Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains

Archive for the month “October, 2012”

What if I Forget

I never got through The Notebook yet my mother thinks it is the ultimate love story. I don’t believe in love stories. I don’t believe is selflessness. Perhaps that is too simple. Perhaps. In truth there is very little I believe in these days.

My mother had me in what she considered “late in life”, her 30s. Now she is late in life, and life has dealt her a few blows. Cancer a couple of times, knee replacement, debilitating arthritis, husbands who have died and those who simply left, and children that do not love her. I think I do love her, despite everything.

And now her latest blow, Alzheimer. It’s the first stage, but it is not a surprise. When she forgets things, which she has been doing more frequently she excuses it by reminding anyone who will listen that she has never been smart, after all she didn’t even graduate the eight grade.

Funny how this all breaks down. She doesn’t have James Garner to lull her back into her life. She has a daughter who writes poems about her life. When she danced with my grandmother, learned she had uterine cancer, broke my brothers fingers, beat us, hid us from our father, made sure love stories were never to be believed in.

When You Tangle with a Poet

You should simply be pitied. Life will never quite be the same. It will be chronicled in 20 line snippets, if you are lucky, that is. Just know that for every piece of a poet’s heart you chip away they will suck out a portion of your soul, inhale long enough to feel the essence you leave behind penetrate their nervous system. With reflex possessed fingers they will send your soul onto the page in rhythmic words that never let you forget the cadence of their heart against yours.

It’s a gift that needn’t be delivered on your birthday or arbor day. this gift is overnighted when sleep is the enemy. Printed 6 months later and left like forget-me-nots on a tombstone of what one was.

Be grateful for the immortality you now bathe in, but never get cocky and believe every poem is yours. There were others that have chiseled away the poet’s heart before you, and others that will follow. How else would it be so small?

Bop Dead City

Bop Dead City: A Cheap Literary Magazine

That is what they called it.
I am personally honored to have a poem, Lilith, in it.
There is a great poem by Gina Vaynshteyn that I really enjoyed.

Take a look at the magazine and consider submitting your work when the editor Kevin Rodriquez opens for submission. Follow them on WordPress so you can be the first to know.

Napalm and Novocain

First and foremost, I am so in love with that name. Napalm and Novocain. Wish I would have made that my email name.

Secondly I am very honored to have a poem up on the site today thanks to A.J. Huffman.

You can read my poem, Fire Eater, here and even leave a comment if you are so inclined.

Many thanks again to the editor, A.J. Huffman, and may I suggest following this blog, there has been some great work in the past couple of months from poets such as Jack T. Marlowe and Brenton Booth, to name a couple.

Worst Poet In The World Stayed Too Long

So the worst Poet showed up at my door on September 4th and bowled right through it and took a seat on my royal purple velour sofa. I swear I saw it bust open a bag of chips and grab the remote. Turned on Duck Dynasty and refused to move. Didn’t care that I shuffled off to work every day, came back tired and beaten. So much time getting back into school and that whole teaching thing that everything else was forgotten. I though the worst poet was still keeping up with reading, submitting, and writing, and all the poet was doing was getting fat and lazy.

No more. Worst poet was kicked out on her ass last night. Decent poet has returned. By next week she will be returning to poetry readings and submitting like crazy. Started with a few submission last night and will continue to do so. I’ve got publish worthy work that is sitting lonely in a computer, and needs to be sitting in the waiting room of editors hoping to be called.

Please Mr. Postman

Look what came in the mail today!

Many thanks, again to Aleathia for including me in Durable Goods.

the poem:

AND THIS IS HOME

this is where I want you most
with ratted hair,
smelling of cigarettes
and last nights booze.
when I peel the vinyl pants,
some strange pale
present being unveiled,
from your legs.
when you chant my name
like catholics summoning saints.
this is where I am love,
in the early mourning hours,
leaving kisses on your
brow just where the dark
mane begins to recede
where residue vodka escapes
my lips, dripping
repetitive promises.
and I make you believe
every syllable
every forever
every always
knowing by morning I will
be home, cradled against a doorway,
trying to remember your name.

first appeared in Durable Goods.

Be Clear

When you say you don’t lie
be sure the person to your right
has not experienced your lies
the ones you promised never to utter.

When you said you came clean
in the month of love
be sure you have solidly done so
before you whisper a little known fact

in the ear of your comrade to the left
he might share in a precise
game of telephone
and the year becomes a year and a half.

Then while you cuddle in your year’s arms
Your right cracks
like desert terrain
in a slow relentless heat

falls violently into the arms
of the truth
that will never love or comfort
simply be there even when you

have desperately tried to cover it
with proper behavior.
even when you have forgotten all lies.
Your right, with elephant accuracy, remembers.

Be sure you remember what you saw
when you said “take off your
sunglasses, I need to see your eyes.”
that was the first lie hitting, the first crack surfacing.

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