Jenn Guitart

Confessional, etc.

Poem
August 20, midnight

I must confess that this is a confessional poem. I feel very guilty about it, but it’s true. I feel compelled, I feel that I must tell you how I feel. I feel this strongly, and that is why I am writing this confessional poem, to reveal these strong feelings that I have, feelings of needing to let it all out, to let the world, and especially you, the reader, know how much I need to express myself, even though I find it embarrassing to do so. I’m sorry about this. I’m sorry to be telling you all this, reader. I’m sorry to be burdening you with my intense feelings, with all the inner workings of my soul; but the truth is that I need to tell someone these things, and who better to tell than a page, and a reader? Who better to confess to, than a reader who will read and understand, who will pore over my words and absorb what is truly within me? How better to let this emotion out, than in characters on this page, characters that scream and shout of the pain and joy of my life? You know that I don’t mean any of it, really, when it comes down to it. None of these feelings I’ve been writing are really true. I don’t feel any of them, but still have the need to express them. All right? I admitted it. Now, go ahead, think of me as someone who writes confessional poems, even insincere ones that mean nothing. Think of me as someone who doesn’t say anything, who says nothing at all. I’ve tried really hard to be honest here, and the thanks I get is being pigeonholed as just another confessional poet. I’ve tried hard to write my feelings and then to admit that they weren’t true, that I was not feeling them, and instead I am accused of having no content, none at all, in any of my writings. Well, if that’s true, then forget everything I’ve written here tonight. If it’s worth nothing to you, reader, then it’s just my private, secret way of getting my feelings sorted out. If it’s at your expense I don’t care at all. You can take my feelings and do nothing with them. You can make fun of them. You can make fun of all the people like me who try to do something valuable on paper, all the people, poets and not poets, who have the courage to try our best to make important poems that truly express things. So forget it.

Words I don’t know and their meanings
August 13, midnight

jib – foque (vela)
plenipotenciary – plenipotenciario
geminate – geminar
glammer – titileo
gnu – nu
pinion – piñon
cedilla – cedilla
frippery – perifollos, moños; cursileria
gallium – galio

Not titled
August 14, noon

When the answer becomes the second,
time was able to do
to "do," "to do," & "to" do
all of everyone’s thing,
our everything,
the whole of it, and all of it,
when the universe was shaped
very much like a donut,
or somewhat like a donut hole,
but with a hole in it,
my kind of hole in the head
kind of a place
became the second,
the second that came in first.

Not titled
August 15, midnight

My mother ate a pig in the middle of the night. She said she was a vegetarian, but I saw her there. She definitely ate a pig. She said it was a carrot. I said, "Mother, that may be a carrot to you, but to me it’s a pig." She swallowed it whole. It was an alabaster pig, a living thing with delicate translucent skin. The tender things beneath the skin that made it alive shone through in blue and dark red. The pig looked at me in desperation. I could see that it thought I could save it from my mother. But I stood by, helpless. "I am sorry, pig," I thought, looking deeply into its eyes. "I am sorry that my kin is eating you alive. but I cannot take responsibility. Mother has more authority than I do, and I must defer to her." The pig refused to make eye contact after that, and I went back to bed. By morning, mother had put all the bones in a neat pile next to the trash.

Not Titled
August 3, midnight

When a lot of people die all at once where you are, that makes you a small person. If you die, and lots of other people around you die, you are a little speck, a tiny man, or maybe a tiny women and children. No one cried for you specifically.

Tragedies range from about 3 to about 10. Lower than 3, it is not a tragedy, it’s just plain sad. Higher than 10, and it can’t exist in the human brain. In a dolphin or elephant brain, maybe, but they wouldn’t recognize it. So if you die a lot, over and over, if you are a speck who dies in the history books, you might be part of a big tragedy. Maybe even a 9 or 10. But no one cries for you. Not for you specifically, just for the generally large number, the large value of your tragedy. You might get a little piece of a tear-drop. One or two molecules.

Not Titled
August 6, midnight

In the depths of pain and leakage
bodies are very temporary.
Parentheses are a result of your "female problem."
In the paper,
"Man survives own death."
Next to the water, your armpits smell like cookies.

Not Titled
August 6, noon

No one knows what I know, nor knows what I don’t know. But what I don’t know is what people know. What do people not know, thought? I don’t know. What do they think? What to people, people like me, people like you, what do people think they know? They know better. They know best. They know all right. They know worse. They know worst. I think they know what I’m thinking. I think they know what you’re thinking. I know what they’re thinking. You know what I’m thinking, I’ve just told you. I told you to think about what they know. I told you to think about your own thoughts. You told me you think the worst, but I know better. You told me not to think the worst. I know you think better than they think. They think I know best, and think better than you. You think you think better than I. I think better of you. Don’t think worse of me. I told you what I know. I thought I told you what I think. I thought you knew. I thought you knew what I knew. What I thought was just what you thought. People thought that you knew best.

Women
August 16,midnight

Women on the verge of running with wolves kiss the spider women on the moon. A vindication of the rights of amazon women on the verge is the subjection of the spider women who love too much. I am the woman who runs with wolves, hear me roar a vindication of the rights of women on the verge of loving too much the kiss of the women on the moon. I am the kiss of the amazon vindication of the rights of women on the verge of the subjection of spider women! I am the subjection of women, hear me run with wolves too much!

Fortune Cookie Novel
August 17,noon

(this is the beginnings of a fortune cookie novel. to be placed in cookies and eaten, in the future. many more need to be written. thankyou to the great matt oberts and adam tobins of the world for collaborating on the category descriptions.)

3 categories of fortunes

1. Things you will do (premonition)
2. The way you are (self-description)
3. Wise things that apply to everyone. (admonition)

You will go on a long trip
You will have money and happiness coming your way
You will show how strong you are
You will acquire something valuable very soon
You will eat a delicious meal
You will clean your room
You will make a beautiful thing happen
You will walk down the street to the store
You will pick up a knife off the counter
You will meet someone who is very rich
You will buy some onions, spinach, and chicken
You will set the table with the fine china
You will tell a big lie
You will misplace a huge laundry bag
You will charm someone with your smile
You will cut some food into small pieces
You will carry something heavy
You will kiss someone you do not love
You will cause great damage to a living
creature
You will drink lots of wine
You will laugh falsely
You will touch someone’s foot with your own
You will seduce someone
You will buy plastic sheets using cash
You will take a long bath
You will clean the bathroom using bleach
You will