30 Poems 
Susanna Fry
Published by
BLAST PRESS
http:// www.gregglory.com
gregglory@aol.com
324B Matawan Avenue
Cliffwood, NJ 07721
(732) 970-8409

 her thoughts on self, week two of june

 
i am the derelict daughter on the hot barstool at noon
ripped tee shirt wearing debutante
in worn canvas sandals and torquoised ringed fingers
you are blonde man with bluest eye and black garments
sipping scotch and sketching spain outside the window
we are spanish lovers in the afternoon when the light is low and the limes are ripe
sandalwood and jasmine petals follow me on the streets in the late afternoon 

in my white bedded room when the sun is fresh and young
time when i smell alive. 
dream best when i am naked and covered singled with the offwhite tablecloth 

from my great-grandmothers kitchen
i am a dish of tomatoes and basil leaves
i am olives and thick cheeses
delicious and round 
make me smile with your mouth and that bluest blue that strikes like my match
against the ceremonial candle.
i have begun to arrange flowers on my altar
deep reds of roses and the purples of astors
i sing in my sleep the songs of coyotes - wild and urgent
walk with slow steps longing for the ceasefire of my hourglass.

 memory # 4

i lost your smile this morning
somewhere between my lemon tea and purple toothbrush
my garden no longer speaks your scent
hot thick morning air no longer reminds me of you
and your graffitied metal door
no longer sleep
given it up 
like cigarettes and black coffee
your color is beginning to fade
like your eyes
that remained closed and tight 
as newborn kitten eyelids before they're licked clean
thought i would be the one who salted your blonde body
priming your light and mixing your magic
you spoke of energy and nature
and once again i remember the feel of your toes tangled and beckoning.

 the rain came

i thought about you today walking home in the rain
with my broken umbrella and the georgia o'keeffe book that i bought with my paycheck
hours before on my lunch break - the one where i eat and read and write poems in my 
head
i live in a world of poetry if only in my head
riding the last train to brooklyn over the williamsburg bridge
into my own spanish harlem
buy a bottle of red wine and watch as the brown paper of the bag gets wet and weak
almost breaking on my kitchen floor
bringing it home to my woman  
of italian beauty of dark hair of black mole
one who keeps me company in this rain storm
sitting in my room of water stains and curtain blowing 
slowly getting drunk on wine and raindrops
thinking about what i meant when i told you you scared me
rainy days make me feel exotic like a woman should feel 
want to dress you up and roll in white bedding sunday early morning
before you make me espresso
and i make you steamed milk 
when we listen to Coltrane and you kiss the backs of my knees
telling me you've been wondering where i've been.
we turn the pages of o'keeffe's life and alligator peared daydreams
while i melt in your eyes
the color that i do not yet know
i cry loba as you laugh biting my wolverine neck line
promising me apricots in the morning
sandalwood and geraniums before bed.

paint, poems, and mr. simone

smell of boy 
sweat and muscles
hair and blankets
sky watchers over borinquien avenue
spirit of guevera climbing through the air ducts
spanish salsas in the streets
mid-morning sunrise
color of cheap tequila with lime juiced clouds
drink my big girl body in tee-shirt and panties
tickle my cowgirl legs and bellydancer hips
wrapped in the cocoon
larva and mucous mix with nina's voice
unlistened words and unheard piano
dreams of green peppers and papayas
desert of your sleeping eyes and blonde breath
waking to lavender water and the color of your smile 
as you aim your face to me like the native archer
bless me my lady of Guadeloupe
with your mustached face and underarm fuzz
sing to me misterâ mistressâ mystery
feed me your prayers me madre'
tu' hija es hombre.

 thoughts of you

goat cheese and crepes
pan-like and ripe you are
bluest eye and death stare
more like ginger 
less like black beans
beginning to think 
you are the ghastly orchid
behind the porch door
spider woman and utensil using
i eat my way toward understanding
eyes shut and palms open
tied with ribbons and hungry
throat scratches and the sound of the police
here i sit

 moon's light

moonlight reflects off my skin
through the open window
over the garbage dump where they are building
i rise and fall like the tides
over your body and face
you wrapped in the white sheets
of my finest bedding
at midnight while the moon
wanes in its solitude and silks
singing about romance and death
and the luxuries of non-violence
i swim your sea slowly and gentle
flesh on flesh on moonlight
i sail your shores and sink in your deep blue waters
i drown in  your touch
and lose breath under your stare.

