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Welcome. Please, come in. Do you hunger for poetry? Chocolate?
![[IMAGE]](stazat_1.jpg)
Stazja McFadyen
Do you hunger for poetry? Sit back, relax, read your fill.
If You Can't Eat 'em, Join 'em
Poetry by Anastasia McFadyen
BREAKFAST
SANDWICHES
DINNER ENTREES
FRUITS AND NUTS
DESSERTS
BREAKFAST
at breakfast this morning I noticed my o's had disappeared
SANDWICHES
I barrel down the fast lane of the super sonic race track of time
like a tourist catching attractions I missed the first time through
dropping in at all night drive in hangouts
what it was all about was being the coolest cat
and me, when I go back to visit
Just a couple white women heading out of Texas,
DINNER ENTREES
il ristorante italiano
superfluous parking valet
party of six with reservations
tinkling crystal toasting prosperity
out in the alley behind the kitchen
recorded on pages by men of letters
obsequious waiter clearing away
hungry drifter outside in the alley
The King is Dead
The King is dead
FRUITS NUTS
Don't cross the street she warned
Dirty minds
Wolves in the sewer she warned
Don't step on cracks
Another myth she told
No sewer wolves, I looked
Don't cross the street alone
Of wolves and dogs she warned
If Adam would of lived in central Texas,
And furthermore, I'd bet my bottom dollar
If Adam lived in Texas he'd of aimed his pistol
And as for Eve, that woman would of said
Gotta tell you, mister, these ain't just peaches.
Now lookit here, these peaches are a color
In central Texas, Adam would of got a switch
Forget the fig leaves, Eve and Adam
Y'all know it's said that God's a Texan;
DESSERTS
A kindred spirit chocolate lover
the next time someone
special effects
those cheesy movies
The Austin International Poetry Festival
The Self-help Poetry Kit - Poets on the Internet
lgjaffe
PoeticLicenseNews
A Writer's Choice Literary Journal-
Yahoo! Calendar
Still hungry? Visit Dream Songs
O-Less
Fuel Injected Time Machine
Road Trip
Appetite for Irony
The King is Dead
Memories of a Four Year Old
Southwest of Eden
New Way to Eat Chocolate,
If You've Never Been To Paris
Prepared
Special Effects
pouring cereal into the bowl, spooning a bite I paused mid spoon
the o's were gone
sure, the cereal was cheery but still each grain was o-less
I took my o's for granted, I admit it
always scattered about on the floor, in the yard, in the pool
even in the back seat of the family car
after awhile, who knows when it started
ignoring my o's like my neighbors or hedges
or pastel sunsets in a jumbo sky
you never know until they're gone how much you miss your o's
I searched the house, behind the fridge, along the baseboards
not a single o in sight
did a burglar break and enter in the dead of night and steal my o's?
I felt so violated yet no evidence of anybody forcing entry
even worse the thought my o's had left because they wanted to
I wasn't abusive you know
enjoyed them every now and then, they surely knew that
should have told them
and of course the kids knew nothing
"haven't seen your o's," they said all innocent
I eyed the dog -- no way he had eaten o's,
he had that lean and hungry doggy look
oh no! forgot to feed the dog and out of dog food
leashed and herded him into the car
checking the back seat for traces of o's
I drove a mile or ten too fast, nearly missed a stoop sign
screeching to a halt -- that extra o -- suspiciously familiar
but proving anything without receipts -- impossible
the parking loot was full
I drove around for hours; finally handicapped I found an empty space
walked the dog up to the entrance, tethered his leash
when someone tapped me on the shoulder
pointing to a flashing neon sign outside the store "no poets allowed" what could I do?
while the dog went shopping I waited outside
obediently minding my p's and q's.
in my dual exhaust time machine
then just for the hell of it stop on a dime
shift into reverse and back up to a moment
and park in some berg off the beaten track
like marlon brando leading the pack
of leather jacketed hoodlums in the wild one
parking, sauntering into forgotten past
like I own the place
mighty mo or burger chef
cruising for burgers around the parking lot
but, dude, nobody cared about those ten for a dollar one ounce patties
(well, maybe the fat guy did)
with the hottest chick in the wildest hot rod
and all the other hep cats wishing they were you
as you cruise in your shades and wave
accepting your rightful place in the hall of cool
I like the part when I tell that dude
it shoulda been me in the passenger seat
as I rev up my fuel injected
rolled and pleated leather seated
time machine
and haul ass out of there.
