Jessie Janeshek
Picture-in-Picture/Our Dancing Daughters
How do you handle                                     starting out late
               past the time of the platinum wink
the sadness of the frozen blonde              Xmas tree fever-tease
                              the sadness of fortitude?
               Any process is aging. Any process is weird.
I feel no need to stomach            cheap cigarettes, purple ink
                              I don’t know how to pace
               bondage, cryonics, or tears.
I feel no need to share                  a living doll story
               a birdcage-shaped ass
long-legged nightclub dancers
               sex shame or my pubic hair.
If I died today, my bones too boozy
               you’d say leave me your gangster
or at least your gangster movies
               you’d sleep all day          say how to fix the broken strap
came to you in a dream.
               If I died today                 my stardom surrounded
by a micro-charge                              by a bone-in-bone frill
               you’d be well-dressed               collecting eggs
dressed like a moth                        I would bind you and blind you
               but this is not my sister             perfect grave
peaceful rain. This is not the longest day.
               This is not black-lipped, faux-bobbed
modern maidens.
This is just another me                  sans wink in her skin
               calling you daddy                timing my life by the deer
on the side of the road.
               I step in what’s rotten                  and even my voice
comes in after death                       helps you poison your mind.
Say my death is foul play
               say hidden hustler            a freckled relic
                              or an optional paradise.
               To avoid having your baby           I flew into the sun
                                             or you shuttered my corpse in the rumble seat.
[Our Dancing Daughters is the title of a 1928 film.]
Messy Wife/Messy Life/Daily Motion
Platinum is my element                              and at least I have my health
               vanitas, a diminishing vision.
I’m a novella               or a plaid playsuit
               or they must have devised            another name for me
                              bone-bed, semi-swine.
Don’t dance where you eat. I look at the slop
                              understand why women              give up, disappear.
I look in the mirror               see jewelry, no face
                              a tramps-in-the-tropics               melodrama, cocaine
               cellulite, sentimentality                              coming in stages
                              all motives trace               loving or money
               semi-sweet lightning strikes east.
                                                            I reply with a drink
                              don’t fuck where you eat.
                                                            I become more than muse
when attention-seeking’s genetic                 I don’t want to bathe or smoke cigarettes
               depression that deep.     I become more than muse
on one meal a day
                                             when your porn is greater than my porn
               my sailor dress                 my sea-going cat
                              the Hollywood fog               the tarp over the sunlight
pink muscles and what?               What are you basing this day on?
                              I only abide by                      black-and-white miniature challenges.
               I lie and say I’m writing a book
I’m buying a haunted apartment or I pretend I’m your criminal
                              and I lie in a cave                              of porcine saints
                              where it doesn’t stop raining               (fuck me with stalagmites)
                                             or I’m a fat planet               with rings tilted your way
               and I lie when I realize I already gave it away.
Strange Interlude
They say civilize your rituals
               no makeup on the first night
cheeping through black netting
               light a candle, make it better.
Legs open and the clock                and the Dom Perignon
               for the Harlow RIP scene                              red dress and bloody kidneys.
                                                            I start to sweat and swell
               when I think of telephones
girls getting picked up                   in saddle shoes at Venice
               hair rolled up in bobs                   lemon dresses and the flailing cryogenics.
They say exit the abortion              and civilize your rivals
               live until the 70s                             in a wood-paneled hotel
in Milwaukee lighting candles
                                                              but I dropped out midcentury
                                             in pert orange capris
               no shortage of sex              syringes or money
                              a sordid bikini                  but she was so fit
               blue lipstick and time               stuck between blunt objects
                                                               and obligations
                              now my cognitive dissonance
                                                                            a green Pucci shift dress
                                             no Jayne Mansfield panty line.
               They say civilize your bitches               study all the old scenes
                                             but I don’t like the old scenes
                              a little blonde in pink flowers               swinging on a tire swing
                                                               catching all our tears in a poison ring.
[Strange Interlude is the title of a 1928 play by Eugene O’Neill and a 1932 film based on the play. This poem channels Marilyn Monroe.]
Channel U/Rebel without a Cause
The bedrock is believing                 we’re all well with God
               and maybe there’s heartbreak in California
but this show won’t get any better
               even with voodoo               or money to lighten the mood.
