How To Francesca Block (suggested reading .txt) 📖

lair of the toxic blonde

lost in los angeles

running from the green-eyed lady

i got lost on the freeway in l.a.

i saw the mexican markets

i saw the train tracks

i saw the old bridge and the cement river

i saw the vast expanse of grayness

leading nowhere

i saw a dog zigzag thirsty

i thought of the woman with her eyes

like cold green glass

and her smirking smile

how she tried to eat my boyfriend and my mentor

and my house

i thought, what has happened to my city

with its roses and angels?

i thought, what has happened to my boyfriend

who was bowling with miss green eyes

just the day before?

after she ate his heart

he handed mine to her on a china plate

just like the one she used to serve him meat

in my vegetarian kitchen

and then left

so i dug in my purse for my cell phone

and i called my friends

sara and sera and maria

and they looked at maps and told me

which way to turn

and they helped guide me home

it is good to see the sadness of my city

without roses without angels except the ones

disguised as your girlfriends

it is good to get lost in her

it is even good to let envy hold your heart

in her mouth

but if you don’t give in to her my darlings

she will release you

she will spit you out

toxic blonde

you are those little craftsman houses decorated

with strings of lights and candles in paper bags

lining the path to the backyard where beautiful

lesbians live in silver airstream trailers and bonfires

burn and old dogs try to steal the macaroni and

cheese and cookies off the table you are forgotten

kings of the punk rock scene wearing circle jerks

buttons and speaking in scottish tongues and you

are hot loud-mouthed big-breasted blondes in pink

fur coats and fetishistic shoes taking photos of

everyone and making them laugh and you are

guava cream cheese pastry bakeries and movie

theaters with golden egyptian gods and the

hospital where i was born and where my dad was

treated for cancer and you are lights tumbling

down the dark hills like bits of crushed glass and

you are shoe stores called lush selling four-inch

cork-soled metal-studded round-toed suede slip-on

platforms that will certainly this time make me feel

beautiful at least for one day and you have made

me feel like shit all these years when all you loved

were your blondes with small noses and big boobs

and you have made me cry countless times because

you were synonymous with death by car crash or

melanoma and you have made me feel like a freak

writing poetry in a land of actresses though now

i’ve found your poets and they invite me to their

gatherings and ask me to sign old copies of my

books and if i had been in new york i would have

been one of a million neurotic jewish women

writers i would have not learned to forgive myself

in a room full of girls with perfect tans i would

have not learned to walk on such high heels i would

not have found my ex-husband and therefore my

children who can’t be mad at you because they

know nothing else i would not dance outside under

the almost invisible stars i would not be thinking

so much about plastic surgery i would not have

burned my skin to blisters in your sun i would not

have been able to write forty-five poems in as many

days and i would not have been able to say i have

been able to write them because of this fertile

flowery toxic blonde that is how

media queenz

we liked winona because she seemed intelligent

and sensitive

with good taste in men

and a bit of a goth sensibility

julia annoyed us we didn’t trust her voracious smile

natalie too perfect slightly cold

nicole, salma and gwyneth breaking our trust

when they donned fake noses and eyebrows

boned up on their suffering

to play our saints

though we loved angelina

in spite of the fact that of all of them

she had the most potential

to destroy a woman’s life

it was not the careers so much we envied

not the rich and famous men

(except perhaps for johnny

who tattooed her name but left anyway

to marry a french model)

it was not the chance to portray all kinds of women

on a giant screen

it was the doe eyes the big lips the skin

fine grained as porcelain

it was the dresses shoes the grace

the way our men said, “i used to want a movie star”

turned away from us in the drugstore

to stare at magazine covers

even while we were buying condoms

even while we were bleeding

where were our pradas? our pouts?

our captivating glances?

only later we would grow up

and realize that these women were just women

they ran from the altar they stole

someone else’s man

they shoplifted they got loaded they tattooed

the wrong name on their bodies

then we could be grateful

we are pretty enough stylish enough

we are unscrutinized

we are loved

duty: for sofia

she was a princess of the holy wood

her parents brought her to a jungle

when she was little to sit

at the feet of a prophetic madman

when she was older she performed on the stage

the crowd put her in the stocks and threw vegetables

at her da vinci face

her brother the prince drowned in the sea

she married

a man everyone called genius it seemed like paradise

she wept

alone in her villa while he flirted with actresses

she made

art won acclaim and her husband’s jealousy he left

she wore

only short black or white dresses

some full some slim and elegant black flats

was named best dressed on every list smiled quietly

and like a cat

told a story about marie crowned queen at nineteen

dressed in magical shoes

showered with jewels and cake not loved properly lost in a castle

of gilt dreaming

of the natural world making babies finally beheaded

but this princess keeps dreaming her next dream

she has a lot of stories still to tell

she knows that in times of danger it is up to the girls

to overcome humiliation and grief even decapitation

and