Multiple Personality Poem

Marie Kazalia
 

I made love with a multiple personality--

the one-(of him)-in-control
sat on the edge of my bed
explaining the many aspects of 10
oops forgot to count himself--
eleven selves

I asked if each one inside him had a name

"I haven't gotten that clever yet" he said

Who's the one that giggles when he kisses me?

he glances a flash of eyes from the side
under a dark hat brim--
"oh, that's just the silly one,"
"are you going to miss him?" he asked

yes, I said simply

"I'll tell him" he said

So I asked if he talked to them all
and they to each other

he said "yes"   pressing things forward
making it time to leave
"but the truth is"
"there's nothing there between us--
you and me", he told me

I knew it was true of this one
the one-in-control
but I definitely had something going
with the others

Marie Kazalia 7/31/2K2
 
 

something in the American air

effects    induces an involuntary
almost unnoticeable change
in personal philosophy
until I discover myself engaged in
a no-limits-capacity hoarding--
one good main daily meal
no longer enough to satisfy
like when I lived minimal in
different parts of Asia--

here in San Francisco I'm constantly
trying to fill my 2 small  fridges
stacked one upon the other
up against a wall in my bathroom
and never once in expatriate Asia 4 years
did I feel that need--

here if you want a meal out it's a big production
involving distorted remnants of old world
Euro-manners barely applicable today

my first day in Tokyo    ate soup standing up
fast-slurping Japanese all sides   at a counter
a woman constantly filling water glasses
shoving them down to the next soup slurp-er
entering tropical summer hot
--that water only drink offered--simplifies
matters-- and only 3 kinds of soup--
no need to speak to order
just purchase the correct ticket upon entrance
under the train station stairs--
a sensible location
errand--get it down fast on your way back
on your way to work or the next destination

while many restaurants in Hong Kong, Tokyo
stay open all nite long--

here Americans consider eating-out entertainment--
a planned activity--invite friends for conversation
and most restaurants close-up by 11 p.m.
some foreign ones stay open till midnite
as if everyone gets up   sleeps  eats at the same
hour--

Marie Kazalia 9/22/2K
 
 
 

metaphors for our society of poor

two pieces cheap white bread
one yellow slice processed cheese
jail sandwich

crack dealer
--wouldn't smoke that shit himself--
takes a dump
wipes his asshole
with a 20 dollar bill
doesn't flush
the maid finds and cleans
with an old toothbrush
takes home to the children

tiny blue balloon
hard packed with black tar heroin
produced upon request
on an extended tongue
of a street dealer
his ignorance amazing
didn't know anything about
opium--
thought I wanted his kind
of black tar
 

Marie Kazalia 9/24/2K
 
 
 
 

sometimes I envy their oblivion
to the rest of humanity--

tall white guys in twos--
suits carrying leather briefcases
swaying out office-building doors
in conversation
moving into the sidewalk crowd
unconcerned cutting rudely close
in front of a short woman
one lifts his ringing cell phone to his head--

as I move along
diamonds of frozen energy
on the palms of my hands
a palm-reader told me
there
knowing --
the size of the tiny room I live in
dictates
how I fill the space
and with what--
 

Marie Kazalia 9/8/2K
 
 
 
 

they want to stop
me from being
myself--

seated on a low wooden stool
in Borders Books on Union Square--
in front of shelves of books
reading Dorothy Allison's poem --the
women who hate me--
my mind flooded with memories
growing up with the hatred of women
sent me into the arms  lips, minds beds of men
trust of men who have harmed me--
I move over to the Borders Cafe on that floor
and pay for a cup of green tea--a dollar thirty eight
write oblivious or nearly so-- of the women around me
write of my sisters
each hated me (in 3 different intensities)
my mother's hatred   my aunt Esther's
my neighbors both sides of the house
my best high-school girl friends
who could not get the boys I had so easily
make-out--
back then-- all those femmes  women, girls
secretly despised me
actions toward me-- covered over versions
to hurt, limit, withhold what I needed
they didn't want me to know
I'm Gina Lola-Brigita in a red dress
Sophia Loren inside (I have Sophia's eyes)
all the gir'ls lies, secrets, whispers
smirking laughs, exchanged glances of conspiracy
against me     devious maneuverings--
I matched with silence, avoidance
seeking to please, join their unattractiveness
with too short hair cuts--to drive the boys away--
put me on their level of desirability
matched their competitions I never felt--
dressing to my own style & tastes
of designs   fashions  clothes  eye-make-up ---
shoes--stockings--coats -- purses--scarves
never a "that looks good on you" helpful
compliment to build my self-confidence--from the girls
only the friendliest of the sisters sent in to spy
(the least fearful of me) -- and report back
careful not to betray the motivating reasons
she tells me "you know what to get.." to wear
colors, fabrics, styles-- she wants to know how I know...
so she can do the same
I just tell her that I choose what I like--
implying--that it's best to cultivate the self
rather than imitate-- this word lesson makes
us more separate -- drives them by reportage
deeper away from my inner world of me--
where at a greater length they laugh,
do not understand me- and I know them so well
yet do not understand why they persist
in clinging to their nasty bitchy hurtful ways
that get them nowhere and nothing but each other
and suspect fear in their knowing they cannot
be who they want--
so they try to force limitations on
every other woman-- single me out
because I'm there and different--
I find ways around
lines out-reaching
shoots off into books I love reading
and my drawing & the art museum
clothes & wool fabrics in the cold Midwest
mores boys and more kissing
wild    trying pot smoking
LSD tripping   whiskey parties
film--music--concerts  and sex
until I'm old enough to move away from them--
live with girls not competitive (there are a few like me around)
do things with them like go out to clubs
have people over for long conversations
take film courses at the university
travel out of town to visit friends
dividing myself off from certain types of women
like the one I feel staring at me right now
curious about me  my book  what I'm doing
I look up into her eyes she stretches
an automatic phony smile
expecting reciprocation
I look down and continue to write
adding her into my words
suspicious of women with phony smiles
of a false courtesy-- the forced straight-across
smiles of women who feel sorry for me
for not being like them-- not understanding
my avoidance of just that prospect--
a society of smiling pretenses in front
of others like themselves who will judge
them just for that--I refuse to get into
that trap--failing to return phony smiles
my non-participation makes the women nervous
eager to show-me-up
wrack-up points that will allow them retaliation
while in-spite I just go about my life
learning new ways of avoidance
and cutting-out even the smallest
aspects of their control from my life--
 

