probably

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 17:19:00 +0000

Something miserable happened to the poems on this page.

Please visit errrprobably.wordpress.com

Trimming A Golden Goose

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 13:37:00 +0000

I called your house and it rang in the yard. Hello earthquake, you answered. Hello yourself, I said. I was careful not to say too much. What's up? I said. I'm putting the dust in touch with the earth, you replied so matter of fact I almost believed you. I could tell you were on your stomach laid flat in the grass. My heart bumped. Does this mean you're gardening? I asked already slipping into my shoes.

Undoes

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 13:23:00 +0000

I recalled the game
without any windows.
I hated that room
without rules, its memory
still sitting there
in the dark. The nightingale
must have turned several
somersaults in a thunderstorm
before reading this.
And all the Russian novels
with their covers missing.
Your imaginary fingers
waiting my hair.
Yes, I sent my first dirty letter
but it was missing a proper stamp.
I lick the air in your absence
anyway.

Wierd

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 21:21:00 +0000

General Itching

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Fri, 16 May 2008 17:28:00 +0000

A man woke up on the wrong side of the world. No one spoke the same language, which didn’t stop anyone from speaking, but it was harder for him to buy his ticket for the train. He could take it to the end and find a quiet place to sit and read. He still had his books. And he bought a piece of fruit for the ride. Fruit could be had by pointing and it tasted sweet. All his friends had settled in their careers, which meant they were still elsewhere, and he was alone. It didn’t matter, he felt rested. He changed his money and left with a pouch over his shoulders. From the train window he could see the hills and he leaned back in his seat with one eye open.

Is Visceral Mud

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Fri, 09 May 2008 18:53:00 +0000

Weather jogs our memory.
Passive heartbreaking letters
fictionalized in strings.
On our knees.
Another digging season
for the flowerbeds.

Favors Eventually Materialize

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Fri, 09 May 2008 18:23:00 +0000

Drinking beer in artificial light.
Your strange voice softly flippant,
breaking. Eyes outward, bleak.
Enclose my hand in yours tighter.

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Sat, 03 May 2008 22:31:00 +0000

Helping Hand Ad

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 03:08:00 +0000

A bum jacks off in a corner
telephone booth
comes in his hand
cursing.
Reasoning
cannot be counted on.
The woman around the public fountain
crossing the street
in a hurry
loosening her golden watch.
Sentimental
pigeons
grounded and
fearless.

Available Space

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 03:02:00 +0000

Sex
between her thighs,

everything else
at her fingertips.
And he calls late
like life is his
constant party,

she answers
even in her sleep.
Empty
mutterings.

ABC

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 22:15:00 +0000

Apple graveyard
on the countertop.

Flies visit.

I want to eat one,
but they're so rotten
and beautiful.

Bones and Other Things

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 22:11:00 +0000

I made a ship
out of your love,
but I couldn't sail.

I created a harp
with your lips,
but I couldn't play it.

Now I have a dog
based on your looks
and it just sits in my front room
and barks.
I hope it runs away.

Lobby Love Song

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 19:38:00 +0000

She moussed her hair in the shower
where the walls were peeling,
leaving little plucked clouds
around the drain.
I watched her bent over
like a sapling after the thunder.
The bathroom sink vanished,
the bed and the bedframe vanished,
the trail of clothes ran off.
Suddenly we were standing on the highest rock
over the sea as thick as concrete.
She looked light and glam,
like evening
for the next dazzling city
before she vanished.
Naked and hungry
and clouded by the sun
I grabbed my genitals
and carried myself
off.

Black-eyed Bird Calls

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 15:01:00 +0000

Put me into your love
nest,
I am a fighter.

Hand Job, II

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 14:58:00 +0000

I have fierce
and exotic
tastes.

Crabs Racing

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 20:11:00 +0000

Your legs
are stronger and faster
than mine.
But if we go
separate ways
it don’t matter.

