Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains

Archive for the month “August, 2012”

Fare Thee Well Summer

Is it Friday already? Indeed it is. Look how time melted away my summer. Come Tuesday, I will play good girl in staff meetings and department pow wows, and day dream though each speech about API, first days, safety procedures, WASC, and this years mission statement. All the hoopla before I ever get to the point of meeting my new students for the academic year. the only part that is worth anything.

I will spend this weekend hibernating. Locked in my condo like I am plotting the demise of western civilization. Enjoy each moment away from humanity. I’ll clean, cook, and work on poems. Fair enough. Is it wrong that if this were my last day on earth, I may do exactly this.

The Peacock is the National Bird of India

I know far too much about this subject. Mayur means peacock, the beautiful, pompous multi eyed creature that flaunts its way into your life. Dares you not to take notice of its jewel tones and earth rattling cries. The creature is regal, and worthy of worship, as far as I am concerned. After all, the peacock was the symbol of the queen of gods, the top goddess herself. So all queens should have their Mayur’s, should they not?

Then I am a queen, because mine comes around, when the mood suits him, probably during mating season, if I’m even a little correct. Always flaunting his feathers as he walks, and cooing in my ear. Constantly wants to hear that I love him, even when I’m not sure I like him. How do you love someone who calls you, with a voice that melts butter, like a member of his harem? And you are to primp and put on your finery as if you won the date lottery because your number was called. What good is that? Can I love him because he has large hands, constant stubble, and naradha possessed tongue? Or can you fall for a man who tells the story of coming to America when he was 16, and keeping the suitcase he showed up with. How he stopped and lamented over it this June, when after 21 years it was in pieces and he had to admit it was time to toss it out. Or how there is a light in his dark eyes when he posses for pictures with his dog, Enzo. And joy in that seductive voice, as if boy was reminiscing about his best friend, when he speaks of first getting the dog, and how now the dog is his only loyal companion.

If only it were easy to pull the parts of the man that were lovable out, like plucking peacock feathers to collect. I know there are enough feathers in his likable self to create quite the fan to keep me cool and perhaps even hidden when I don’t want the world to see me.

Why does a peacock need a harem? Why must they yell so loudly for attention? Why must they peck at the skin until you bleed and their stomachs are full with flesh? Why do they think they own everything they scar?

It Comes Like an Angry Mob

The school year is upon us and I shall not be able to escape it. Though I should get some type of valiant points for trying to do so even in the last harrowing days of freedom. Even now I should be creating a syllabus planning the first week or 2 of school and not here – typing away, as if I’m getting away with something. The unfortunate truth is I will get away with nothing and soon my days will be filled with essays, worksheets, parents, admin, and students.
I, unlike many teachers that I know, actually really really like my students. I get them at 14 as they start high school and then when they are seniors as they exit. The growth they go through is amazing, and quite honestly they make the job what it is. If I could remove the administration the grading and perhaps even some of the other teachers, I would be the happiest poet-teacher in the world. This job, like a corporate job, assures that never happens through the bureaucracy and politics of maneuvering through the system of public education.
The students, and I tell you they are the reason for everything, they will make you laugh on a day when you did not even think you could smile. If anyone ever bothered to listen to students, their pain and sadness would vibrate as if yelled through a bullhorn, even when they whisper. So as much as I am avoiding writing the syllabus or planning a solitary lesson, I do truly look forward to my new students.
It will be a great year, and that is what I will tell myself every morning as I drag myself forward into another day.
Or I can always watch this to remind myself that I matter.
What Teachers Make.


My friend is gone today, left for Chicago , a far windier place. Perhaps I have misstated much here. Friend? Former student, who I love dearly. The kind of student that makes me wish I had children, even when I know it’s an impossibility. The kind of student that I would spend my time mentoring even if I was not paid by the district. The type of student you tell nothing but the truth to, even when it’s hard to say. Truly the kind of human I wish I was a mother to. Well, what ever part of me can be motherly. Gone? college, but I think gone. I think the permanent stretch of moving along through the world and he doesn’t quite know yet. He’ll be back to his parents, visit friends, but I think when all is said and done, California is not where he will stay.

I will miss this man, and in a strange way, more than those I should miss. Weird how the heart feels.

But then I find myself missing people moments after they leave and then wishing they never showed up. Wishing they didn’t give me a reason to know loneliness.

so here is the beautiful thing about this man, he asked me to write a poem for him. And this is beautiful cause every other man doesn’t want me to write about them, hang out the truth, as I see it, on the clothes line between our windows. I can’t count the times, men have become cold or estranged over poems. Beg like little boys for transformer action figures to see these poems, then pout as if I bought them the wrong action figure and can return it to the store for a refund. Once it’s on the page, it’s on the page. there is no taking it back. No amount of shaking, yelling, silence, or walking away makes it not so.

and by the way timothy it was always out of love when I tore your work apart

Insomnia, My Sweet Friend

It’s hot.¬† That shall be my excuse tonight for why we meet again in this darkened bedroom, where sleep still cannot find me. I thought of inducing sleep with my pink non placebo ovals, but only want to use them for emergencies.
Besides insomnia, you have  with me on so many restless nights listening to the traffic whizzing by (three stories below) Pacific Coast Highway, why would I dessert you now?
Because tonight isn’t racked with the sadness of a lover’s exit, the anticipation of a sisters fourth attempt at rehab, or waiting to hear if a friend’s t-cell count has dropped.
No tonight insomnia, we will walk hand in hand until one of us trips into dreamland. I bet it will be you, you already talk about skipping through wild flower fields and cartoon sheep as if they were sedating lullabies. I’ll watch you slumber and have breakfast ready by 7am.

