Patricia Lockwood

Patricia Lockwood Poems

Of all living monuments has the fewest
facts attached to it, they slide right off
its surface, no Lincoln lap for them to sit
on and no horse to be astride. Here is what

I said out loud for the first time ever, I want to deface a car. I wanted other things too, as it happened - the things I wanted were so specific.

You see I was looking at the bodies all day. The unrolling skins of the politicians. Due to recent developments I could see every pore, and a moistness at the corner of the eyes.

I thought I would like to make that moistness.

The speaker of the house came on, I thought I want to forcibly remove every piece of beard from your body.

The counselor to the president came on, I thought I am going to unbend you like a Barbie knee, until you make that creak.

These were new thoughts. Before, it had always been myself that I imagined: slashed to ribbons, pressed to the griddle, spinning on the tip of a sword. Peeled like a grape for a haunted house.

But now the feeling had been let out. A pure pinch between two fingers, and shocking how soft it was.

A brazen desire to deflate the turtle, to surprise him to the point of squealing, to pop the lenses out so he couldn't find his way to school.

To rip the suit off stitch by stitch and burn it in one of those cans that homeless people and gang members are always warming their hands over. In the movies.

Where do you buy baseball bats, I asked.

Is there a store that sells only the red spray paint.

The secretary of education came on, I saw her clinging to an oversized novelty pencil as she went over Niagara Falls. I had somehow engineered this, through my cleverness.

The attorney general came on and I thought I will aim the ray and shrink you down and put you in a model train scenario. In a hat with blue stripes, which will be your hell.

The former governor of Arkansas came on, I thought I will sit on you like a fart cushion until you have bllbbted your last bbblpptdt.

The White House chief strategist came on the screen, I said I will feed you pieces of nazi memorabilia one by one until you start to gurgle. I want them to find you wearing Eva Braun's bra.

The second in command appeared, and I thought, what I do to you, they will name it the Indiana.

My hand was shaking, it was a fist, inside it was the shape of a human being I had squeezed into a chess piece until it could not move, it could not move against us.

What us, my parents voted for him.

When I was very young, in the house with the swing set, my mother put me in charge of one of the sweet shampooed Lauras that she babysat, whose ponytail slid like fresh runoff down one shoulder. I thought hazily, she must know that I mean business, then swung a diaper bag square at her trusting rump, whomp, and raised my voice and said you go sit in time out!

Until I say!

This means I have the seed in me, or something.

You need to learn to defend yourself, my mother told me, and so the next time my brother snuck up to torment me I dug my nails into his forearm until I almost broke the skin, and my father said, I always knew you were nasty.

The first lady stood at the podium and I thought, I will plant you very very deep, until your head is a sunflower even Kansas doesn't like.

The wife I didn't picture doing anything to, it had all been done already. Her teeth were broken from eating jewelry.

The son I actually wept to see - the unscripted movements of his hands were so familiar. Due to recent developments, my tears were brighter than usual.

Still the bodies continued. It was no longer enough to think they had once been babies, that seeing them I would have become a thousand tickling fingertips and not this flashing kit of sharp things.

I felt myself a sack of what could happen, while all around me flew soon-to-be-history.

Then the husband himself marched onscreen, and a great sound opened in my mind like a pair of scissors, and I said I am going to do it, I am going to cut your hair. I will lift up the longest strand and snip, will chase you to the roof of your own self and slice like the wind through your last hiding place. In America you can be anything, suddenly I was anything, my nails broke the skin of his arm. He opened his mouth and I said, I'm condemning your building for rats. I'm going to put you in a bed at the border, I am going to brutally cut your lunch, I am going to remove the word big from you, surgically, I am going to tighten your silk, past pink and blue to purple, I am going to make you young again, at the moment when you said she must know I mean business, I am going to take a lighter to the money, I am going to snap the golf club on my knee, I am going to lift the daughters off your lap, every one, I am going to leave a thumbprint in all that gold