Hello psychological               a lost intuition
               blow out the candles                              you wanted the ring in me
headlights on the drag race               long gold velvet curtains but God knows
               good sex in painful                                 as the float breaks
and my loyalty                        is to red imagery
               and at the end of the movie
James Dean says this is my friend
               as if it makes any difference.
Improbabilia                            is the valley girl vampire
               and how did I learn               to be a French actress
mimic New Jersey                  when I hate my thin lips
               my needing sleep. The freak show is dead
the mall zombified                  cassette tapes chicken feet
               pizza and chlorine. Suburbia’s dried up and tired out
and I am too selfish                 to see out of myself
               I rot the mystery.
That day in the hammock        we hid from the robbers
               instead of Frank Sinatra records               mustard light in the basement
and I am not motivated             by the prospect of dumping a body
               and I am not motivated               by the promise of bringing you down.
I showed up at the fancy house
               to trick or treat as a geisha.
All I saw was the gold foyer      the full-sized candy bars
               how the old man died twice
playing “Anchors Aweigh”         shitting himself               sitting at the piano
               how we hid in the closet
               shot the girl in the stomach
but how we also didn’t want to get involved.
Madcap/Make Music I Can’t Understand
The fear of death makes me honest
               skeletonized                                    but the body in the park
                              doesn’t lie or deserve it
               and the crazy man with the stick
                                             scratches don’t go any further
               in the mud underneath                 the observation tower
                                             and I waste my green eyelashes
and I go to the pond in tight curls, organized.
                              I see nary a beaver.
               I sit on the soldier ghost’s lap.
I’d like to say                    make a child in my name
               the fear of death makes me honest
but both are a lie                                 and I’d like to climb
               on you or the bike               not breaking my legs.
In this smoke pink faux fur
                              I space out my days           I slush through the cemetery
               on Christmas Eve                in my candle dress smoking
                                             in my crown of wet candles.
                              I shush your therapy
missing the hot springs                      and Edward G. Robinson.
                                             You say I get three dresses
                              and the smell of couch/crotch
                                   and the smell of Christmas
               shiny red lips and scotch
in the parlor where we seem like                    unethical diamonds
               bigger than horseflies.
In the pallor we seem to be entering               an era of surface.
               It’s like roots or mildew
how all of the sudden I notice.
Put Your Money in Your Mouth and Ask When You’ll Marry
and Have a Happy Home and Not a Happy Hour
It’s the thinner the faux fur                              you’ve had since 13
                              the Sabbath a promise of rest
but really the promise of death.
               Some say California                            is so bleak on Christmas
                                             but I know it’s orange glitter
               of course I only know                          one way out of here
oblivious to Coney Island               and the witching waves
                              saving cash in a cage.
I eat without thinking                      thick cream, a black bathing suit
                              but once I was comfortable
now too many lights                         no streets safe to walk on
               sticky lip lacquer                                 and crying so hard
                                             I can’t drive or dance.
We turn the heat up
               turn the heat down              smoke and fuck without thinking.
                              It’s the thinner your coat is the mist
               it’s the power flickering.
I sit on the soldier ghost’s lap                             over and over
                              walk past the Alamo broke.
               Everything here is mud red and I’m lonely
the man in spats doesn’t invite me                    to his gangster movie
               but how sweet to indulge in cheap beer and faint
like Lana Turner               or forage for food on Bullsboro.
                              In the utopia there are no footprints
the deer in the mirror                       and the glass hooves
               keep acting the snow                            queen in the rain
and I laugh at the thought that this is my bedroom
               a velvet settee                      and no bloodstains.
Jessie Janeshek's second full-length book of poems is The Shaky Phase (Stalking Horse Press, 2017). Her chapbooks are Spanish Donkey/Pear of Anguish (Grey Book Press, 2016), Rah-Rah Nostalgia (dancing girl press, 2016), Supernoir (Grey Book Press, 2017), Hardscape (Reality Beach, forthcoming), and Auto-Harlow (Shirt Pocket Press, forthcoming). Invisible Mink (Iris Press, 2010) is her first full-length collection. She holds a Ph.D. from the University of Tennessee-Knoxville and an M.F.A. from Emerson College. You can read more of at jessiejaneshek.net.
