...And I got this little streak in me that's twenty times mean.

There is a bit at the very beginning of Moby-Dick where Ishmael explains that when he gets in an a certain mood he has to the urge to methodically knock off the caps of people who happen to pass him on the street. It's the same part in the first chapter where he explains the need to pause before coffin warehouses. I get that. Unfortunately, I can't even bring myself to cut in line at Starbuck(')s. Ishmael sees it as the perfect time to take to the sea. Me? I write pithy, snarky poems. I just found this one going through things I wrote for one of Lou's classes. It'll never see its way to a journal or 'zine (except in a highly edited, almost unrecognizable form), so I assume it's safe for posting. It's part true, part complete lie, part my own working definition of Schadenfreude. I'm not going to say which is which. it's more fun that way (for me).


IF EVERYONE HERE DIES I GET TO BE EMPEROR

I.
I steal silverware from restaurants
and put it in a drawer in my kitchen
I wouldn’t use otherwise.

When the waitress isn’t looking
I stuff my purse full
of spoons, forks and steak knives.
Sometimes, if my bag is big enough,
I take mugs and decorative glasses too.
I stole a carafe once.
I always ask for extra napkins
so I have something to wrap them in.

She must think I’m a messy eater.

II.
I whisper obscenities at small children
getting off school buses
on sunny Friday afternoons—
just quiet enough that no one knows
exactly what I’m saying
but loud enough that
I make their parents and babysitters uncomfortable

III.
The day people told me you had a concussion
and couldn’t remember anything
passed the last 15 minutes,
I asked you questions
about conversations we never had
and laughed when you didn’t know
what in the hell I was talking about.

IV.
I find it difficult to sympathize
with Mary Magdalene.
she knew what she was getting into—
martyrs never want to go to sleep.

V.
I sniff underwear
in the women’s department
I hope someone tried on earlier
that same day.
I’m not allowed in Victoria’s Secret anymore—
they have my picture on file.
So I sit at the Starbucks
across the mall
and hope something wafts my way.

VI.
I carve voodoo dolls
of people who cut me off in traffic,
dog ear library books,
rent the movie I wanted to see,
make small talk with the cashier
when I’m already running late
and no other register is open…
I just don’t know how
to go about collecting their hair.

VII.
The night my ex-boyfriend
shot himself in the face
in the middle of a parking lot at VCU
I ate cake.
Later, at the funeral,
surrounded by Jell-O molds
and anonymous, green casseroles—
I didn’t have the stomach for it.

I didn’t take the spoons that night.
I can’t steal from church
and they’re plastic anyhow.

I offered to help clean up after
and stole the tablecloths instead.