 returning to new york

could live on an island
surrounded by water and pineapples
could wear fuchsia silk dresses and flowers strung through my hair everyday
if only you were there too.
cobblestone beaches i have returned 
home again in the grey area
underground railways shoot me to you.
you whose skin has not seen sunshine 
you whose lips have not been salted
i am your island princess
white lilies surrounding my bedroom.
i have returned to the dreams that were once nightmares.
you inside my bed in the afternoon
bodies together wrapped in seaweed
light from my window that sings us to sleep
wakes us up gentle and deliberate
light that shines in three o'clock day dream
under white sheets 
next to flowers and sea shells 
leftover cups of tea leaves and lemon.
have begun to grow my hair
sure sign of winter and fire
sign you have been born under.
i rise like your phoenix
turquoised and freshly watered i return to this city
refreshed and renewed
baking cakes and storing warmth in my medium sized body
running across sands into desert
cactus eater and lotus licker
clothed in october robes of velvet and fur lined dresses.
you bring presents to my doorstep
croissants and cheeses
coffees and pastries
tiny bottles of fine liquor. 
deliver gifts to me and sweet kisses
as i laugh and cross my legs
you are my wild boy 
with wolf eyes and large hands
promising me you will plant oak trees under my window next spring.
tall boy
barefoot and bread baker
oat eater and belly kisser
you are my city.

 the day we were flowers

  for brian
thought i wanted to be alone that day but
you showed up in your baby blue polyester pants
bought for a few dollars in the thrift shop where you told me 
they once found a squirrel in a bin in the basement
we laughed all the way home with our bags and cans of malt liquor
drinking it down with straws like two kids at a carnival.
walked for miles in the hottest afternoon sun
oblivious and drunk speaking of ex-lovers and the need to quit our jobs
romanticized your hawaii jungle trip and pretended i was famous
stopping occasionally to pick up roadside handbags from second hand shops as we 
searched for cheap highs and elderberry tea.
we positioned the coach pillows in our fort of relaxation 
sharing cigarette of smoke and sandalwood
analyzed french music and fell in love with the woman's voice
i prepared us a rooftop of linguine and tomatoes
as we watched the sun set and i told you we were in spain
shouting obscenities at the painter who broke my heart
hurling beer bottles from the roof in protest of the construction 
below in the garbage dump that was just becoming beautiful
we were free that day and that night
drunk and stumbling arm in arm until we fell into bed
like two kids before christmas
only it was hot and may and we were brother and sister into the morning
waking in our party clothes 
my lavender dress wrinkled and my toes blood stained and tired
from the life we led that day in brooklyn
when we were flowers among the garbage.

 i am yours

you are on my mind
memory wrapped around my mind like your hands around my belly
feasting and lying in tall grasses behind yellow paper flowers
drinking manhattans in brooklyn
outlaws dressed in hooded sweatshirts and smiles on our faces
you boy 
me girl
giggling
as i search for chocolate on the streets 
with your money in my pocket 
your kisses marking my neck.
stained with wine and earth.
i am yours.

 holding on to any remains

holding on to any remains
any article you leave behind
wool scarf, black socks
i no longer care about where they have been left
only that they have been.

 beat

eliza eliza let down your hair.
today is tuesday and my finger nails have begun to grow agin.
in some ways i feel like i belong at this desk today
only a child of the night eight hours ago
creature like and innocent
looking for corruption.
thank you for bein a sistah---like i said in the bath on saturday you are my voice of 
reason.. mainly i like your mind bein thinkin and all. you are cool - cool and 
thats kinda like tom - tom or pow - wow. been listenin to kerouac read his beat over the 
microphone...that's cool talkin ham and beans cool. we gotta be beat agin only i don't eat 
meat and my daddy left me..