Flying Fish

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 18:09:00 +0000

I head to the bathroom for my morning rinse and find a stranger standing in the tub. He pulls me in, letting my towel drop on the floor. He puts one slimy finger over my lips to say he’s the boss and turns the water on Hot. His body is one, large block of soap and he’s butt-naked and he doesn’t hesitate rubbing my flesh like I’m a fish that needs scaling. I should scream, but his grip is tight and wise, his expressions molded with thought I know exactly where you need to shine. His face smells like sandalwood and lime. So even though it isn't natural, I surrender my body to his long, systematic scrubbing. When he's finished I’m afraid to ask, What now? He steps out and buffs me dry. My skin seems to purr. Then he pats his feet on the bath mat and goes to stand in the empty space between the sink and toilet. My boyfriend will never allow this I think, eyeing the layers of orange muscle on his torso. He’s heavy and slippery, but I carry him to the closet and store him behind a wall of boxes. I’ll be back, I assure him. Then for several weeks our cleaning ritual continues after my boyfriend leaves for work. I start to confess the little things, the words slide right out of my mouth as if he can actually reach in and wash the creases of my brain. He raises my arm and moves over my skin in mini hurricane circles with his fingertips. I’ve learned to control my laughter, but sometimes I squirm or suddenly cry out and his cheeks blush a translucent white. Gradually he begins to shrink, his shoulders slowly rounding and smoothing out, his arms and legs losing their shape until it looks like he's balancing on chopsticks. I try to take shorter showers, but he insists, until finally he is the size of a carrot peel. His features have been washed, but his foggy eyes still stare up at me in a pleasant, OK, now you know what to do, look. I spend the entire day in the shower, lathered up to my chin. Then the water loosens him from the cracks of my fingers and he spirals towards the silver drain. I wave Goodbye. His figure folds upward gently at the drains opening and he vanishes swiftly like a favored jewel or a brass pendant of eagle’s wings.

The Whole Bite

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Mon, 26 Nov 2007 17:13:00 +0000

Shelley is an anorexic. But she is also the woman I love. One day she stopped eating and never started again. It was the day her mother told her the truth about her real father. Apparently, her father’s parents were unusually twisted and rich, and when they died suddenly in a house fire, all the surviving money needed to be divided between their two sons. Shelley’s father and his brother, her Uncle Stu, sat down to discuss the will. It was the middle of winter with a windchill below zero. And to their utter disbelief the will very plainly stated that in order to collect any money one brother would have to kill the other. This all happened when Shelley was just a baby and until that day she believed her father had died in a skydiving accident. Shelley grew nauseas and bloated with the truth. Her belly ached. She could not bring herself to touch another bite of cheese quiche, much less swallow the eggy lump already resting in her mouth like an impossible, swollen tongue. So the brothers had a very difficult decision to face. And sure enough, Shelley’s father was the one to suffer the blow. The two brothers, both terribly fond of each other, decided Shelley’s father should die and the majority of the death money would go to Shelley and her mother. Uncle Stu had no other family or friends, but he would keep a modest amount and go to China. Uncle Stu bought a gun and shot Shelley’s father, all according to plan. What they didn’t know at the time was that Uncle Stu would die that same night in a terrible collision with an overflowing dump truck. Shelley’s mother poured another glass of wine. But Shelley spit her soggy tongue-like bite on the dining room floor and has refused food ever since. Now I go visit her at the hospital, which I do every single day out of love. I didn’t understand at first why hearing this story turned Shelley into an anorexic. No one did, not even the eating-disorder specialist. But when Shelley finally opened her mouth and explained it very simply, I started to see her point. If her father’s death money paid for her food, it was like she was eating her own father. She was beautiful and stubborn, even in her shriveling, bony state. But her sacrifice was grave and foolish, and the doctors complained loudly. If Shelley continued to deny food, she would die by the end of the week. I sat stiffly at Shelley’s sterile bedside for hours as she flipped through daytime soap operas. And suddenly I had an idea. What if I go buy you something to eat? With my own money. Like a vanilla milkshake, I said. I thought perhaps she wasn’t listening. I was used to her tuning me out. But I saw the thought pass over her eyes, sending a stern shove to her belly. Or how about a hamburger and milkshake? Anything you like, I repeated calmly. She turned her head thoughtfully and nodded, which probably required all her strength. So I dashed out of the sliding hospital doors and drove as fast as I could to the nearest drive-thru. When I returned, Shelley was propped up in bed with hunger. You really love me dammit, she said. I’m sorry I was so awful to you all these years and never returned your phone calls and laughed right in your face when you brought me garden vegetables and asked me to the dance. I’m a fool, she said. Hush, I said. And I threw the burger in her lap and thrust the straw into the plastic slotted top before handing over the extra-large milkshake. She sucked on it dryly and swallowed. Her cheeks blushed a beautiful, full red. Someday I hope I can repay you, she said in a hiccup. Then she greedily inhaled her burger and sighed into the wrapper.

