Sleeping with the Dictionary

by Mullen, Harryette

In the beginning, we stay with the preacher. We sit sweating on the mercy seat. We hear the preacher shout. We feel the fire in this man who built the church that burned down. This preacher who read Nietzsche. This preacher who was a carpenter with bent nails, who was the father of the cowgirl who ironed his handkerchiefs. The big man who cheered at wrestling matches, who drove a dark Chevy, who wore white shirts stiff from the laundry, who sang, “There was a crooked man, who had a crooked smile.” She recalls a sixpence, a pig, a crooked little stile. He knew a stile could get them over. He knew a thing or two, and so did the lady who made crab cakes. The lady who fried scrapple. The lady with peach tree switches, who knew that a spigot was a faucet. Her chaise longue, her porte-cochere, her chiffonier. She didn’t want the cowgirl to be a boll weevil. She wanted us where we were, not in the garage. She wanted us in the church where everyone shouted.

  We started selling and counting. Anything from earthworms and bottles to paper shell pecans. She saved green stamps and we ate pinto beans from dented cans. She found a house with bramble bushes. We found a lovely alley made dizzy circles. We found a house with attic rooms. A magic chef in the kitchen and a genie to keep it clean. We kept moving until we moved the neighbors out. They ran to Runaway Bay. They hid at Hideaway Lake. Those neighbors who were not neighborly, who didn’t want us for neighbors.

  The nuns were smart teachers, but she didn’t care for them. They didn’t care for her and called her friend a guttersnipe. The nuns in their brick pan dulce magnolia convent, their virgin rose tortilla de maiz garden grotto, their Carnicería Chapultepec chapel. These nuns don’t talk Spanish, you could say French. Parlor fluent frenchy, jumble lying crawfish pie filling gumball. They taught girls to knit. They taught her to hit the piano. They taught all the girls to say hell merry fuller grays, dolores wit chew, blast duh art dower mung wimmen, blast dis fruit uh duh loom, cheez whiz. Anomie, dull party, dull filly, dull spitter shoo sanity. I am my mother’s daughter who put me in the water to see if I could swim. My hair went back to Africa. I baptize thee. Hiccup, hiccup, hiccup.

  High school was a bluster. She wasn’t a bother. High school was a thick brick. She was knocked out. High school was too high, she was too low. High school was too low, she was too high. High school was too many schedules she crashed. Who could remember the combination. High school was hormones and hers were a moan, she wasn’t a whore or a harmed one. No one was too harsh. High school was hot, she wasn’t cool. She loved the books and not the boys. They moved too much, they blur. Too many books on her head, her leaky calendar. Too much gossip, her unlocked locker. Too much mother, she wouldn’t hop. She wasn’t a case of textbooks. Never that. She was a cartoon. She was a poem. Anyone would stutter trying to recite.

  After perusing all the pamphlets, she went where she had been, where she knew how. It was a place she knew she could. So big no one would notice in a green location. She knew the uniforms, not the sunbathers. She kept her eye on the tower, rehearsed her sitting ducks. She believed the room was haunted, the furniture walked. Her friend had gone to a school where she misplaced her mind. She never found her friend again, her box of comprehension. There were new girls now, the ones who ironed tortillas and made beans drunk. They knew that sopa isn’t soap, ropa isn’t rope, and butter is meant to kill ya.

  If only she could play bid whist, if only she could tell someone. If only she had only eaten cassava, not listened to so much jazz. If only she had a gospel voice, not a notebook full of Babylon. If only she had obeyed her mother, if only she could disobey. If only she hadn’t been to prison to visit the afflicted. If whiskey were water and I were a duck. If only if you only knew she wouldn’t try to tell you.

  She got that piece of paper and ran with it. Somewhere she’d found a tongue she used gingerly. She spoke up, she didn’t lie down. If she did lie, she made it a big one. She spoke for a wagon wheel, she got the grease. They paid her to be smart, or dumb, it didn’t matter. If they paid her, she could eat. If they didn’t, she could go. She was always writing anyway, it didn’t matter. She fell into a trance. That’s how he took her with him where he went, and so she came along and there she was. When he wanted to bust her, she wasn’t in shock, there was warning. Instead of bursting, she ran. She got used to running.