 december

we live our lives on the horizontal
constantly slipping into, over, and underneath
the thick cloud that is the day.
i spend most time waiting and thinking
mainly sitting in a not too comfortable chair
my hair pinned back in clips and my lipstick red and glossy
it is december already - the light is beginning to grow longer
but it hasn't started yet
used to live my life in promises
back to the waiting
period.
falsities can be an addiction like cigarettes and coffee
it is january almost - winter
time of the bear and white - grey passivity.
we warm ourselves with hot water and hard liquor - hoping to find strength 
in the tuesdays that never seem to disappear
we've begun to make plans - a true cold weather activity
domestics of hot chocolate and hand baked cookies
bring on a sense of needing
like first snow fall brings
sense of panic
in the childhood
in the remembering
of what sunday afternoon felt like
lonely again - i always seem to be lonely
again
pregnant with some sort of sorrow.

 i keep having the feeling that

i keep having the feeling that i am supposed to be somewhere
like a recurring dream where i am swimming through mud and seaweed
can't get that song out of my head
one that you sang this morning on the train
it is inconsistent and reminds me of teeth brushing.
should i call someone?
is there someone i should talk to?
this memory lapse is normal in this part of the country
heard it was the buildings and the light fixtures on the walls. 
long for sleep like french fried potatoes and ketchup
move paper from place to place and call home every sunday. 
i am what you would consider 'a good girl'
eat breakfast everyday and shake when i drink too much coffee.
'it is necessary that we band together at this time' the newsman said this morning over the 
radio waves
we need to stop moving so much and pretending we are unhappy
are we not just insects infecting each other with our own flesh and smell?
poisonous gas leaks from my neighbor's pipe and i am lying in bed tonight
listening to the dogs that bark and piss on the carpet.

 september bees dying

september bees dying 
apple honey sunshine
it is the new year
new moon
and there is love here.

 daydreams on a monday morning

want to see you every night
wrap you up in my hair and kiss you till your lips bleed
then you will tell me that i am not your mother nor your father 
but the woman that you dream about
slept on your pillow last night
it is still stained sweet with your bitter pungency of sweat and sugar
holding it i wished it you but knew it not
savoring your face as subway doors closed
you standing between them in order to send me farewell
tall and eyes blue
sparkling like a young boy on his birthday
nordic and god-like with confidence as your sword
pull my hair with the sound of your voice
make me melt with your words
taste of your tongue 
is still in my throat as i sit here hours later remembering.

 early spring

polish on my nails has begun to decay
chips away like old paint
on the side of the house no one visits
the one that used to keep bicycles and garden supplies
now stores puddles and deer footprints
rusted gate that never stays closed.
it seems to drip off my fingers
scratchy and unnecessary.
flowers I keep in this room are finally dying
it's been three days
death so futile and peaceful
fear and trembling is what I am drawn to 
when I think of this early spring
innocence and snow.
you can't keep hold of someone made of snow
it is a rule like fish on Friday
and bathing caps in the pool.
this instrument that I hear is one of 
brass and largeness
impacting the highway avenue outside my window
stillness a mere remembrance of my past life
when I walked barefoot on sand hills
and wrote my mother's name in the earth.

 you  ask if i need help...

scent of garlic on hands
a reminder of the last night we spent together
i am safe from vampires 
we are never safe from ourselves.
you show up early like a child who lost his way
forgot to do his homework
did something 'bad'
i arrive handbag and hairpins 
ripped stockings and red red lipstick
keys clanging 
shoe strap pinned with safety and glue
welcome you as i creep around the apartment wildly.
like a detective i hide condoms, panties, old love letters 
cringe as you reach for a book on floor
afraid of what might fall out of pages
feel like exhibit as you look around 
sniffing walls and feeling carpet
like an unfinished work of art
nail polish chipping 
refrigerator stink of old lettuce and rotten avocado.
what are you looking for in this cave of old fruit and books?
i serve you sunflower seeds in my kitchen 
stand with knife and green pepper
without yellow slippers and black lace bra
without potholders that have been charcoaled black with flame
     from back right burner    night i drank too much tequila and made chiles 
naked here in these clothes 
i listen wide-eyed, wistfully about when your hand caught fire 

how you broke your ribs
trying to get through recipe  
measure curry powder 
chop onion  
pour sesame oil 
wondering if you saw piece of white notebook paper 
posted on wall 
written in blood.
this room has a certain smell 
noises at night
you should not be here with lights on
not during the day
rice burns in old orange pot
smoke detector screams as i climb counter 
carrying pamphlet about rape and the feminist 
waving flier 
biting lip
you lie on my bed 
ask if i need help.

