romance with small-time crooks by alexis ivy

7/29/2019 Romance With Small-Time Crooks by Alexis Ivy

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ROMANCEWITH SMALL-TIME CROOKS

ALEXIS IVY

B L A Z E V O X [ B O O K S ]Buffalo, New York


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ROMANCE WITH SMALL-TIME CROOKSby Alexis IvyCopyright 2013

Published by BlazeVOX [books]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced withoutthe publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

Interior design and typesetting by Geoffrey Gatza

First EditionISBN: 978-1-60964-105-4Library of Congress Control Number: 2012941532

BlazeVOX [books]76 Inwood PlaceBuffalo, NY 14209

[email protected]

BlazeVOX [ books ]

blazevox.org

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BAD APPLE

No one wanted to be my partnerin History. I was the scapegoat

who smelled of everyones smoke.Math laughed when Id raisemy hand. I was a bad apple,

Alexis has to sit in frontdruggie who had to scrub the sciencelab because she wouldnt be partof the dissection of owl pellet.

By high school I picked trashoff the lacrosse field for cuttingafternoon sports. Every Saturday,detention. Never rememberedthe combination to my locker,never tried. Mike was the guy who

stood in the doorwayall day, he wouldsay, literally, figuratively. Scratch-TicketMike who took every penny I gave himto gamble on. Always patted my head,always gave me whatever he hadthat was too heavy. For a while

he had a black umbrella

he never used in rain, only onthe heat-pulse days. It was okayto smoke cigarettes in the kiln room,the shelves topped high with hand-paintedashtrays. Nudity stuck up on clothespinsstrung along the dark room. No grades,no grading, teachers namedChristy and Gary, and six therapistson call. And if I had a temper

tantrum in English, I could dragthe carpet out of the roomjust to hang onto my tears.


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HOMELIFE

Im the crop they planted.Sow and take root.

Am I what they wanted?Or was that the Stairmaster?

Their marriage is a brickhouse, a fight about howthe porch light went out.

I wanted to be hey-good-lookinlike my mother, So-and-so got a houseon the water, but I turned out big boned

and poetic. I wanted anythingbut suburbs, some run-around backalley, not some campfire sing-along

from swing set to golf course,and every night corn-on-the-cob saladat the kitchen table, and the Rolling

Stones on the radio. My dads a deadheadso hes on to me, my outlaw, my meal ticket,

my thrill. I shut the door behind me.

I always shut the door. Im going totell everything, everything. Thank medouble for that. My brother knew how

to fiddle me. All riled up crazed,and the bamboo lamp shadeOne more sniffle andIll hit youcaught fire,

and no one noticed how. Pushed me

against the ivory table becauseI had to piss just when he had to

wash his hair, mousse it up hard.Id be mean if hed be mean,swat magazines at him, chuck the remote


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control, no control, throw my parentslast nights chicken wings at him,cry all the way down into the down-

town courtyard. (If you lived here,youd be home now.) He wastoo old for the Belt. Soap

in his mouth meant soap in mine.Back in the safari theme of ourrented apartment, that summer

I slept lightly on the sunporch floor, fake panther rugthe size of a grave.

Never let them off easy.Bones have to be picked.Cant tell if Im living

them out, or if theyre livingout meto make themselvesbleed.


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MY OWN FLESH AND BLOOD

My heart is the wrong place to begin.A doctor tampered with my wishbone,

carved scars belly to breast, the threethat never healed, plus the one my brother made.

A doctor tampered with my wishing bone,and I forgive my brother everythingthat never heals. The one my brother gave,Ive saved. Kept those stitches tied.

I forgive him for everythingthe four scars carved belly to breast.Ive saved those stitches I keep tied.My heart is the one place to begin.


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MUSEUM OF MY BEDROOM

Theres a map on the wall, Indian Tribesof America, and another map of the Union

divided by the Civil War.Theres also a rubbingI took of Doc Hollidays gravestone,and three swiped Jolly Roger flags.Ive got a copy of the last shot takenof Jim Morrison facing a black and whiteof my dad at nineteen, hung over.

In a corner, stacked cigar boxes not too high,where I keep my savings: a Motel 6 room key,bus schedule to Joshua Tree State Park,a chunk of could-be-Hawaiian lava, a choyacactus twig, and sliced petrified wood.

On top of my bureau, jokers from eighty decksof cards and a tin of skeleton keys I feel sorry for,fortunes, some from Chinese cookies,some from Zoltar, a lucky penny from whenthe luck ran out, two bullet shells, onefrom the quarry bottom, one from

when we went to Yellowstone.

On my desk are things that came before my time:Olympia typewriter from the fifties, a bowlof heart-shaped stones, animal teeth, ammonites.

Also a frogs leg taken out-of context,a deer antler, an entire beehive.

I keep the windowsills empty.The floors a scatter of sheet music, hi-howork songs,A Book of Convincing Legends,a basket of corks, the decks of cards(minus jokers) I use to practice flicking.

I collect cigarette butts, ticket stubs,pencil shavings, and for no good reason,dead lighters. O, how I will savethe broken down, my heavyload, my sole responsibility.


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THIEF

Were sitting in my room becausethe backyard might wrinkle his pants.

Hes talking purse-snatching,break-ins, hiding in bushes.

I didnt get it, I dont get him.Hours eating bagels at my house

mybutter, mystrawberry jam,like they starved him at home.

He drank it whole, the glassbottle of orange juice.

Thats all said and done.I should cry. I should just cry.

He should go away so I couldbe someone else.


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COOL HAND LUKE

For Paul Newman

A world shaker, a dead shot,Luke, the first man everto get my attention.

I am hot tar and dry cornshucks and hes runningthrough in shackles. I like

a man whos hard to break.Luke digging the same hole

twice until he drops. Christ

now even the movie screensgone black. With me its alwaysCool Hand Luke, the love story.


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LONG STORY SHORT

He goes to the casino usuallywhen golf seasons over,

deserves the casino, my fatherwho gets us kids presents

at the shops there. For holidayson account of his affair

with the roulette table. Hedoesnt really ever run, just

goes with the things that run. Beingpart of something really shows.


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I HAVE MY REASONS

I hate boys, hate howif I give one a flower

hell take it and picka flower for another girl

when he couldve heldmine longer. I used to

eat cereal I didnt like,boxes of it, and watchedsoap operas, one afterthe other. I also wantto talk about the worstthing anyone ever saidabout me, worse thananything my brother saidbecause it wasnt saidby my brother.

Emma Rawels didnt sayit to my face, someone toldme. She said it and I wouldntlook in the window to seehow I was looking. She said

that I looked like I was hitin the face with a baseball.

I thought she meant I hadblack eyes that wouldnt goaway, a fat lip. Thoughtshe meant I slouched myself,face down to the ground

like my body was a pileinstead of a person.

Isnt everybody fruiton the way to rotten?I started showering twicea day. I like the smellof soap and sleeping


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with the storm windowsopen and my hair damp.

I wear armpit hair

instead of make up.I have my reasons.

romance with small-time crooks by alexis ivy

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