text me if you can

By Kat Georges

So much was done before the age of the text message:

Pyramids and cathedrals, empires’ rise and fall

Small wars, civil wars, world wars, atomic wars

And art galore–enough to fill galleries and crypts.

And somewhere along the way, without GPS,

The north pole was discovered and the south pole

And the moon. And the electric light bulb glowed

And violins were created and lawn mowers and more.

Yes, back in the days before smart phones and tablets

People grew fat or starved and watched movies or

Stars and sometimes moviestars, or star-filled movies

And they danced and died and invented vaccines.

And it was all so much fun back in the days when

Children did not ignore their parents by texting and

Emotions were not aligned pharmaceutically and

Even the brokenhearted found a way to laugh

When the fat lady slipped on a banana peel.

Times Two

by Kat Georges

In one crazy moment
One effort, one play–

Everything rides on this

Gum yourself up
for the works

and there it goes . . .

the catch

time does slow down
when the quarterback
releases the ball
sends it spiraling
down down down
a muddy green field
on a crystal cold day
and in that long extension
the cold does not matter and
the time does not matter and
all the aches and pains and
bills and loves and hates and
envy and disappointments–
no, none of it matters as that
spiraling rust-colored ball
wheels through the air
like an arrow shot by Artemis
spiraling on a smooth arc
toward an empty space of green
which is cut into by your team’s man
with the softest hands and he’s leaping,
reaching and hanging in the air as the ball
comes spiraling in and he grabs it,
lands and holds on, falls, slowly, across
the goal line and holds on. He holds on.
and there’s a last look at the men in stripes
who move in slowest slow slow motion,
will they won’t they will they won’t they
yes they do–they raise their hands and
it’s pandemonium and your team wins
and the clock starts moving fast again.

But it’s okay, better, it’s okay.

For a few seconds everything stopped.

To know that is possible.
Yeah, I know.

The More Things Change . . .

by Kat Georges

It was a paranoid time
Things were crashing
Normal: out. Rumors
flew and I bit.

Frightened.

For comfort, I searched
for truth and beauty.

The normal eyes they
nested in were asleep.

For comfort, I turned
to Google dot com.

And in those paranoid
days, I found that truth
held a loose definition,
and beauty was on sale
at a discount.

For comfort, I turned
to Keats and relaxed,
scanning well-weathered
pages in a leather bound
volume I read to my
grandmother later that
year.

Drove her to tears
(she blamed the pills).
She had always loved
Keats until she started
dying.

Beauty. Truth.
My grandma cried.

The words that most directly
hit the soul stabbed hers,

Looted the comfort of distraction
that fills those few stolen
moments with us in them.

After the Raven

by Kat Georges

Today, I am content

Food on a plate
A beehive in spring
A department store
A galaxy
A woman
Full

I am words and graphics
Collected for meaning
I am a greenhouse bursting
With life out of season
I am a taxi stuffed with
Out-of-town tourists
An elephant’s piss
A camel’s spit
A city fire hydrant on
A hot summer day

I am spraying the world
With my stuff

I’m a cooler

I plant kisses on strangers
And cast hugs on pals
And rave about the way
wings let us fly

I grant meaning to football
Confess to the dust
And carry on like a fool
In an immaculate dream

A raven caws at me.
I wave. Bring on the curse.
The spell. The hex.
Today I’m immune. Out of
Mercury’s retrogadial orbit.

I am content. Divine.
I am human. Divine.
I am nothing. Divine.
And I am as I was and
Always will be in this
Moment. Divine.

Come closer
I want to tell you
A secret
You
Are
Divine
Too

Oh, brother

Oh, sister

We are all
Content

Love and hate
Joy and envy
Peace and war
Health and sickness

Pain . . .

In a little while
You won’t be able
To scream

In a little while
You won’t be able
To eat sleep sing fuck.

That should make you feel better

Right?

Black Friday

by Kat Georges

candy and leftover turkey
shopping in malls
elbows, pepper spray
and bullets
and free shit

score!

a brand new tv for 200 dollars
a new winter coat 70 percent off
an electronic book reader for 79 bucks
50 percent off select children’s toys

buy one get one free

a microwave oven
a pencil
a pillow
a new car
a jet plane
a street lamp
a diaper
a U.S. president
your next tax bill
an orphan in rwanda
an child with a cleft lip

your next online dating profile
your next lover
your next wife

your next father
your next mother
your next family
your next life

one day a year
everything is on sale

missed it this year
but you better believe
I’ve already marked the calendar
for next year.

sure I did.

All that Authenticity May Be Getting Old

by Kat Georges

 

She was The Mistress of the Sewers

Living concrete hard in a high top gutter.

Then she found religion and dripped into a job.

 

Started eating, started sleeping, starting thinking, started up

some high-step ladder to success. Dreaming big dreams

like a big girl and a big girl she became.

 

Waking one day alone in well-heeled penthouse

with a Pekinese in one hand and a smart phone in the other.

Under a star-lit ceiling hand painted by Jamaicans

 

Next to a hand carved distressed nightstand made of walnut

trimmed from a fallen branch of an organic tree in Kenya.