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Picture-in-Picture/Our Dancing Daughters
How do you handle                                     starting out late
               past the time of the platinum wink
the sadness of the frozen blonde              Xmas tree fever-tease
                              the sadness of fortitude?
               Any process is aging. Any process is weird.
I feel no need to stomach            cheap cigarettes, purple ink
                              I don’t know how to pace
               bondage, cryonics, or tears.
I feel no need to share                  a living doll story
               a birdcage-shaped ass
long-legged nightclub dancers
               sex shame or my pubic hair.
If I died today, my bones too boozy
               you’d say leave me your gangster
or at least your gangster movies
               you’d sleep all day          say how to fix the broken strap
came to you in a dream.
               If I died today                 my stardom surrounded
by a micro-charge                              by a bone-in-bone frill
               you’d be well-dressed               collecting eggs
dressed like a moth                        I would bind you and blind you
               but this is not my sister             perfect grave
peaceful rain. This is not the longest day.
               This is not black-lipped, faux-bobbed
modern maidens.
This is just another me                  sans wink in her skin
               calling you daddy                timing my life by the deer
on the side of the road.
               I step in what’s rotten                  and even my voice
comes in after death                       helps you poison your mind.
Say my death is foul play
               say hidden hustler            a freckled relic
                              or an optional paradise.
               To avoid having your baby           I flew into the sun
                                             or you shuttered my corpse in the rumble seat.
[Our Dancing Daughters is the title of a 1928 film.]
Messy Wife/Messy Life/Daily Motion
Platinum is my element                              and at least I have my health
               vanitas, a diminishing vision.
I’m a novella               or a plaid playsuit
               or they must have devised            another name for me
                              bone-bed, semi-swine.
Don’t dance where you eat. I look at the slop
                              understand why women              give up, disappear.
I look in the mirror               see jewelry, no face
                              a tramps-in-the-tropics               melodrama, cocaine
               cellulite, sentimentality                              coming in stages
                              all motives trace               loving or money
               semi-sweet lightning strikes east.
                                                            I reply with a drink
                              don’t fuck where you eat.
                                                            I become more than muse
when attention-seeking’s genetic                 I don’t want to bathe or smoke cigarettes
               depression that deep.     I become more than muse
on one meal a day
                                             when your porn is greater than my porn
               my sailor dress                 my sea-going cat
                              the Hollywood fog               the tarp over the sunlight
pink muscles and what?               What are you basing this day on?
                              I only abide by                      black-and-white miniature challenges.
               I lie and say I’m writing a book
I’m buying a haunted apartment or I pretend I’m your criminal
                              and I lie in a cave                              of porcine saints
                              where it doesn’t stop raining               (fuck me with stalagmites)
                                             or I’m a fat planet               with rings tilted your way
               and I lie when I realize I already gave it away.
Strange Interlude
They say civilize your rituals
               no makeup on the first night
cheeping through black netting
               light a candle, make it better.
Legs open and the clock                and the Dom Perignon
               for the Harlow RIP scene                              red dress and bloody kidneys.
                                                            I start to sweat and swell
               when I think of telephones
girls getting picked up                   in saddle shoes at Venice
               hair rolled up in bobs                   lemon dresses and the flailing cryogenics.
They say exit the abortion              and civilize your rivals
               live until the 70s                             in a wood-paneled hotel
in Milwaukee lighting candles
                                                              but I dropped out midcentury
                                             in pert orange capris
               no shortage of sex              syringes or money
                              a sordid bikini                  but she was so fit
               blue lipstick and time               stuck between blunt objects
                                                               and obligations
                              now my cognitive dissonance
                                                                            a green Pucci shift dress
                                             no Jayne Mansfield panty line.
               They say civilize your bitches               study all the old scenes
                                             but I don’t like the old scenes
                              a little blonde in pink flowers               swinging on a tire swing
                                                               catching all our tears in a poison ring.
[Strange Interlude is the title of a 1928 play by Eugene O’Neill and a 1932 film based on the play. This poem channels Marilyn Monroe.]
Channel U/Rebel without a Cause
The bedrock is believing                 we’re all well with God
               and maybe there’s heartbreak in California
but this show won’t get any better
               even with voodoo               or money to lighten the mood.