Road Trip
loaded up with luggage and a kid thrown in.
Acting free and white and over twenty one
driving half across the country,
laughing at the open road.
Fueling up at Texaco,
passing in the right lane,
waving at the truckers with a thousand miles to go.
Jamming to the stereo -- Stevie Ray -- getting down;
shoulder shimmy car dancing, bouncing in the seats.
Little kid rocking with his boogie woogie teddy bear;
next minute too quiet,
kid and bear are fast asleep.
Got it all -- gas card, coffee thermos, chewing gum --
two white women stopping anywhere they want.
Little kid learning fast,
conspiring with playgrounds;
golden arches doesn't mean you really want to eat.
Two white women smuggling submarine sandwiches,
revolted by big mac and won't accept defeat.
Second day, cotton fields and corn fields
give way to Tennessee greenery
so lush you want to drink the leaves.
Freewheeling white woman
designated driver getting saddle sore
ignoring any limit on the speed.
Memphis blues fading out;
navigator white woman tuning in
to Nashville praise Jesus radio.
Little kid getting bored,
learned to roll the window up and down with his toes,
tossing shoes to the breeze.
White woman looking for diversion
playing car license poker,
counting lane divider lines,
getting hypnotized.
Sickened by the shape of silos,
angered by the angle of tobacco barns,
running out of things she wants to see.
Must possess a mutant gene
being born the daughter of a cab driver,
wishing she could fly for free.
In the end the little kid can spot a train a mile away.
Teddy bear on Medicare and leaking at the seams.
And two white women driven
all the way to learn about each other
on the road after twenty five years.
cozy with candlelight caters to prominent clientele
a comfortable walk
from the burgeoning bustling business district
of beautiful downtown planet earth
with finger muscles rippling
never flinches when introducing himself as Sol
if asked and often asked by prominent
clientele in the drivers seat
seated discreetly in private parlor
the yang of the party
in tailored Giorgio summer suits
the yin in hair colors named
for precious metals silver and gold
followed by mediterranean fare
smothered in sauces of butter and wine
generous portions somebody mentions
picking at food and refilling a glass
a nameless drifter employs himself
reading by service entrance light
resting on all that remains of a life
socks and sheepskin and purple heart
arrogant men from earlier ages
-- malthus, darwin --precursing a trend
disposing of men in the overflow
of a species intent on procreating
half touched plates serving brandy
and fine cigars to men of consequence
clipping the tips and striking the matches
the ladies are having espresso, Alfredo
whets his appetite for irony
reading with street wise illumination
awaiting his meal of mediterranean
gourmet dinner for seven, Alfredo
after twenty years
I never expected otherwise
despite what you read in the tabloids
at the supermarket check out counters
maybe it is true
that a boy has a maple tree growing out of his nose
and aliens live among us
and werewolves marry women
in Lincoln, Nebraska now and then
but Elvis is dead as a door nail
no matter how many stories we hear
about sightings of Elvis at Target or Kmart
what would he be doing there anyway?
he was The King
he dressed in custom tailored threads of
satin and sequins and gold lame
it really makes me angry
thinking of Elvis in polyester
I don't even shop at Kmart
why would Elvis, even if he wasn't dead?
I want to remember him
the way he was to me
not the way he isn't that still sells
newspapers and magazines
I remember him coming to my house
on a Sunday night back in 1956
in a zenith console black and white TV
showing everybody what rock and roll was all about
he had a smile you couldn't help but love
he kept me company
the entire summer of '58
listening to King Creole
on my brother's portable
high fidelity record player
reading all the mad magazines
I could get my hands on
what, me worry?
warping my mind and finally
warping the record
god, how I wanted to slip
between the grooves and go to New Orleans
with King Creole
where fishwives sing their gospel music
hacking crawfish on the Mississippi
and Dixieland is a state of mind
1960
just around the time I hit puberty
my friend and I walked
the legendary five miles in the snow
from Riverdale, Maryland to Bladensburg theater
where Elvis took us to Blue Hawaii
could he even act?
