Cobwebs and the Dust

Okay, so who out there remembers "Blue Line"? My 12th grade attempt at writing poetry? The truth is, I wrote more than one poem that year, and when I posted "Blue Line" last month, I think I alluded to the fact that somewhere another poem existed.

Today? Because I'm not that inspired to do much of anything, and my blog entries are super-boring but I can't seem to pick my ass up from behind the computer? Today I am going to share with you the other poem.

Remember: it fucking sucks. You heard it here first. I haven't even been able to read it again myself, beyond the first two lines. So I'm seeing it for the first time in a long time, too. Oh man. I have a feeling this is going to be very, very, bad.

Cobwebs and the Dust
By Irene Casarez

The smoke from my cigarette hangs [what cigarette?]
A smelly mist about my head. [you don't see "smelly" in poems much, do you?]
Your hair burns in the mirror's [OK, there's a story, here - see below]
Reflected sunlight.
I sit in my window and I try [this was before I knew about the hookers in Amsterdam and their doorways; I don't know what this imagery is supposed to mean]
Not to look at you. [this is before I heard King Crimson's song "Indiscipline"]
The strange accent that comes
From reading too many books
In your quiet voice with
The loud words
Evilly convinces me
That I am all right.

In the room, I thee wed;
The leaves fall in circles upon my bed. [Oh man, this is horrible. Irene! What were you thinking?]

The cobwebs and the dust in the corners
Sing in the breeze.
A calm and a comforting hand
Placed on the back of my neck,
You tell me it's okay,
And I clean up the cobwebs and
Sweep out the dust.

OK, so there was a night, one night, when I got invited by Rick (am I calling him Rick or is he still Dick? I don't remember. I haven't mentioned his assholiness lately. I don't know) to hang out with him and his friend. I can't remember his friend's name, but this friend lived in the same condos as my friend Dana, so I told my mom (with Dana's knowledge and approval) that I was going over there. Not to spend the night, which would've made things easier, but I don't know, maybe it was a school night? I don't know.

Once at Dana's, I called up Rick's friend, and they told me to come over. I said goodbye to Dana, and walked over to where this guy lived. His parents (of course!) weren't home. He was kind of sleazy - as were all of Rick's friends. I think they were all experimenting with facial hair; that may be why in my memories they all feel sleazy. There were lots of stairs and mirrors in that condo. So the three of us go out onto the patio, where they both proceed to mock me for not knowing how to smoke a joint; the patio table was round and clear glass. I had no idea if I was getting stoned or not: there was always that delayed reaction. Plus, I didn't know what I was doing; I felt silly and excited without smoking pot, so who could say when I crossed the line, exactly. At some point, I had my nose on the patio table, thinking my feet, viewed through the wavy glass, were the funniest things I'd ever seen (kids? Now do you see why smoking dope is stupid?). We went inside and were sitting on the couch. I don't know what they were doing: I was giggling a lot, I'm sure. So I stumble upstairs to use the bathroom, which has this amazing striped wallpaper: I think it was pink and gold? And there about nine thousand mirrors in that little bathroom: you could see everything from all directions. It was pretty awful, but I stood in that bathroom for about 20 minutes, looking at myself, and Rick came up and did what the poem says: he put his hand on my neck, under my hair, and he told me I was OK, and then he gently turned my head to look at him, and he asked me if I wanted to leave the bathroom yet. So we did.