Hello psychological               a lost intuition
               blow out the candles                              you wanted the ring in me
headlights on the drag race               long gold velvet curtains but God knows
               good sex in painful                                 as the float breaks
and my loyalty                        is to red imagery
               and at the end of the movie
James Dean says this is my friend
               as if it makes any difference.
Improbabilia                            is the valley girl vampire
               and how did I learn               to be a French actress
mimic New Jersey                  when I hate my thin lips
               my needing sleep. The freak show is dead
the mall zombified                  cassette tapes chicken feet
               pizza and chlorine. Suburbia’s dried up and tired out
and I am too selfish                 to see out of myself
               I rot the mystery.
That day in the hammock        we hid from the robbers
               instead of Frank Sinatra records               mustard light in the basement
and I am not motivated             by the prospect of dumping a body
               and I am not motivated               by the promise of bringing you down.
I showed up at the fancy house
               to trick or treat as a geisha.
All I saw was the gold foyer      the full-sized candy bars
               how the old man died twice
playing “Anchors Aweigh”         shitting himself               sitting at the piano
               how we hid in the closet
               shot the girl in the stomach
but how we also didn’t want to get involved.
Madcap/Make Music I Can’t Understand
The fear of death makes me honest
               skeletonized                                    but the body in the park
                              doesn’t lie or deserve it
               and the crazy man with the stick
                                             scratches don’t go any further
               in the mud underneath                 the observation tower
                                             and I waste my green eyelashes
and I go to the pond in tight curls, organized.
                              I see nary a beaver.
               I sit on the soldier ghost’s lap.
I’d like to say                    make a child in my name
               the fear of death makes me honest
but both are a lie                                 and I’d like to climb
               on you or the bike               not breaking my legs.
In this smoke pink faux fur
                              I space out my days           I slush through the cemetery
               on Christmas Eve                in my candle dress smoking
                                             in my crown of wet candles.
                              I shush your therapy
missing the hot springs                      and Edward G. Robinson.
                                             You say I get three dresses
                              and the smell of couch/crotch
                                   and the smell of Christmas
               shiny red lips and scotch
in the parlor where we seem like                    unethical diamonds
               bigger than horseflies.
In the pallor we seem to be entering               an era of surface.
               It’s like roots or mildew
how all of the sudden I notice.
Put Your Money in Your Mouth and Ask When You’ll Marry
and Have a Happy Home and Not a Happy Hour
It’s the thinner the faux fur                              you’ve had since 13
                              the Sabbath a promise of rest
but really the promise of death.
               Some say California                            is so bleak on Christmas
                                             but I know it’s orange glitter
               of course I only know                          one way out of here
oblivious to Coney Island               and the witching waves
                              saving cash in a cage.
I eat without thinking                      thick cream, a black bathing suit
                              but once I was comfortable
now too many lights                         no streets safe to walk on
               sticky lip lacquer                                 and crying so hard
                                             I can’t drive or dance.
We turn the heat up
               turn the heat down              smoke and fuck without thinking.
                              It’s the thinner your coat is the mist
               it’s the power flickering.
I sit on the soldier ghost’s lap                             over and over
                              walk past the Alamo broke.
               Everything here is mud red and I’m lonely
the man in spats doesn’t invite me                    to his gangster movie
               but how sweet to indulge in cheap beer and faint
like Lana Turner               or forage for food on Bullsboro.
                              In the utopia there are no footprints
the deer in the mirror                       and the glass hooves
               keep acting the snow                            queen in the rain
and I laugh at the thought that this is my bedroom
               a velvet settee                      and no bloodstains.
Jessie Janeshek's second full-length book of poems is The Shaky Phase (Stalking Horse Press, 2017). Her chapbooks are Spanish Donkey/Pear of Anguish (Grey Book Press, 2016), Rah-Rah Nostalgia (dancing girl press, 2016), Supernoir (Grey Book Press, 2017), Hardscape (Reality Beach, forthcoming), and Auto-Harlow (Shirt Pocket Press, forthcoming). Invisible Mink (Iris Press, 2010) is her first full-length collection. She holds a Ph.D. from the University of Tennessee-Knoxville and an M.F.A. from Emerson College. You can read more of at jessiejaneshek.net.
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