Poetry by Dythandra

Coloring My World

The rumors of
My anticipated romance
Were greatly exaggerated.

I went from smitten
To potential smiter
In less than a week.

Seems our little friend from halfway round the globe
Plays mind games just as well
As local variants of her type--
The ones who adopt an orientation
When the camera flashes
And later claim they were "out of it"
After that half a belini.

Makes me wonder once more
If picking teams is premature just yet.

She spent the last week of her visit
Sleeping in the basement
Where my friends, the spiders
Wreaked my vicarious vengeance.

I needed to make a statement
And, after ensuring the safety of the tape of my parental's agreement
That camp would earn my right
To unfettered access to dermal coloration
I head to a nearby tattoo salon.

While the parentals had agreed weeks ago
I prefer my fake I.D.
To throwing my plans
Into their sea of doubts.

The tattoo place is busy,
So I wait.
All the good magazines--
(Dark, alternative, troubling)
Are taken.

I am left with the comic section
From the local paper.

I glance through them with disdain;
Marmaduke--no wonder the scribbles
Look like they were done by a crackhead
Desperate for a fix.
My hand might shake a bit too
With guilt for taking money for that crap.

Then there's "Peanuts"
Ancient memories from when I watched
Holiday shows that weren't created by Tim Burton.
How is it that Charles Schultz's signature
Still appears on new entries?
Forget Tupac--here's the man
Who cheated death.

Garfield makes me angry.
How stupid do they think we are?
The same half dozen cartoons
For a couple of decades.

Then there's Dilbert.
More an industry than a comic
Must be true to life
Since my father weeps a little,
When he reads it over breakfast.

Then it's my turn.
I get Dmitri--lucky, since I know
His work is always good.

He sits me down, pauses a little
Over my I.D., then smiles
I pass muster.

He pulls out some books and sheets of designs,
But I shake my head,
And offer a sheet--my own design.

It's simple really:
A wound on my wrist,
"Down the street, not across the road"
As the saying goes.

Emerging from the cut, a head
A bleeding "Hello Kitty"
Then just to the right, an arm, extended
Wearing a uniform, gestapo, perhaps
But Golden Arches,
Where the swastika should be.

The arm has a pistol, pointed
Finger tightened on the trigger,
About to end the kitty's pathetic life.

He looks thoughtfully at my creation,
Then shakes his head and sighs.
"No--can't do it."
What? He can't be serious.

"Here's the thing:
First of all, I think your I.D.'s fake.
Not something that I usually lose much sleep over, though.
Then there's the design--
Looks like something done in anger quickly,
Then regretted for years."

He looks briefly into my eyes,
And recognizes in a moment
He is right.

"Plus there's something else;
That's a lot of ink, and not enough canvas
On those little wrists of yours."

"I don't have an eating disorder."
I've blurted that out so many times
It's become a reflex.

"I never said you did."
"Oh, so I'm just too skinny, is that it?"

He pauses, then smiles
"Just for this much art--
Otherwise, I'd say you're pretty much perfect."
Then he winks,
And hands me back my design.

I take it back, and find it tough
To look at him for a moment.
Like I said before
Maybe it's premature to pick teams.

As I turn to leave, his voice pulls me back
"Hey--wait a sec.
Who did the art on that design?"
I quietly claim it as my own
Still contemplating my shoelaces.

"It's good--really good."
Then as I look at him, he gestures broadly,
Sweeping his hand across the room.

"You think you could do this?
Would you like to learn?"
I pause, confounded for a moment
By this sudden turn of fate.
Then I nod manically.

"Good--come back tomorrow and sign some papers,
And bring a parent if you can--we'll need your real I.D.
It will only pay minimum wage while you're training,
And you'll have to clean up and answer phones as well."

I visualize my parents' reaction,
But I'm not concerned
When I really want something
There are always ways to bend them to my will.

I manage a smile, a quiet "thanks"
And turn to leave.

"One more thing--about your tatoo
We'll get you something soon--don't worry.
And you'll love it, I promise."

I think I will. I really think I will.

Poetry by Dythandra

Faint Praise

The letter arrived like others before it,
School letterhead, wisely hidden
In a plain envelope.

My mother was home that day, unexpectedly
And found it before I had the chance
To feed my friend, the shredder.

"You are cordially invited..."
Odd. Usually they begin:
"We would like to discuss some concerns..."
Is it a trick?
Like those who are invited for lottery winnings,
But find only traffic court awaits.

No such... luck.
To my mother's hardly concealed glee,
She and paternal parental
Are invited to
"A celebration of excellence".

She finishes, triumphantly, and glances at us
Across the remains of my favorite dinner.
You'd think it was her achievement
This epistle arrived to proclaim.

My father was more circumspect
He glanced at me, awaiting a cue
Some clue to guide
His "spontaneous" reaction.

I searched quickly through the catalogue
Of all my best expressions
And settled on disdain.

The queen of this moment was not disheartened
By my lack of enthusiasm--she hardly could have expected any.

It was her moment--a small vindication
That my existence, traumatic
From the moment my arrival on stage
Destroyed her body's chances
To reproduce again...

...through the dozen meetings with school counselors,
Those "paraprofessionals" with little more to offer
Than platitudes punctuated with nods
And worried clucking.

But this--some small allowance by the system
That I was worthy of more
Than tired phone calls from frightened adults
Afraid to meet my glare.

In best award show tradition, there was no hint
Of what kudos I had won.
This, of course, allowed my mother's imagination
The freedom to run rampant
Through fields of academic glory.

I knew in an instant
The source of the situation.

My art teacher--young, "offbeat"
As I once heard an older staffer prattle,
Had chosen to name me
For some token award.

Clearly nouveau nihilism
Is in this season.

The evening of the ceremony
My "wardrobe" was there, laid out on my bed.
I can still be surprised at times
By the poor woman's naivete.

Still, a proper fashion statement
Would be difficult to pull off--
Any disciple of the "offbeat"
Only panders to expectations
When seeking to offend.

Finally, annoyed, I settled for my traditional
"What the hell are you looking at"
Combination of black eye accentuation
Accompanied by the rhythm
Of the heaviest boots in my closet.

Just as we began to pull out of the driveway,
I made some excuse about needing my gum
And ran back into the the house.

The jar with the snakes I captured in the garden
Was easily concealed under my jacket.

I shall justify my acclaim
With a little demonstration
Of spontaneous "performance art."

I hope my mother's brought her migraine pills.