I didn't notice then
I wasn't siskel and ebert
he could smile and sing and move his body around
and love the leading lady
the way a 12 year old would imagine
it would be like to be loved by a superstar
all sweet and wholesome and clean
before sex and drugs
took their toll on rock 'n' roll
on me
on The King
on the whole damned world
and whether Elvis is gone
to that Graceland in the sky
or just gone
The King is still dead.
long live The King.
There's certain danger
Don't talk to strangers
Most of all not colored people
If they're men beware
They just have one thing on their minds.
Dirty streets
Dirty dogs
DON'T TOUCH THAT DOG
You don't know where its mouth has been
Like I'd let the dog put its mouth
where it did not belong.
To keep me from the curb
A single city block of concrete
Four story sycamores
shading sidewalk squares
we called monkey blocks.
Don't break your mother's back
With no one watching
grinding sole on every crack.
Never broke her back
Ground up ants stuck to my soles.
Like Santa Claus
I stayed awake to spy her
filling stockings
candy canes and toys and nuts
that she called nigger toes.
Slip of a child
I slipped inside a sewer hole
Ladders lining sewer walls
climbed down
subterranean honeycomb.
That was her warning
Standing at the curb beside my dog
Approaching stranger
offering his hand
I held it to the other side.
Of colored men
and straying off too far from home
She fed me myths and jell-o
All the rest I found out
on my own.
Southwest of Eden
I reckon he would be alive and well today
and have his ribs and eat 'em too.
he'd of got his wife in line and cannin' peaches
and havin' bubbas in for Texas barbeque.
right between that serpent's eyes
for messin' with his wife, and sure he'd shoot!
to hell with apples, druther have some peaches
out of Fredericksburg, the finest Texas fruit.
Ever tasted Blue Bell peach ice cream?
A bite of heaven, that's the gospel truth.
made by angels; their velvet skin is dyed
with fresh squeezed rainbow juice.
and raised some cain behind the shed;
he'd of taught that boy a thing or two.
would be splashin' and a' swimmin'
down at Hippie Hollow in their birthday suits.
seen a bumper sticker how He made the sunsets
burnt orange in Texas skies of blue.
told me of a new way to enjoy and savor chocolate;
a way I'd never thought of, having never been to Paris
though my friend has, more than once --
and being everso attentive
when it comes to listening to my friend
in matters of the realm of pleasure,
followed his instructions,
even adding extra touches of my own.
Like Ponce de Leon in search of ways
to stay forever young,
I set off exploring every nuance
making careful preparation
in my quest for
excess exploitation of my tastebuds.
French bread he told me --
not the kind for sale in packaged loaves,
no, that would never do!
It must be fresh,
still oven warm,
the way it's done in Paris.
En route to the bakery
I stopped off to pick up something
in the way of musical accompaniment
for the big occasion
finding Edith Piaf
Little Sparrow de Paris
to sing her heart out
for me to indulge myself,
something to excite my ears
while making love with chocolate.
Next leg of my journey was
the chocolate selection
and despite belief of some that Chocolatiers Suisses
are the final word in chocolate
this I know yet having never been to Paris:
Venezuelan El Rey Gran Saman
can be compared to none
for extra bitter chocolate --
for making chocolate rapture.
Quelling my anticipation
I was all to glad to wait
the ten long minutes for the baker
conjuring the fresh baked loaf
inside his magic oven;
handing it to me still hot
contained inside a special French loaf wrapper
I could not contain myself --
pressing it against my face,
the firm crust did not fool me.
By inhaling the aroma
I knew well the bread inside was soft and warm;
knew what the taste would be
inside my watering mouth.
I held the loaf up
offering to share a whiff with the cashier --
not wanting to partake
of this small pleasure all alone.
Not wanting to prolong approaching culmination
now I hurried home.
Arranging for the perfect setting,
cutting from among the blooming bushes in my garden
twelve carefree laughing roses
plump and pink to fill a crystal vase,
to fill the room with rose perfume.
While softening an ounce of chocolate,
making swift incisions
in my loaf of fresh baked bread,
reducing it to dainty slices.