  More paper, more pencils, more writing, she went everywhere she could. She went on a whim, on a limb, she limped and whimpered. She slowed down, she settled, she got stuck. She came loose, she mended. She came undone, she repaired herself again. She shook her groove thing and got it on. She stepped on a pin, the pin bent. Good thing she got that tetanus shot. Time for a booster.

  When the ship went down, she wouldn’t sink, had to swim, she brought her suit. She’d float like a jellyfish, sting like a man of war, or seaweed ain’t salty. Water was her element, she swam on. Right through a tsunami, she cut with scissor kicks. She caught a wave, she got in a flap, she was flippant. From sea, she ran past shark teeth. Like shine, see. If I’m lying, I’m flying. From sea to shine, she swam on. The whales sang Celtic music, dolphins frisked her. She was worked over and under she let her mind wander. Let it roll and keep on rolling on and on. Revolution is a cycle that never ends. Rumors of May made mermaids murmur. Plato opens utopia to poets on opiates.

  Sleeping with the Dictionary

  I beg to dicker with my silver-tongued companion, whose lips are ready to read my shining gloss. A versatile partner, conversant and well-versed in the verbal art, the dictionary is not averse to the solitary habits of the curiously wide-awake reader. In the dark night’s insomnia, the book is a stimulating sedative, awakening my tired imagination to the hypnagogic trance of language. Retiring to the canopy of the bedroom, turning on the bedside light, taking the big dictionary to bed, clutching the unabridged bulk, heavy with the weight of all the meanings between these covers, smoothing the thin sheets, thick with accented syllables—all are exercises in the conscious regimen of dreamers, who toss words on their tongues while turning illuminated pages. To go through all these motions and procedures, groping in the dark for an alluring word, is the poet’s nocturnal mission. Aroused by myriad possibilities, we try out the most perverse positions in the practice of our nightly act, the penetration of the denotative body of the work. Any exit from the logic of language might be an entry in a symptomatic dictionary. The alphabetical order of this ample block of knowledge might render a dense lexicon of lucid hallucinations. Beside the bed, a pad lies open to record the meandering of migratory words. In the rapid eye movement of the poet’s night vision, this dictum can be decoded, like the secret acrostic of a lover’s name.

  Souvenir from Anywhere

  People of color untie-dyed. Got nothing to lose but your CPT-shirts. You’re all just a box of crayons. The whole ball of wax would make a lovely decorator candle on a Day of the Dead Santeria Petro Vodou altar. Or how about these yin-yang earrings to balance your energy? This rainbow crystal necklace, so good for unblocking your chi and opening the chakras? Hey, you broke it, you bought it! No checks accepted. Unattended children will be sold as slaves.

  Suzuki Method

  El Niño brought a typhoon of tom-toms from Tokyo, where a thrilling instrument makes an OK toy. Tiny violins are shrill. Their shrieks are musical mice. The color of a mechanical clock is lost in translation. Whatever you’re telling me sounds like the straight teeth of rodents. My dreams throw the book at the varmint. We both shudder as the dictionary thuds. You’ve got to admit, our Esperanto’s hopeless. Your virgin is unfaithful. My savory hero boards the ship of Marco Polo, loaded with soy from Ohio.

  Swift Tommy

  “I grew up with a lot of punctuation myself, so I can understand your nostalgia for parentheses,” the dashing Sister Ka exclaimed to her dingbat friend across the periodic table. “Is a pink collar worker a redneck who came in from the sun?” a bloody European quizzed the ruddy Fulbright scholar during the in-depth Q and A following her profound lecture on the abysmal fried tradition of deep southern chickens. “This exhibit confronts
spectators with several provocative photographs of found topiaries,” the moving finger of the aggressively ironic art critic scrawled on the electronic notepad. “Was it plastic or a fetish?” the imagineers of indebtedness asked the psychosurgical micromanagers of desire. The old crock tearfully confided to the young salt, “A wave of mock cashmere turtlenecks swallowed my ethnic pride, and I can’t believe it’s not bitter.” “Think of your appendix as an archaeological site, or a library of preventable diseases,” the bespectacled white-coated professional added gratuitously to the critical list, thus bursting the ruined institutional pyramid scheme. “Never again!” vowed the recidivist backslider falling off the anniversary wagon of second-hand chainsmoking reactionaries. The virtual master of cyberpornotopia whispered to his pixilated hologram, “If I had you where you’ve got me, I’d give myself a blowjob.”