 trees

you treat your home like it is some infected manifestation
running through woods again
with antlers and tree trunk stockings
i am under the overhang
wearing the white lace farm dress and holding fish spear
it is the first time in years that my hair is long
the branches have begun to spring berries
as you call into the open sky
crying to be taken
to be lifted out of this self created impediment
you have been eating the poison
i stand tall and solitary in this forest of confinement.

 rainy day woman

it's been raining since the day we met that night at your apartment
         when you looked at me 
while you spoke your jokes and made me laugh outloud.
i've been falling in love with the rain and the sounds that it makes outside 

hitting the pavement
thoughts remembered in rain drops and dark skies
we spent that sun filled saturday in bed
arising only to eat blueberry pancakes in the audience of sunset
rain has become synonymous with the sound of your name
that name i like to speak aloud
only i have never been one to recall names and their sounds
we could be in seattle sleeping right now in this city of new york
it's raining in manhattan
it's raining in my heart
i want to speak your name again
i want to call you home
into my cave of oranges and tea leaves
umbrella-less and free today in this gloom of beauty
you lost your smile somewhere in my apartment as i can see it in your eyes
standing on spring street before the six 
holding the coffee i bought as if to say 'forgive me' 
while the italian men and women ask if it's clean 
and people shuffle across and down into subway underground.
i wonder what you see but never ask knowing your answer, feeling my own regret
i question if i know myself yet in this city that i have chosen for home

 in the rains and darkness i feel something like an angel 
gypsy woman who reads herself through words
she keeps under the umbrella that sits on floor 
wet and bound waiting to be discovered and used like necessity
time pulls by like honey on metal and i can see your distance
though you hold my hand
another roadside attraction
undefined by definition and totally postmodern.

 lipstick on coffee cup

lipstick on coffee cup
crescent shaped
time measured with lips
watch has stopped again
left to capture second hand with mouth.

 tuesday morning

tuesday morning. rain again. you threaten to buy an umbrella off the street 
to cover your dress pants hanging on the wire hanger you asked if you could  borrow. 
after i bought you coffee and croissant and told you you were ungrateful.   you walk me to 
my door on broadway kissing me and telling me to be happy with your eyes.  but there is 
always the threat of not seeing you that reminds me of loneliness. back to  my bell jar. the 
one with dirty sheets and clothes covered floor. it is raining again and i can't 
remember how to be happy. grey day etched in black charcoal with the dark
      sister and  sick mother here we are again. last night you listened to my story
      and told me what to 
believe in. asked me if i was really happy. am i really happy. or am i just happy. to be 
somewhat alive in this  dirty city with the gutted out office spaces and ripped  up 
phone wires. am i ready to believe you when you tell me you will support me.  barefoot 
and crazy as i bake you muffins and make you pear tarts writing poems with powdered 
sugar and egg white crusts. i will wear silk bathrobe as i make you cafe au laits in the 
morning before work . keep your cat and your clothes clean and well fed.

 in my double bed

listen to the rain fall from outside my window
i am in my double bed
new hands wrapped around my tummy 
sleepless.
sound of your breath 
loud and uncontrolled
makes me glad that i no longer smoke cigarettes.
thinking of the shell in your bathroom 
under sink sitting there like some sort of animal or insect with long tentacles and 
feelers
tortoise colored and smooth skinned it looked at me as if to say 'welcome'
your bathtub is still on my mind
a luxury in manhattan 
temporary and unyielding
transitory in thick porcelain structure
fluid in immovability
rain sounds calming 
like chamomile tea before bedtime
drops in no particular pattern unplanned unrehearsed
water longing for earth
running through screen like fine ladies comb walks through hair
splashes onto my back  in singular
lovely thoughts in this bed on five o'clock hour 
twenty three minutes of listening to sounds and thoughts.