Which is so soft, remember

I was born as a woman, I talk you to death,
or else your ear off,
or else you to sleep. What do I have, all the time
in the world, and a voice that swings brass back
and forth, you can hear it, and a focal point where
my face should be. What do I have, I have absolute
power, and what I want is your money, your drool,
and your mind, and the sense of myself as a snake,
and a garter in the grass. Every bone in the snake
is the hipbone, every part of the snake is the hips.
The first sound I make is silence, then sssssshhh,
the first word I say is listen. Sheep shearers
and accountants hypnotize the hardest,
and lookout sailors who watch the sea, and the boys
who cut and cut and cut and cut and cut the grass.
The writers who write page-turners, and the writers
who repeat themselves. The diamond-cutter kneels
down before me and asks me to hypnotize him, and
I glisten at him and glisten hard, and listen to me and
listen, I tell him. Count your age backward, I tell him.
Become aware of your breathing, and aware of mine
which will go on longer. Believe you
are a baby till I tell you otherwise, then believe
you're a man till I tell you you're dirt. When a gunshot
rings out you'll lie down like you're dead. When you
hear, "He is breathing," you'll stand up again.
The best dog of the language is Yes and protects you.
The best black-and-white dog of the language is Yes
and goes wherever you go, and you go where I say,
you go anywhere. Why do I do it is easy, I am working
my way through school. Give me the money
for Modernism, and give me the money
for what comes next. When you wake to the fact that you
have a body, you will wake to the fact that not for long.
When you wake you will come when you read the word
hard, or hard to understand me, or impenetrable poetry.
When you put down the book you will come when you
hear the words put down the book,
you will come when you hear.

Must be entered through the sharpener every Sunday,
else your name will be lovingly written in the Book
of the Down Arrow. The One Steeple to Every Church
rule breaks in half

I was born as a woman, I talk you to death,
or else your ear off,
or else you to sleep. What do I have, all the time
in the world, and a voice that swings brass back

The government spent a Patricia on me,
"a huge waste," it lamented, "when we could
have been spending it on another Nixon,"

Patricia Lockwood Biography

Patricia Lockwood (born April 27, 1982) is an American poet. She has published two poetry collections and is notable for her trans-genre poetics, including her series of Twitter "sexts" and the prose poem "Rape Joke." Lockwood was born in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Her father, a Naval seaman serving on a nuclear submarine in the Cold War, had a conversion experience after watching The Exorcist and became a married Catholic priest. Lockwood grew up in St. Louis, Missouri and Cincinnati, Ohio, attending parochial schools there, but never went to college. "She married at 21, has scarcely ever held a job and, by her telling, seems to have spent her adult life in a Proustian attitude, writing for hours each day from her 'desk-bed,'" according to a profile in The New York Times Magazine. During that period, from 2004 to 2011, Lockwood's poems began to appear widely in magazines including The New Yorker, Poetry, and the London Review of Books. In 2011, Lockwood joined Twitter. In 2012, small press Octopus Books published Lockwood's first poetry collection, Balloon Pop Outlaw Black. The Chicago Tribune praised the work for its "savage intelligence." The collection was included in end-of-year lists by The New Yorker and Pitchfork and became one of the best-selling indie poetry titles of all time. Its iconic cover features original artwork by cartoonist Lisa Hanawalt. In 2014, Penguin Books published Lockwood's second poetry collection, Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexuals. The book's cover features more original artwork by Hanawalt. The New York Times critic Dwight Garner praised the book for its "indelible, dreamlike details." Stephen Burt, writing for The New York Times Book Review, lauded it as "at once angrier, and more fun, more attuned to our time and more bizarre, than most poetry can ever get." The Stranger dubbed Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexuals "the first true book of poetry to be published in the 21st century." Rolling Stone included Lockwood and the book on its 2014 Hot List, and the New York Times named it a Notable Book. Riverhead Books has announced it will publish a memoir by Lockwood in 2016.)

The Best Poem Of Patricia Lockwood

The Arch

Of all living monuments has the fewest
facts attached to it, they slide right off
its surface, no Lincoln lap for them to sit
on and no horse to be astride. Here is what
I know for sure:

Was a gift from one city to another. A city
cannot travel to another city, a city cannot visit
any city but itself, and in its sadness it gives
away a great door in the air. Well
a city cannot except for Paris, who puts
on a hat styled with pigeon wings and walks
through the streets of another city and will not
even see the sights, too full she is of the sights
already. And within her walk her women,
and the women of Paris looking like
they just walked through an Arch...

Or am I mixing it up I think I am
with another famous female statue? Born
in its shadow and shook-foil hot the facts
slid off me also. I and the Arch we burned
to the touch. "Don't touch that Arch a boy
we know got third-degree burns from touch-
ing that Arch," says my mother sitting
for her statue. She is metal on a hilltop and
so sad she isn't a Cross. She was long ago
given to us by Ireland. What an underhand
gift for an elsewhere to give, a door
that reminds you you can leave it. She raises
her arm to brush my hair. Oh no female
armpit lovelier than the armpit of the Arch.

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