  Ted Joans at the Café Bizarre

  cairo man

  surly realist

  dis member ship

  jungle blackboards

  cryptic script

  stirring up

  dead alive

  tongues tired

  tarred wool

  manifesto folded

  unclear arms

  cracking open

  ivory trunk

  of brazil nuts

  voodoo toenails

  konker root

  jockey cornsilk

  purrs natch

  contraband leader

  scattering scat

  sporadically all over

  forever diaspora

  Transients

  Vines through the roof of the tool shed. Water leaked in. Where would I sleep. Three square meals: brunch, brown bag, potluck. Hold my hand while we talk. Trees like transplants from Mars. Nooky in the bandstand. Sticky sunshine. Sections of orange. A cut and another. Some snail trail. Trickle of salt. Wets and cries. A hand, sometimes a fist. Lolling toward rhythm. A buzz that kept me awake nights. Burning triangles. Every sound coming through the wall. Dream of elephant. Dream of braiding hair. Who wears those shoes with cutouts? In my next lifetime learn to play guitar. She can bend her tongue both ways but can’t whistle.

  Brought cactus to a housewarming. We sat on a mat with cups of jasmine tea. They slept on a thin straw petate and ate off stolen plates. Cheap, plentiful rolls of foam. No one I knew owned box springs or a sofa. Futons help the spine like yoga. Cleopatra’s barge. Massage with oil to music of flutes. It penetrates. The door left open. Someone peeked into the dark. She checked out her blind dates from the want ads at a bar called Crow’s Nest. Kind of a scene, I guess. Big picture window with a view of the bay. Hearing them giggle and moan. Those barking dogs were sea lions on the rocks offshore. I’d never wear that swimsuit. I couldn’t get to sleep at all. My mind kept circling. They all have different fathers. Some had green eyes. Genetic lottery or slot machine. Lab rat seeks reward. Advice for my face. Once I turned it on it wouldn’t turn off. This man I didn’t know was stroking my foot without saying a word. He felt free to stare at strangers on a bus. Frijoles borachos. Mestizaje. Hasta la pasta. U.S. flag in neon on the ceiling of a Chinese restaurant in Texas. Good jukebox. Dollars pinned to her dress. Ready to light the sparklers. The handsome candidate dropped out of the race. Euphoria resulted in a moving violation.

  Dachshund dog wears hooks for puppy cups. Head in the briars, heart gushes a flame. Plaster hands impaired in prayer. Thick-haired Irish brothers press their true blue suits. Martyred dream. Preacher gets more chicken. Slippery pages edged with gilt. Her skirt fanned out to catch the ashes. Hula girls gesture toward tropical wood utensils. Island trips or military hitch. Shepherd vs. shepherdess. Porcelain features, elaborate frames. Angel in the nick snatches kids from the brink. Toreador velvet. Bronze shoes next to gathers. Plush puckery. Ottoman embroidery. Old masters macaroni sprayed gold. Curly bark keeps name in nail polish. Teacups, blurred roses, ivy jungle. Bowl of glass inedible. Plastic covers over formal furniture. Not a living room but a parlor. Dust to dust. The child who carves her initials on the piano. Park the bike in the kitchen. Lean against the fridge. Best cardboard tunnels. Burn scar from space heater. I’m sorry you’re toast. Voice of ham static flies around the world. Kotex box where anyone can see. Separate domiciles. Never a tablecloth. Garage full of church ink. Strategize at chess while twirling spaghetti out of the pot. Where the comb went upside my head. Getting stoned after school in a rock fight. Next day I wore a dashing pirate’s eye patch. Trailer park hit by tornado. Song that says get an ugly girl to marry you. Doll with ponytail and pedalpushers. Melamac. Chinet. Slurpee. Her name was Felicia but of course they called her Fellatio.

