from the Uppity Blind Girl poems
Uppity Blind Girl Confesses
My passport
to the Land of Darkness
has expired.
You think I'm musical,
I write opera
for the tone-deaf.
In fact, the gods
cut off their ears
when they hear me sing.
I stare back
as you gaze into my face,
mining crows feet
for some inner vision.
I do not want
to feel your face.
Believe me, I
don't live in a veil
of tears
because I can't see
your pores.
You long
to sew me up
as you'd mend
your torn Raggedy Anne doll.
But I don't want
to be sewn up.
I'm my own puppet.
I pull my own strings.
from the Uppity Blind Girl poems
Uppity Blind Girl's New Year's Resolution
OK, Babycakes!
I'll stop blowing smoke in your eyes.
I wouldn't want your bloodshot itchiness
to cloud your view of my red stiletto heels.
Honey, ciggies don't bother
my peepers. I just wrap myself
around my London Fog and trip
the light
fantastic like Ginger, Kate, Bette and all
those Hollywood babes. I love
to blow smoke rings,
especially,
if they cloud
the whites of the bad guys' eyes.
You've got to admit,
that is a glow-in-the-dark
victory.
But, for you, Sweetlips,
I'll inhale
slowly,
and puff discreetly,
content to remain in black-
and-white, off-screen.
from the Uppity Blind Girl poems
Uppity Blind Girl Talks to Mr. Faith Healer
Relax, mister you don't have to shout like you're on a cell
in a rain forest filled with screeching monkeys. I can hear
a pin drop off the head of an angel. You say, you're God's
Mouthpiece, I'm a mote in your eye, that I'll have to get off
your street, if I don't pray as fast as a microwave, as hard
as the muscled abs of the latest hunk, to be made whole.
For my eyes to be opened.
Whoa! Time-out, mister, breathe!
You've got a good baritone, now that you're not screaming
like a game show contestant. Your hat just blew off your head,
falling under my feet. Don't your teeth hurt in this cold? Mister,
your soul could fly away, you've been in this wind, so long!
Time to take your blinkers off.
Mister, as a child, I taught my sister
to drink out of the dog's dish. I forgot to bring my mom
the turquoise nightgown she wanted in the hospital. If envy
were a sport, I'd get the gold, and I wouldn't need steroids.
I bet you, too, are an Olympian. Hold out your hands,
may I touch your stigmata?