 headed to mexico

apricot tea leaves
me smiling with the radiance of its warmth
like how you left me on broadway that morning after you promised you would go home 
but stayed anyway.
when is that moment when peoples faces change
when the words they say begin to mean everything they want them too
sound of office
typing and incessant chatter of voices 
everyone just trying to make sense of nothing
sitting all day staring at the emptiness they don't know how to ignore
we could be headed to mexico by now.
sun beating down on the blue rusted convertible you stole
with the wire hanger from my dress closet
i'll ride next to you my head scarved and brilliant
feeding you olives and dark beer while i recite my favorite line from my newest poem
promising you i will be famous someday
in mexico with you
you'll smile and tell me i already am 
i'll bite your ears and kiss your mouth
you'll look dangerous in your black sun glasses and white tee shirt

 open sore

my arms have been marked 
cat scratches and blood bruises
oven burns and cigarette holes
i am an open sore 
lonely girl

 the city is whispering

thinking about joining the circus
hitchhiking to new mexico and cutting my hair.
the city is whispering to me again
sweet sweet nothings
but i have sworn off all lovers this month
some sort of personal virginity that i seek
amazonian refuge in the absence of man.
it is easy to think such thoughts when you are bleeding
and your breasts are swelled
ingesting tea of roots and bones, i prepare my legs for running
only it is walking that really gets one to where they are going.
harsh liquid burns in my throat
city is calling again- whistling this time
old jazz standard that i never seem to remember. 
siren like and ambulatory
but i my friend, am a free woman and that trick will not work
i am leaving this town of construction and deconstruction
walking to the seashore to eat tangerines on cantaloupe island.
there are women out there with arrows and bows
they are walking in their own blood
eating the bones of cities
and licking their lips.

 september

 
birthday poem for michael
virgo child
escaping into night to eat poisons they warned you against
we seem to find each other in the thick of snow
phone calls on pay phones
interrupt on the business desk
always a question about what to do with the day
when the night has danced upon your head
with its own telephone call
and cocaine has won again
never did see your work
heard you were a gifted collage artist
glamour girls and britney spears
clamoring of cd player skipping
once i fell into the pine tree
you had fashioned in your apartment
i think it was xmas
gifts of empty cans and boxes wrapped underneath
once i gave birth to an egg in your bed
woke to you wrapped around my back
first beat novel i read
imagined it in your bedroom
i wear high heels around you
feel necessary around you.
we are a pair of unmatched socks
you and me
not so alike
but worn together.

 waking up in new york city is always a blessing

waking up in new york city is always a blessing
gift of survival
feasting on brown rice and seaweed for breakfast
peppermint tea leaves and sugar cane
it is the a.m.
and i am here
barely
east village fortnight 
glad i wore sneakers as i always seem to get lost and high
rode the subway home 
or rather it rode me.
cars on broadway and talk about the latest mass market novel
all trash i tell ya
made friends with the driver as we planned our broadway play
sips of beer behind the wheel and my que to jump off board
no body ever wants to drive to brooklyn
like it is some moon journey
some minor threat.
war is not healthy for young women and beautiful children
ave.  c is not healthy for those who fear
the spanish grocery that still sells frozen meat pie on a stick
and gum for 5 cents
pray i will never die of loneliness in this city
would rather be in santa fe or maybe taos. 
living under car and eating meat of buffalo
here i eat beans in a can and call myself progressive
oh death! little death feed me your strong drink
your bourbon and kill this night creature of black eyes and haircut
sing to me of garbage and french fries
and take me home.

under earth soil

my apartment is sinking
under earth soil
walking down steps into it's deep
notice the ceiling is lower or higher
i am further underneath than yesterday
once in the depth with door locked deep breathing
feeling like a rabbit down here burrowed
only without babies or mate
carrots do not grow above me
overgrown grass and occasional dandelion
editable flowers and unsung weeds
and here i am below the surface
under the ground 
between the concrete
can hear the footsteps  above me
feel ground begin to give
sky begin to fall
cold down here in this hole of feathers and hair
if only for a hurricane or minor war i could be safe
but it is summer and no one is bombing.

 it rained last night

it rained last night almost like it did the night that we met in july
only it is april and not so hot
i live underground these days
inside earth with the insects and spiders
roaches in my walls and mice in my floor
cats come to my window and beg me to play
i eat white onions and remember when i used to cry easily
when i was the little one and mother
tired of being womanly 
want to give this sweet smell away
it follows me like fish on fingers and syrup in hair
i grow tulips on my window sill like when i lived closer to the sky
top floor when i was closer to heaven
now i am closer to the core to the equator to brazil.