  Two smokers came to visit so I had to find a jar lid. When he sat on my stove he could look down at me. It’s years since we’ve talked. I witnessed a green card wedding. She borrowed my white cotton dress. We drank a lot in those days. An artist allergic to paint. The way his skin felt was a surprise. It crept in. He knew we weren’t a match. Not enough heat. Ran into a blizzard. Thawed out the car at a motel with adjoining pancake house. Found a sky of double rainbows. Those rez girls, their poor pottery. Red cowboy boots might scare the snakes off. Xerox fetish. Their chants all sounded the same to me in the five-hundred-year-old housing project. No sleeping bag or view of the eclipse. Confused by all the rain a frog had entered the living room. Earthworms dying under our feet. Sold a poem today. A drunkard in the plaza called out, “Sister, may I kiss you?”

  Variation on a Theme Park

  My Mickey Mouse ears are nothing like sonar. Colorado is far less rusty than Walt’s lyric riddles. If sorrow is wintergreen, well then Walt’s breakdancers are dunderheads. If hoecakes are Wonder Bras, blond Wonder Bras grow on Walt’s hornytoad. I have seen roadkill damaged, riddled and wintergreen, but no such roadkill see I in Walt’s checkbook. And in some purchases there is more deliberation than in the bargains that my Mickey Mouse redeems. I love to herd Walt’s sheep, yet well I know that muskrats have a far more platonic sonogram. I grant I never saw a googolplex groan. My Mickey Mouse, when Walt waddles, trips on garbanzos. And yet, by halogen-light, I think my loneliness as reckless as any souvenir bought with free coupons.

  Way Opposite

  after Richard Wilbur

  The opposite of walk?

  A psychic with a crystal ball

  and tarot deck

  who sees green

  when your palm is read.

  At the sign of a red palm

  I don’t walk,

  I run.

  We Are Not Responsible

  We are not responsible for your lost or stolen relatives. We cannot guarantee your safety if you disobey our instructions. We do not endorse the causes or claims of people begging for handouts. We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone. Your ticket does not guarantee that we will honor your reservations. In order to facilitate our procedures, please limit your carrying on. Before taking off, please extinguish all smoldering resentments. If you cannot understand English, you will be moved out of the way. In the event of a loss, you’d better look out for yourself. Your insurance was cancelled because we can no longer handle your frightful claims. Our handlers lost your luggage and we are unable to find the key to your legal case. You were detained for interrogation because you fit the profile. You are not presumed to be innocent if the police have reason to suspect you are carrying a concealed wallet. It’s not our fault you were born wearing a gang color. It is not our obligation to inform you of your rights. Step aside, please, while our officer inspects your bad attitude. You have no rights that we are bound to respect. Please remain calm, or we can’t be held responsible for what happens to you.

  Why You and I

  Who knows why you and I fell off the roster?

  Who can figure why you and I never passed muster

  on our way out yonder?

  Does anyone wonder why you and I lacked

  the presence of minding our blunders?

  Can anyone see why you and I, no longer intact,


  pulled a disappearing act and left with scratch? Our secret pact

  required that you and I forget why and where

  we lost our place when we went off the books.

  Could anyone guess, does anyone know or even care

  why you and I can’t be found, as hard as we look?

  Who’ll spell out for us, if we exist,

  why you and I missed our turn on the list?

  who can stand to reason why you and I let

  our union dissolve to strike the orderly alphabet?

  Wino Rhino

  For no specific reason I have become one of the city’s unicorns. No rare species, but one in range of danger. No mythical animal, but a common creature of urban legend. No potent stallion woven into poetry and song. Just the tough horny beast you may observe, roaming at large in our habitat. I’m known to adventurers whose drive-by safari is this circumscribed wilderness. Denatured photographers like to shoot me tipping the bottle, capture me snorting dust, mount on the wall my horn of empties that spilled the grape’s blood. My flesh crawls with itchy insects. My heart quivers as arrows on street maps target me for urban removal. You can see that my hair’s stiffened and my skin’s thick, but the bravest camera can’t document what my armor hides. How I know you so well. Why I know my own strength. Why, when I charge you with my rags, I won’t overturn your sporty jeep.

  Wipe That Simile Off Your Aphasia

  as horses as for

  as purple as we go

  as heartbeat as if

  as silverware as it were

  as onion as I can

  as cherries as feared

  as combustion as want