Samson's barber

My hair is so smart.
It gets mad at me when I ignore it.
When I don’t cut it for months, it plays dead and growls
into my ear until I either pay someone to put scissors to it
or lop off bits myself.
then it comes back to life and wiggles into funny shapes.

Like Samson and Delilah?

Are you comparing my hair to a famous opera?

Camille and Marcin in the kitchen with a Polish - English dictionary (during this time it was cloudy)

Cry.

Not what you feel about this, just think about screaming.

Why screaming?

Because of cry.

But screaming is what cry means to you, not what cry means to me. I don’t see screaming, you do.

Cackle.

You’re changing the subject.

Yes, of course.

I’m not sure I understand the game.

Ok, pick up this word – repulse – and use it.

Or inutile.

Inutile, yes, this is exactly what means this game. Stream of consiciousness.

Gotcha, gotcha.

Now is my turn… ok? Social security. But I have no idea how to use this word. I see socialist. Maybe you find a word? You try.

Let me finish typing this sentence. Ok.(she reads off the script before actually saying, subverting the reality of which is the present tense, the computer or real life.) Alike. It makes me think of twins.

I like? Yeah, I like this one.

No, alike. A L I K E.

Goad. What is this for you?

A cross between a cheese and an animal with horns.

Tie. Like a marijuana line.

You mean hemp?

Tidal wave. What is this for you?

Sljfalksjeefawu-94 dakljf (intermission, fight and snack) 20348098ws098234

This is a nickname.

You think people call you tidal wave?

Maybe not me, maybe somebody else. Scuff. No… monster.

Blue and lives in the closet.

Moulder.

I’ve would never used this word.

The mould. The monsters are mouldy.

The monsters are under the microscope.

Estimate. The number of monsters, five million different. Exaggerate. I like this game.

I’m not sure I understand this game.

Make it connect. Two to three words different and you try to make them connect.

WE are poets

Have you seen my typewriter?
I PARKED IT IN THE GRASS, with a view of the daffodils.

(We are poets, you see),
We were golfing.

It was April.
There was fog, we wore fur, which is forgiveable, I figure,
because of poetic license (and the confusion we dwell in).

We wear second-hand minks.

I am a poet.
I am guilty.
Guilty of grocery lists lost before I got to the store.
Guilty of things unfinished.

We think we go to the store to fill our stomachs.
Really we are going to fill other things.
I see plastic baskets and broccoli.
I see poetry in ice cream.

We don’t worry about things like stalkers and rent,
We poets worry about words,
Words are never good enough.
I worry sometimes that crazy is close at hand.

Mark is a Doctor.
Mark tells stories about patients who think they are chased by giant slugs.
KICK IT! KICK IT! they beg him.
IT’S RIGHT THERE BY YOUR LEG!
He probably shouldn’t tell us the stories.


Poets are dreaming drunks who stare in the street.
Poets are absurd critics who smoke in bed...
Poets spend lots of time in bed.
Poets look at their belly and think it is their brain.