin' why I'm advertising in a single's publication for
my true heart's desire
Well, I'm sorta shy and a little overweight and my hair's thinnin' at a young age
so a gal might not take the time to get to know how I'm a real special fella
I own my own gun shop and a house in the country
two hounds and a mule
I take care of my Mama and
I'd take care of you too
I'm a good provider and I don't drink or chew tobacco
Yes ma'am, I'd be a real catch for the right Pentecostal girl
a young gal who wants to make a home and give us and the Lord plenty of babies
we'd raise em to respect their elders
vote Republican
and know the importance of firearms as per the United States Constitution
we'd all study scripture together in the evenings and
offer ourselves up at the revival meetings every summer
and in time the Good Lord would strike us Holy
til we'd speak a language only he could understand

you see why it's so important to me now, dontcha friend?
you see why
I want me a nice Pentecostal gal
one who knows
there ain't no need to be afraid of snakes

The Edge is where I want to be

so you just want to take the edge off
one beer
one joint
one teeny weeny Prozac

get rid of the edge????
people, the edge is what Columbus sailed straight into
it's the launching pad for every space shuttle
the edge is Eve contemplating the apple

and what's life without an edge?
that's right, it's DULL

the edge is the cliff you've dangled from in a hundred nightmares
you never know what's over that edge
and there's only one way to find out

Brothers and sisters
where are we
who are we
if we take the edge off?
Lose the edge
and all you've got is middle
middle aged
middle class
middle of the road
middle management
you're dribbling along in the uncooked vanilla pudding of life
all fat
no lean, hard edge to drive you
sharpen your skills
your wit
your senses

the edge holds the answer to your questions
the question to your answers
it's the trailhead to the road not taken
the edge is everywhere
you've never dared to be

baby, if you're not on the edge
you're sleepwalking through been there done that
you're stuck watching reruns of somebody else's life
in the great mushy middle
where all the droning, moaning masses live
and eat and act and dress and fuck alike
and see the same movies
so they can have the same conversations and then
dream the same dreams
if they dream at all

on the edge you don't know
what anybody is going to do or say or think
the edge is not pre-programmed
for convenient viewing in your time zone-noooooo
and there are no disguises here
on the edge, everyone is naked
all bets are off
and the game's not rigged
the air is clear and brisk
your heart's pounding
you're shaking
you're lightheaded and queasy
you're scared
because everything is initiation
on that sharp unforgiving edge
damn right it's uncomfortable
the edge is change!
it's what you don't see coming
so get out of your comfort zone and
deal with it!

sure, the middle's safe
it's safe like hot cocoa and life jackets and training wheels
if that's how you want to live
if you don't ever want to break the rules
take risks
grow up
past your precious fears and life-strangling limitations
if you want to spend your life
drinking lite beer
smoking another joint
eating what's put in front of you
and home entertaining yourself
till you suffocate on the vacuous paucity of your miserably crippled existence
then go ahead---have a virtual life

but if you're tired and weary and battered
if you can't take one more asshole
riding herd on your wild and precious life
if you're mad or sad or bored enough
to wake up and do something
if you're ready to feel the pain of the great
gaping wound your life has become
then goddamn it, friend!
quit your job
quit smoking
quit whining
leave that jerk
write that poem
go dancing
get sober
take a road trip--a dare--a spin--a lover--a chance
honey, break down and cry if that's what it takes
then pick your ass up
and for all you're worth run
don't walk
to the edge

After you left

I remember our last night together
we waltzed around my empty living room
you sang an old George Jones tune
and neither of us led

I remember you asking
Baby, do you think we'll ever get married?
I remember saying
No

I remember us talking and crying and hugging
and knowing that what we had was a summer romance
gone too long into winter
not the makings of a marriage

I felt your chest
cool and clammy like the inside of a cave
on this steamy July morning
I smelled your fear of being alone

I remember your face
swollen with sorrow in the driveway
telling me: I love you little girl
and me thinkin' maybe you shouldn't be drivin'

After you left, I smelled your sweat on my shoulder
where you held me
weeping
held me til you shook
praying we were wrong

After you left
I moved through the apartment very slowly
so as not to break anything else

After you left
I forced myself back into the world
still transparent with pain

Waiting for a clerk to make keys for me
I notice boxes of ammo on the counter
Remington, Mauser, game load and
I think of you
one tear falls onto a box of nitro magnum
the clerk says
ma'am I am truly sorry we don't have this blank

The muddy paw prints
your hounds on the hood of my car
have dried
I can't wash them off any more than
I can rinse you from my mind
It's gonna take a hard rain

After work, at home
I too am alone and
the sight of that jar of instant coffee you
left on the kitchen table
buckles my knees
I fall to the floor sobbing
I move the jar to an empty cabinet
where I won't see it

I cannot throw it out

Millennial Fever

it's August 11, 1999
only 142 days till we stand
toes curling over the edge of the Twentieth Century
and it is as if we're all trying to cram
as much as we possibly can
into the days remaining before that fateful moment

every American who's not comatose
has a datebook so jammed with appointments
you'd think we were all corporate moguls
but we're not
we're regular people
and we fill our days with work and overtime
shopping, e-mailing, exercising
and a thousand tiny time-sucking errands
and if we're very lucky and very determined
we squeeze in a yoga class or community chorus
a small triumph that eventually feels like just one more thing we have to do

and we say we don't have time to walk
then we get into our cars and drive to an airless gym
where we toil on treadmills till it's time for dinner
which we don't have time to cook
so we order pizza
and we certainly don't have time to meditate
but we watch TV
and after all that we are much too tired to make love
so we roll over
our lovers sigh
then they roll over
because they're tired too
and everybody has to get up and do it
all over again in the morning
when our children are shuttled from cereal box
to school
to babysitter, microwave dinner, video games and a lifelong battle with obesity
because nobody remembers how to play
I can't even recall the last time I lay on my back
in a meadow
watching shadows turn from birds to whispers
you know, if I tried that today
I'd probably become a statistic
for we are no longer safe from each other

and the best we can do is read books on the care and feeding of the soul
then expect her to live on scraps

we have call waiting so we won't miss a call
and caller ID so we will
we get laid by strangers on the internet
but wouldn't recognize our neighbor's face
if we saw him on the 6 O'clock news
where we are being infotained into a psychic stupor
capable only of fulfilling our programming to
shop more
buy more
debt more
to insure we can't ever stop
working more

for purchases that help us pretend that if we have
just the right make-up, haircut, tattoos and musculature
maybe God won't notice that the contents of our pretty package
has about as much redeemable value as a supermarket coupon

and is it any wonder that
anti-depressants are the biggest growth industry in America
while people like me who poo-poo Prozac
are gobbling vitamins and every multi-level marketed scam
that promises to cure our ills
because it is so much easier to take a pill

while clinging to the delusion that the more we do
the more accomplished and secure we'll be
and the truth is that the more we do do do
the less we can possibly feel
at this rate, by the year 2000
we won't even be human at all

we've become a society of sharks
afraid to stop moving for even an instant
but if we don't stop circling
stop thrashing ourselves into the madness
we see reflected in our movies, TV, tabloids
and worst of all in our very own bathroom mirrors
if we don't stop
by the time we hit this New Year's Eve
champagne glass in hand
wobbling on the precipice
staring into the face of the new millennium
there will be nothing left to celebrate

no wonder we run