Trash

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Fri, 16 Nov 2007 15:55:00 +0000

She loved him because he paid her in big wads of cash. Money like that was heavy. She felt it lumping around in her purse when she walked to the bank. And since he was very old and sometimes forgot to pay her, she decided to love him regardless, no matter what. Besides, he always remembered the following week and compensated her well for his mistakes. Also, it was relatively easy. The old man didn’t require much love. He had already lived a long life full of love. Which was lucky for her because she was lazy. Who could blame her for liking cashmere sleepwear and strange, imported cheese? Expensive taste is a virtue in an overcast city. Like religion. And like an honest housewife she knew when and where to spend her money. An early lesson from her mother before she died. She wondered which part of her mother’s taut, pointed finger was living furiously inside her, jabbing her shoulder blades. Tsk Tsk, could be heard echoing in her mind like a ringing phone. She had spent her teenage years trying to tune it out, among other things. When the old man died she went to his funeral after a disappointing visit to the dentist. Her flossing efforts had not paid off. Three and a half cavities, mocking her previous three. Since she was the only whore in the funeral parlor, everyone stared. No one offered an excuse for who she was. So of course she couldn’t help but feel totally shitty. Also, it meant she shouldn’t stay long. When she passed the solid oak casket where his body lay inside she didn’t resist putting her hand on his stiff chest, petting his silky green tie. Wrinkles in his fleshy make-up made him look too old. Or perhaps it was the downer lighting or the drugs from the dentist, but it didn’t matter. That night she went home and ordered way too much sushi. When the bell rang, she answered the door wearing only her bath towel and a pair of vintage flats. She tipped the young delivery boy an extra two bucks and watched from her window as he mounted his bike and rode away against traffic. It was a Monday. On Friday she received a letter in the mail. Inside the envelope clung two yellow post-its. One from an old woman’s shaky pen: “You filthy bitch. You sucked him dry.” The other in his patient, elegant cursive: “I’m sorry for this and everything else. In the end I didn’t know who I was or what I was doing.” She tore the first post-it in half and threw it away. Then she carried his post-it to the kitchen and stuck it on the fridge beneath a magnet spelling out Happy Holidays in tiny reindeer bodies.

The Gift

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 20:11:00 +0000

A butcher walks into a hospital with a large box and wants to see the doctor. Are you sick? asks the nurse. No, says the butcher. Are you in trouble? she asks. No, he says. So she goes to fetch the doctor. The doctor appears and looks very tired in his baggy slacks. Doctor, the butcher says, I have brought you a holiday ham, and he lifts the wrapped pig out of the box. Goodness, says the doctor, how thoughtful. Thank you, he adds politely, but why are you giving this to me? The butcher knew he would have to explain himself and looks away shyly, Because you saved my wife's life two weeks ago. Of course, I knew you looked familiar, says the doctor, even though it is a lie. Well, thank you, I will share it with my family. Which he does on New Year’s Eve night. And the ham is the most delicious ham the family has ever tasted. The juices run from their lips and they all help themselves to seconds and thirds. I will go tomorrow and thank the butcher again, the doctor decides. So the doctor walks into the butcher's shop and the butcher is waiting behind the counter dressed in a perfectly white apron, arms folded calmly over his belly. The shop is small, only a counter and two stools in the corner. A red tarp is pinned tastefully over the doorway that leads out back. What did the doctor expect? Bloodstains and guts? Well, if it weren’t for the sausage links hanging like fireworks over the counter, he wouldn’t know it was a butcher shop at all. It smells sweet like honey and fruit trees. Your ham was the best ham my family has ever had, thank you so much, the doctor says. You're welcome, replies the butcher, I'm glad you enjoyed it. The doctor turns to go, but asks, Where exactly did you find that pig? And the butcher is quiet before answering, I raised him myself. Ah, I see, says the doctor, like a pet? Yes, like a pet.

Air Sold Under Our Breath

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Thu, 01 Nov 2007 21:01:00 +0000

It's a shame we can't
ignore our better side.
Time to spare the plastic
shades. The face in the window
so busy being a face. Staring
changes nothing.

Arranged Ashes In The Ashtray

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Tue, 30 Oct 2007 18:24:00 +0000

Zig-zag.
Urban crickets caught in the park
outside the window
building a vehicle of dark sound.
Credit the rich soup.
Remove the ex's things
from the drawing board
for more room
to doodle.
Dip the moon in more wine
then offer it to the guest.
It was on
the table.

Head Back In The Dentist's Chair

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Tue, 23 Oct 2007 17:31:00 +0000

Caught wishing
you and I
were like gap teeth
that could be squeezed together
by braces.

Letter From Margaret

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Mon, 22 Oct 2007 18:07:00 +0000

A society of leaves have left
wetspots in animal cracker shapes
on the front stoop for
the candid pigeons. Duck
for the tiny door. This is where
the highway divides. Hang your fingers daintly
around the digital image. Put yourself
in the wind. Coloring books
in the sun. Your new tattoo
looks so beautiful
under your orange tanktop.

Wide

noreply@blogger.com (justine renee wenger) — Mon, 22 Oct 2007 18:02:00 +0000

The attic is not fully
enclosed. I can see you
spying on me.