       Marie Kazalia 9/10/2K
 
 
 

seeking out the cold city sun

back of hands coated with sunscreen lotion
my face shaded by a brimmed hat
long black sleeve jacket
ankle length black dress--
black tights  black leather Oxfords
cover my feet--
rest on a warm rock
in the urban park sun
moved from shade
seeking the warmth
to move me from a chill
surrounded by traffic noise
helicopters overhead
tall walls of concrete, brick, stone, glass
bare steel girders under construction
my linen jacket sleeves start to burn with heat
and my thighs under my black dress--

Marie Kazalia 9/14/2K
 
 

as if I'd entered their privacy

visualize the hotel room
her body reclining on its back
on the room bed
Anais Nin's words   writing
won't leave me alone--
days can't stop thinking
how she tells us of her husband--
"the clothes he is hanging up for me
with such care were caressed and crushed
by another, the other was so impatient
he crushed and tore at my dress.
I had no time to undress. It is this dress
he is hanging up lovingly...can I forget
yesterday, forget this vertigo, this wildness,
can I come home and stay home?"
her words create and recreate
images of spangled layers of crinoline
in black and muted shades of burgundy
covered by a skin-like layer--
a dress of smooth rare translucent silk
as her lover presses his body on top
in the center of crinkling
glittery  crisp textures  silk
Anais's made-up face perfect
dark eyes lined in black
observing his work on her mouth  body
as one detached from the act--
her dark hair smooth in a tight bun
yet un-mussed   nothing random
all perfection
dark stockings   polished shoes
her lover trying to break thru
the larger of that limit
of the art beauty unit--
enticing passions

Marie Kazalia  9/16/2K

quote from-- A Spy in the House of Love,  Anais Nin
 
 

Fuck your "Damaged Goods"

how I hate that expression
"damaged goods" applied to women
when look at the men using those words
(more self-descriptive)
coming from the mouths of
domineering beer-belly Casanovas
spewing cigarette smoke from their lungs
baseball hats over bald spots
manic-depressive guy trying yet another psych med
doesn't mention his bad back(psychological)
until he gets into your bed
and the agonizing pain of it
his excuse for not going long enough
men with chronic indigestion
tho they manage to force-down
whatever's in your fridge first
(to save a few bucks on their food bill)
before the condition on-sets so they can't fuck
but you have to listen to them snore and belch all nite
the one with the strange paranoia you find out about
after his irrational accusations involving you and
other men take on a repeating pattern of suspicion
the narrow-minded guilt tripper masochists
you can't shake no matter what
the one you never knew was a Christian
till he insists on marriage to cleanse the sins
of your sex together he calls fornication not love-making
the power-tripping control freak who insists
you change for him where you live how you dress
tho never offers one buck toward that
as he remains steadily who he is...major flaws and all
the young emotionally crippled & superstitious
married guy, who says he isn't
until you find out not only is he married but
his 3rd world wife pushes his kid--a little girl--
around in a stroller in your neighborhood
the opium smoking professional guitar player
allows you the status of being his groupie
as long as you fail to assert your real self
the cheap-ass petty mother-fucker
who always manages to routinely jip you out
of 2 bucks and fifty cents on the tip
the good-looking cocaine snorting waiter
telling twisted drugged-brain events
so fantastic they never could have happened
the hippy burn-out forever reliving his
draft-dodging glory days and how he once smoked
a joint with Jerry Rubin
the older man full of every perversity
(tho is good looking you might not
consider his propensities perverse)
perpetually in his own denial
pretending he's "normal" hiding his true self
the man who lusts only after women's big tits
talks about breast size in public to other men
the mama's boy whiner permanently on self-destruct
the manipulating schemer who can't tell the truth
about anything, even to himself
the gambling addict stealing and coercing cash
from every woman he's romancing
the short little guy who talks about the size
of his huge dick and then you find out
it's only in relation to himself
the socially and psychologically tormented
first-generation of -3rd-world-immigrant parents
living inside American culture battling family teachings
that sex only within marriage to produce children
the everyman who believes sex only good with him
and if you go out with another, then you're a whore
the twisted male mother-fuckers confused
by their own mental constrictions, relying on women
to bail their asses out relying on women more capable
than they then belittle as beneath them and all their
fucked-up failed efforts
the ones that think having the thought of doing something
enriching for themselves equivalent to the doing
too lazy to get off their asses so go around saying
that the though of doing superior to all your years
of hard work creating and all you small successes
the barely adequate men over-self-confident
by social training getting farther more income
than the much more talented women
(we have Freda Kahlo and Diego Rivera of the past
as shining examples...) of women kept in "their place"

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