Poet: Maggie Wells, New York, NY
Smalldoggies Poetry Feature #8: Maggie Wells, New York, NY
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THE PETERS
The only grace in the room is color:
etched in your sparrows: both in flight
above your chest. The wings can’t flap.
They will not flap. Twin birds woven
into flesh are paintings on the warm
walls of a man. The room is a hot house
full of other men. They all stand with
hands down their jeans fondling, watching,
looking for mirrors to see their own
fondling and my arced movements. Each
man fondles at a different pace, some slow
as though they were petting a rabbit, others
as though they are rolling dice. The mirrors
are everywhere, high and low. There is
a penis in every mirror, erect and loving
itself. I am a penis. I am beautiful. I am
strong. I am the essence of life. I create life
(but don’t want to tonight). I am wanted.
I am beautiful in this position. I am beautiful
in that position. I am beautiful when I am half
hidden and when I am not hidden at all.
The Egyptian soul is represented as a bird
with a human head. The Egyptian penis is
represented by an eel with a gorilla’s head.
The Egyptian penis when coupled with
the Egyptian soul throws logs at other
Egyptian souls while looking into a mirror
hung from a tree. The ribbons holding
the mirror are sparrows. The books you
flung held stories of other men fondling
themselves with other women, though
mostly in subtext. The shelf you kicked
as you crawled onto me was carried
to my room by another man who stands
amongst us now, fondling his penis.
The Egyptian whispers: it’s time for sparrows
to fly away to tragic bronze clouds; their tiny
bodies an inky flood. Logs are thrown
from every which way, shattering all
the mirrors. The sky is black with sparrows.
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ANYONE WHO SAYS THE EARLY TEEN YEARS ARE AWKWARD IS A LESSER PERSON
True icons when born
use the umbilical
cord as a microphone to scream,
“I am an Industry!”
Haim and I came
into our own
at thirteen. What were you doing? Dreaming
of fingering the girls
we were fucking?
I was born with an erection
and I still have
an erection. I need it
for the limos I practically grew
up in the back of. Haim
and I shared
many teens, many hotel penthouses,
many long nights of innocent groping.
We used to say
we could smell the success on each other
in blooms of passion
fruit. Maybe it was
all that Teen Spirit
but clearly he and I
twist into each other like fire vines,
sleep in curves like pack dogs, hump
the world simultaneously, two
fierce famous rabbits
under flashing bulbs.
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MIRROR, MIRROR, SAVE US ALL
I. To Self from Self
With the eyes up and the head down I look evil/hot
With the lip pursed just a little bit I look model/hot
With the head up and the eyes slightly down I look superior/hot
With the hand on the back of the neck and the eyes scrunched I look Western Man/hot
With the hand running through the hair and the forehead cringed I look troubled/hot
With the arms at my side and my gaze straight ahead I look controlled/hot
Looking down to the right, my right arm holding my left shoulder I look addicted/hot.
With both hands laced behind my head and a closed mouth smile I look wise/hot
With hands tucked under opposite armpits and slightly crooked mouth I look HipHop/hot
With my hands above my head and sparkle fingers I look Broadway/Hot
With one hand slightly cupping my chin and one eyebrow raised I look celebrity/hot
II. To Women from Self
Natalie! I was wondering, if you were driving 55 miles per hour and you collided with a
runaway train, would it make ANY improvement on your face?
III. To Self from Idol
People always told me be careful of what you do
And don’t go around breaking young girls hearts
And mother always told me be careful of who you love
And be careful of what you do 'cause the lie becomes the truth
IV. To Self from Self
I am hot/hot.
Repeat.
V. To Success from Self
Look at your reflection in the mirror. You're a creature of the night, just like out of a comic
book! You're a vampire! A goddamn, shit-sucking vampire! You wait 'till mom finds out!
VI. To Character of Self from Self
Bobby, I'm asleep. I'm fast asleep, Bobby. I'm dreaming. Apache women. Mai-tai's.
Vannah White and a whip.
VII. To Self from Life
A pile of shit has a thousand eyes.
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WE ARE FROM CAVES
I.
The collective lung of the group is black. It collects
the mass of the dark Universe to scream in tin cans.
Take the lung; blow it up like a balloon. Keep blowing
until twenty-one balloons are filled with your smoky
breath. Put the lung on a string and set it free. Watch
it become a black cloud absent of thunder.
II.
You can’t force a griffin to eat vitamins; can’t force
him to stop powdering his balls. He has his head,
sixteen smaller versions of his head lining his heart,
and three medium versions crowding his mouth. His mouth
is his head. His head is his head. His pants hold
powdered movement. The movement is familiar
like a suckle. Back, back, back, back. Pumping.
Pumping with a total of twenty-one heads.
III.
Take this fist and lick the knuckles. Pass it over
here. We have shared this fist now. Know its taste.
IV.
The griffin is composed of various parts all struggling
against one another, appearing at once the executioner
and the victim. A beak for pointing to the blonde.
Wings to fly to her. A lion’s ass to pump with the force
of a killing machine. Claws of a saint drenched in the blood
of passed lives. The clouds are his garments; his immense body.
VI.
The terrible, terrible mother. A temple-on-wheels
she yearns for Zion, belly curved from the swallow
of griffins. The only part of viscera left:
a small gray finch trapped in the spine
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FREE DRUNK
I imagine the alcohol crippling my body but superhero-ing my crotch. The all-powerful V
becoming more and more engorged and any man is pulled cock first to the beacon.
Flashlights circling.
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Maggie Wells became an embryo in southern California and remained in that state until attending The New School University for her MFA in Creative Writing, 2005. There she co-founded Press Body Press, which released its first book, Emotion Road, in 2007.
She has been published in Best American Erotic Poems: From 1800 to the Present, Cadence of Hooves Anthology, Free Lunch mentor series, Dick Pig Review, and some other places. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2008.
Most recently, The Wrath of Dynasty (formerly Legacy Pictures), published her book Pluto. This book was a limited release and is currently out of print.
Maggie Wells currently lives in the East Village of New York City.