If You Want To Know Where God Is, Ask A Drunk

Charles Bukowski‘s birthday is today.

This will be stream of conscious as he would have it no other way. So I live in Long Beach, CA very close to San Pedro where Bukowski rode out the remainder of his life. As a poet in the area, it is nearly impossible to speak to a mature writer who cannot tell you stories about their time schmoozing with the master. It often makes me wonder when he had time to actually write. And I’m jealous. How could I not be, he wrote Are You Drinking, and if I list them here, I shall not finish.

As of late, the past two days, you have been rummaging through my mind. And no, it has not been because of James Franco’s “Ham on Rye”, but it’s Franco. . .what? what? No the reason is Tuesday, this poet at the Tuesday reading, Eric M. (had a brilliant poem called Homecoming, and I will buy that chapbook. Would have then, but didn’t have proper change) had a quote from you on his left inner arm. A wonderful place to tattoo something, you need only to bend your arm and it is with you when you need it. And what a sentiment to have with you, to which I say Mr. Bukowski, How is your Heart.

We all do walk through fire, some survive and some do not. My contention is the more fire the better the life. A few singe marks are simple ash to make you more colorful. Clear skin means nothing in the end. I don’t want it. I don’t have it. It appears that in this life I have become flame retardant.

So last year, nearly that long ago, I was at Green Hills, where you are buried. I never mentioned it to my friend who dutiful and lovingly visited his father and grandfather, even passed by an uncle to give regards. My friend would not have been interested, and at the time neither was I. At the time I cared fully about the fires he traversed and the one he was helping me traverse. I might of only been able to crawl through the fire without him, but walked and had a few sprints along the way. I’m grateful to him. But I’m truly grateful to you Mr. Charles Bukowski for reminding me how lucky I am. For inspiring Eric to tattoo his arm. For all the inspiration that fills the day and the lives that have read your work.

I wish I had a grandfather like you–drunk, dirty, creative, beautiful instead of a molester and gambler, but sometimes we are dealt fires in the people we meet, and sometimes too early. Doesn’t matter, as long as you get through with style.

Thank you for reminding me of that, and thank you for everything else you wrote. I’ll be drinking to you tonight at the congregation in Long Beach.

Possessed Printer

Look at that I’m even use alliteration in my titles. Tell me I’m not a poet deep in my marrow.

So last night’s reading was good. Really good. Some of the opens were great as well, which was nice. Unfortunately, not being the magnificent John F. Buckley and I cannot give a recount of who read what. I do know Daniel read a grammar poem about Pancho, and for me the genius was when teaching English the grammar books always try to hit every culture they can, as not to leave anyone out. Now in my school text there is a whole pronoun section on identifying antecedents and to help the students they use a paragraph about a Japanese girl, Yoshiko, and her tea house/garden. Hello Holt textbooks??? Thanks for being PC, you know as PC as a Japanese tea house/garden is. May I congratulate you on showing restraint and not including the Koi pond.

As for me, reading was okay. I have to say I hate my wi-fi printer, that thing is truly possessed. I printed three poems in a row and surprise, it refused to print the second poem, Abel. I have come to the conclusion that my printer is a Catholic, and does not appreciate my sacrilegious poetry. So if i want the printer to perform I must only about butterflies, flowers, and wine. I don’t think I have a solitary poem that covers those categories. Is there a heathen printer store I can go to? I think that is where I belong.

The Last Minute Substitution

I am heading off to poet extraordinaire, Daniel Romo’s, reading at Barnes and Noble run by G. Murray Thomas. I had a “play list” set.
Dear Step Mother,Disappearing Act, and Vegas by 7am but I think the lineup will change. I’m keeping Disappearing Act. . .my first attempt at a prose poem, in honor of the the prince of prose, but the other two are up in the air. Vegas by 7am is out, too long. Will go with the Language of Goodbye, moves really well over the page. And the last minute substitution will be Abel, man do I hope people know the Cain and Abel tale or this bitch is going to hit the ground faster than a prom dress at midnight.

There may be a part deux on this post. . .I miss you John F. Buckley!

Happy Birthday Oli

My kidney is 1!

Go Oli.

She is the gift of a Hispanic woman who was 36 at the time of her death.
I know nothing more. Whether the woman was married, or single. How she died. Who made the decision to donate her organs. Who should I thank? How do I make her loss worth more?

Hazy Red Velvet Afternoons

The birthday has come and gone and so it is. I wanted to do a recap of the year. List the people I met: the good (poetry crew, timothy, katherine, etc), the bad (joe, david, johnny, mayur-damn it Mayur I so didn’t want your peacock ass on this list). Maybe recount the hurt shuffled out and the joys I pulled from magician’s trick decks only to watch them disappear, but it can wait until the year end. That is when I should get reflective, not now.

No instead I shall talk about pancakes. light and fluffy, and delicious. Red velvet. I have wanted these forever and a million days after that. they were delicious and came with breakfast tacos. It was indeed the highlight of my birthday. I even ate the leftover (part deux, as I refer to them, because I never eat leftovers) pancakes as a cake earlier this morning.

I find it strange that the person who has hurt me the most in the past year, is also the person that has made me the happiest. He literally did not let me down, made me happy. He remains the placebo effect in my life, completely unexplainable.

However in the end the day was light, fluffy, sweet, and deliciously delightful. He always seems to leave with my gratitude.

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