Atop it, a colorful crocheted cover from a Bolivian women’s collective

 

and a suitably rusty lamp made of found discarded nuts and bolts

collected by Honduran artisans and sold online by Crate & Barrel 2.

She slept under a quilt she purchased with a friend. There was some

 

story behind the 24 squares, but it was complicated and kind of

hard to remember. Was supposed to raise awareness or something.

Her phone alarm went off with a Tibetan singing bowl ringtone.

 

Time to get up and make coffee from coddled Ecuadorean beans,

which she poured into a sunset gradient hand-blown glass espresso cup,

stirred with a tiny spoon crafted by silver miners while they were trapped.

 

It was all so authentic. She’d supported the poor of the world for years,

buying only from collectives or their online representatives. It was so real;

her purchases reflected her philanthropic heart, which beat under a

 

very well-matched pair of 36D breasts, designed by a very white, very clean,

very rich doctor in Beverly Hills, who—for only a slight additional charge—

sucked out her belly fat, straightened her nose, and made her wrinkles disappear.

 

She never told anyone about it. Not a soul. Well, only her husband.

She did it only for him. She didn’t ever want to be lonely. Again.

And there she was . . .

 

Autumn Leaf

by Kat Georges

 

Falling leaf drifts into view.

A song stirs. Then science.

 

The leaf: once source of life for its host.

In its green: a gatherer of light and CO2.

 

Photosynthesizer by day. Bon vivant at night.

You should have seen  this one’s wild dark times.

 

In the hot urban dance clubs, out every night.

Jiggling with every breath of a breeze.

 

Never paying a dime: not this one. No.

The moves brought attention—most good.

 

Then again—so many cameras these days.

A few “gotcha” shots made the papers and blogs.

 

Held to a branch by a stem, not a cell phone,

So many things can go wrong at the right times.

 

At its end now, the leaf: red-gold and wrinkled,

drifts to demise. A final dance. Down.

 

In the twist, a last look up to its past.

A branch nods its thanks, a trunk sways tenderly.

 

The leaf slides to the ground

and light memory.

This Way to Real Life

by Kat Georges

This is the fake life still, don’t worry.

Real life will begin soon, and yes, it will hit hard.

 

Think you’re in debt now? In trouble with the law and in-laws?

Real life super-sizes every aspect of whatever you call this thing

you’re living now. Tumors the size of footballs, not grapefruit.

hangovers that last weeks, not days. Stacks of bills that would reach

the ceiling if printed. You pay everything online so you don’t even notice.

 

In real life, you don’t learn anything new—there’s no time.

In real life, you scan newspaper headlines, you read only

the first and last line of book chapters, you crave short poetry—

haikus—to appear literate.

 

In real life, you eat quickly and sleep quickly and walk quickly

and work quickly because real life is a matter of

staying ahead of demons and catching up to pleasure.

Real life is a netherworld of hope and disappointment;

real life is a place where nothing is real—it’s just a word and a way

to make folks feel important, which helps them deal with the fact

that they are not VIPs.

 

In the life you are living now, the fake life, you have moments

of joy and beauty and pleasure; moments of sorrow and pain

and regret; moments of boredom and fervor and madness;

moments of horror and moments of peace. And none of it

matters because fake life is not real.

 

Real life is what matters. When you are pitted against forces

that make you feel insignificant. When you get up every morning,

dance a routine of mind-numbing moves for eight hours, then

come home; eat a miserable meal, pretend to love your children

and go to bed worried about worries about worrying.

 

In real life everything about you shrinks,

and everything surrounding you grows.

 

In real life, you are a bee with no stinger

a speck of dust, a molecule.

 

Welcome to the club.

Now get busy.

Heard the News in a Glance at You

a poem for Halloween

by Kat Georges

It’s all sex and violence. And money. And money.
And it’s all in your eyes at the end of the bar.
Some girls are into that. Some aren’t. Some are.
Some girls aren’t girls. Some are women. Me.

They offer free taxis for girls like me at the end
of the night. But nothing is free. I don’t live far
I tell the man at the bar, but he says Don’t be foolish.
Don’t walk. Take a car.

But I walk anyway. Say again, It’s not far. And I feel
your eyes follow me out the door. And on the street,
click, click, my heels on cement. It’s cold tonight,
my breath steams the air. I look behind me . . .

nothing is there . . . But eyes and ears don’t always
sense everything, and late at night out walking,
the air is a fog. It’s like London or Frisco, all shadows
and still. And nothing is clear. Nothing is clear.

I see my house up ahead—well, the building I live in.
See my room on the third floor, left the light on.
Above the stoop, see the front door, I feel for my keys.
I hear a crackle behind me, like a foot crushing leaves.

I whip around with a “Hey!” But again—no one’s there.
Across the street, a young couple don’t seem to care.
I turn back around, there’s the house, there’s the stairs.
Got my key out like a blade, ready to stab.

And then I look—you’re there, at the top of the stair.
With eyes full of hunger—how’d you know I live there?
So tired right now—just want to sleep. But I just keep
walking down this street. Down that street. Down . . .

Down this street and that street . . . Far, far away . . .
I know you’re still there . . . I still feel your stare . . .

Forever I still feel your stare . . .