Jennifer L. Knox
Nice ÔNÕ Easy Medium Natural Ash Brunette
ÒCoffee ice cream and Fruity Pebbles,Ó
Introduction by K. Silem Mohammad
IÕm not sure what the L in Jennifer L. Knox stands for, but it
ought to stand for É for É OK, I canÕt think of anything that starts with L.
Anyway, you know youÕre reading a poem by
Jennifer L. Knox when you feel the cold, leather-gloved grip of law enforcement
on the back of your neck and find yourself in a grimy downtown holding tank
full of identity thieves and child molesters. No, wait, thatÕs when youÕve done
something really bad. What happens when youÕre reading a poem by Jennifer L.
Knox is that you get really used to the warm trickle of your own urine down the
leg of your polyester track suit, and start wanting to open a ÒhomeÓ for
oversexed midwestern housewives where they can work on their macrame skills
without worrying about ÒlicensingÓ or Òcapital gains taxesÓ or Ògetting
dressedÓ in the morning. No, wait.
Let me just put it this way. You know
that thing? That
thing thatÕs wrong with most contemporary poetry? That thing that just never
goes away, no matter how much Axe Body Spray you put on it, or how much duende
you have specially imported from Duendia or wherever to stuff in its gills?
Jennifer L. Knox doesnÕt even bother trying to get rid of it. No maÕam, no sir.
She just stands it up on its revolting quasi-biological stump in the middle of
the poem and hangs popcorn decorations from it. ItÕs like sheÕs proud of her
leprosy or something (thereÕs that L-word!). Well, damn it, good for her.
Because this is leprosy like Grandma used to make it, steaming hot and fresh
from the reactor.
If I were a professional literary
critic, I would stab myself in the ear with a flathead screwdriver over and
over. I would also explain why Jennifer L. Knox is the only thing standing
between the average reader of poetry in America today and a full-scale
unraveling of every principle held dear by generations of sorry excuses for
subjects-of-the-enunciation not worth the poorly landscaped space they take up
with their pathetic, fetid meat-selves. And that, depending on which end of the
speculum is violating your mirror phase, is very nearly a good thing.
Now get on your knees and clean up that
mess, bitches.
Dirty HarryÕs Chrysalis
ItÕs cool. His sand-colored hair suffers
the punkÕs gritty spit but just a secÉsimmerÉ
such affronts throb like bamboo jammed under the nails.
The kid and two other toughs unsheath their knives,
bring skinny knees to his sand-colored, corduroyed groinÉ
simmerÉwhat seems eons in the scalding insult soup that sits
like a pig made of pepper on your chest. No greaseball
fucks our man like that and walks away soÉ (in the future
David Lee Roth will become fluent in Portuguese, pass
the NYC EMT exam, chatter for hours on the satellite radio
about how much he loves people, and finally—despite
speculations about his sexual orientation—become
the President of the United States of America).
One ManÕs Trash
Right after Nothing
but Gunpowder died
at the ripe age
of rage, and piece by piece
of him had all
shut down like bagpipes,
his wife, Forget
ItÕs Forgotten, forgot how
heÕd hollered on and on about the
crops—
scrub plants, but their sap contained aspirin—
just pluck one and suck the stuff out.
Forget ItÕs
Forgotten swore chewing on
the leaves put
her to sleep better than beers.
Then the rain stopped. So she forgot the rain.
Lifetimes ago, Nothing had kissed her over
and over in the long
house—she felt love in his lips
and hands and he
kept on. Charcoal in Snow,
a lovely dancer, was watching them from behind
a curtain. She would always remember how seamless
they seemed—one thing wound of two—like rope—
up in each otherÕs pockets. Forget
ItÕs Forgotten
had long forgotten all of this.
Nice ÔNÕ Easy Medium Natural Ash Brunette
On their fifth date, Mike and Lou attended
a Grow Your Own Cocaine class at the Y.
All the young couples wanted to move out
to the country and live in shacks where rain
swept in sideways, knit hybrid arugula and grow
their own cocaine. ÒWe know how to make wine
in the toilet,Ó a scruffy couple in matching t-shirts
that said DIRT said as the four hovered over the mirror.
ÒI read that after the apocalypse, potato chips will be
extinct—theyÕre disappearing now,Ó said Lou.
ÒGood riddance,Ó said Scruffy gruffly which
saddened Lou for some reason. That night,
she asked Mike to strap on a Silver Spud before
they made love like animals, for hours, as some
wildly expensive thing in the oven burned.
The Atomic Weight of Grudges
one time—you remember.
all on me to keep the
rage torch
to roast 'smores on—for us,
darling, which I
deeply resent.
But notice how that
resentment's clog
drains slower than the
3-way JŠgermeister enema—
which was all my
"brilliant"* idear.
*New York
Post, page 69,
Thursday, October 14, 1994.
ÒCoffee ice cream and Fruity Pebbles,Ó
Big Don at the downstairs desk says to me
as I pass with a handful of cookies—a suggestion,
I think—what to eat next if I find myself
hungry for more crap. ÒYouÕre Fruity Pebbles,Ó
I say over my shoulder, and pause, suddenly
unsure how all six feet seven inches of him
will react. ÒI love them things,Ó his bass voice
booms. Big DonÕs always been real nice to me,
but Sam told me one night Don cornered him
and said ÒI love kissinÕ on fat little white boys
just like you.Ó It scared the shit out of Sam.
When I told Cammie about the anger
management class, she was shocked. ÒWhy
did you have to take that?Ó I told her exactly
why, and she said, ÒWhoa! I had no idea!Ó
and I was so proud of myself that IÕd kept
my own secret safe all these years from someone
who didnÕt need to know it—not until all
the damage I needed done was done.
Guacamole Pigs
Hallo. I ham Don Pepe.
Thees is my mustache.
Thees is my restaurant.
And these is my free guacamole.
Thas right. I said free guacamole. The cheeps
however are wan meelyun dollars.
But some people don care—they will eat
the guacamole straight from the bowl
with their feelthy hands. They don care
who sees. The guacamole is beeger
than their family, their pride, their God.
I call these people guacamole peegs.
I study the eyes of people in the street,
waiteen for buses—in the marketplace,
buyeen bananas. I wan to know them
on sight because these peegs know
of no life outside their blind lust
for green goop. There is no end
to how hard they will fack you.