Nearly ready now I cued the Little Sparrow
to begin the grand performance.
As I dipped a slice of fresh warm bread
into the saucy chocolate
and tasted it in this new way,
I wondered whether even Paris can compare.
prepared
asks about my womanhood
I will be prepared like a boy scout
though I never was a boy scout
back when I wanted to scout with boys
there was a rule you had to be a boy to join
and since I didn't have that thing
to prove I was a boy
that box checked male on the birth certificate
I joined the girl scouts
and even though the girl scouts
sell their cookies every year
and everyone loves those girl scout cookies
I could have cookies anyway
but boy scouts had that nifty pledge
and camping trips
and the gear you buy at j.c. penney's
with the emblem of the bsa
my brother joined the boy scouts
and all his chiding teasing kid sister bullying friends
who talked about more interesting subjects
than poodle skirts and pony tails and dressing barbie dolls
before they wanted to undress dolls
they all got to join the boy scouts
but not me
it wasn't penis envy
I didn't think about penises then
and later I got a penis with my husband kit
assembly required, no batteries needed, lifetime guarantee
I just liked to talk about pigskins and spirals and johnny unitas
and forward passes didn't mean some guy was getting fresh
but I digress
the thing is I have these answers waiting
and next time someone asks about my womanhood
I will either say I am terribly bad or extremely good
depends on how the question is worded
like jeopardy, you know?
ready when you are, alex
on mystery science theater 3000
with special effects so cheap and shoddy
you can tell the mechanical monsters
were made in japan
those cheesy movies scared little kids
right out of their skulls
at saturday double feature matinees
that cost a measly thirty cents for admission
in kid economics, a six pack of
glass returnable coca cola bottles
easy enough to come by,
mountains of empty cokes bottles
stacked in the alley
behind the neighborhood grocery store
redeem a carton inside at the glass counter
cluttered with wide mouthed candy jars
fruit flavored lick'm aid straws and necco wafers
treat yourself to a roll of candy
with one more empty bottle
stash it in your pocket for later,
slouched down in your front and center seat
at the theater
ready to squirm in suspended disbelief
at unbelievably unsophisticated special effects
so obvious, ghouls and ghosts could be seen suspended from wires
flying across the screen
it did not matter
kids were primed to get scared
right out of their skulls
screaming at monsters made in japan
like godzilla and rodan
old black and white horror flicks
like bucket of blood
or vincent price in house on haunted hill
letting imagination run wild
bloody red special effects provided
by your own mind
one time my friend nadine ran screaming
out of the theater
during the screaming skull
now that was an extra good special effect
kids talked about it for days
i'll never forget when special effects
began to change
the red eyed children of the damned
defying imagination with evil hatred and scorching
x ray glares annihilating grownups in technicolor
cold blooded alien laser killer stares
scaring me more than my saturday nightmares
what a relief to return to monday morning playground reality
normal brown- and blue-eyed kids
who hardly ever killed with a glance
back when special effects
were in their adolescence
kids were free to run and yell
out on the playground or out of a theater
you could always go home
after the horror or fun and games
it didn't seem that special -- life was simple
yes, I know you've heard that line a million times
but yesterday somebody told me
of a little child with raccoon eyes
on five different medications
each inducing a special effect
to inhibit the screaming horror
out of control in the mind of the child
parents trying to murder each other
not just in black and white
like those cheesy old movies
the way I heard the story -- very matter of fact --
I realized how far we have come
being inured to horror and violence
special effects so visual -- so graphic --
no one needs a mind to get out of the skull
it's easy as popping a colorful pill
or shoving candy up your nose
or playing doctor except with needles now
instead of the curious kid next door
and beer, it isn't just for breakfast anymore
my saturday nightmares are vacant stares of children
mummified
hollow eyed
in front of 27 inch japanese monster tv screens
riveted to the edge of their seats with medication
to keep them from running screaming
from the horrors in their own living rooms
I sure do miss
those saturday double feature matinees
with unsophisticated special effects
and simple lives to go home to.
Copyright © 1997 Anastasia McFadyen
Austin, Texas
If you would like to be added to my mailing list, send me a personal letter at: stazja@aol.com