Archive for the Cassandra Dallett Category

Two Poems by Cassandra Dallett

Posted in Cassandra Dallett with tags on April 29, 2012 by Scot

I was the girl they whispered about

big as I was
I still felt the brush of crumpled paper and orange peels
bounce off my  shoulders on the school bus.
Me stubbornly staring Dad’s Chevy skully
out the window
When I got up the nerve
to look back everything went blurry a swirl of pale faces
like the girls in the Carrie locker room
I’d wonder if I was just paranoid.

By High school being whispered about was a challenge
each day  I’d confront them
more outrageous
Hair chopped ragged with sewing scissors
dresses made from pillowcases armholes cut
near the top by my Sponge Bob shoulders
the bottom grazing my crotch
thick thighs pushing it up
unsure how much I was actually showing
daring them
in their Izods, Levis, and shit kickers
to look
to say anything
so they whispered, snickered always seemed to already know
who I’d gotten drunk and fucked at the party.
Art teachers loved me I made earrings from Barbie accessories
collaged crazy things and liked spray paint.
Other teachers grew nervous
I was too serious too fidgety
A scribble of writing on a wrinkled paper
C- at best.

On Haight Street they still whispered
the girlfriends,
hated me
I only hung around dudes
to be around testosterone drinking and fighting
got my combat boots twisted behind my ears
by young punks in alleys
they laughed and whispered
but none of them
wanted to fight me.


Barn Razing

My first kiss
Tommy Toflin
in the hay loft
till dawns light striped
through cracks
and knot holes
in wide boards.
Hay is not fun to roll in
it scratches flesh red-raw
leaves your skin burning long after.
Tommy was a terrible kisser
drooled down my chin
his fingers gynecological
in their probing.

The barn made me nervous
with my fear of spiders speckled grey sacks
and the ladder to get up there
three stories straight up
gave me vertigo.
Swinging  my leg over the edge
to step on to the loft
caused hours of anxiety.

Within its  tall, tall sliding doors
a rusty tractor and combine
sheep coming in and out chewing stupidly
I learned to milk goats here
to get grain from a  silo
cut open fresh bales.

Stored my furniture
between coastal moves
Till it burned to the ground
the volunteer fire department hose
too late and too small for the blaze.

After it was gone
leaving only a smoldered black square
Mom found pictures of the barn raising
looking a hundred years old
I was too young to remember.
In black and white,  long haired
t shirted hippies
holding beer bottles and hammers
in happy, industrious chaos.

Revolutions by Cassandra Dallett

Posted in Cassandra Dallett with tags , , , on November 30, 2011 by Scot

They just completed the French
then Haitian, moving on to the Industrial.
But isn’t that a different kind of revolution?
I think as I drive the plastic rental car.
And didn’t they finish with Haiti kinda fast?
I wonder if that Craigslist boy
was named after Toussaint L’Overture.
I’d wanted to ask him if his parents were revolutionaries,
if he was white and black or Latino,
But I knew he didn’t want to talk about
a single thing from our real lives
only the fucking we did hurriedly
in his girlfriend’s bed
the fantasy that I would come to his job at the Hot Tub Shop
fuck him on his desk.
I liked the idea
but would never make it.
In fact I thought,
wouldn’t be back to his twenty something
messy  new appliance filled apartment.
They were young enough to always be out of toilet paper
but have piles of  flat irons makeup and high heels.
He wore his weed like cologne.
I was afraid if I went back I would fall
for their dogs Cali and d Boo
Cali was an older version of my beloved mini pit
she whined at the door when we fucked
Boo was a retarded looking white haired chihuahua
I also had a little soft spot for
I smiled over at my son.
Wished I had studied anybody’s revolution
in school other than the Boston Tea party shit
A revolution I could relate to
wished us fat Americans had the hungry guts
of the Indians the farmers
the people
of Ecuador
who chased  the notion of privatized Bechtel water
right out their door
blockaded every street
with wood and couches burning tires anything
shut the whole shit down
not this- maybe I’ll stop by occupy after work
after I go to the dentist, after I get my rocks off

kind of shit I do
not this  sign the petition on Facebook revolution.
I hold all this in
smile at my son.
Glad someone is teaching him
as magnificent as the Haitian revolution
and that what he had taken away from it
was not to burn your sugar and pineapple fields
you might need them some day.
Nobody in my white high school ever mentioned Haiti.
Not in my black high school

I’m That House by Cassandra Dallett

Posted in Cassandra Dallett with tags on August 3, 2011 by Scot

I’m That House

we bought
when I was ten
the rotten one
no floors to speak of
snakes in the clapboard
raccoon skat and remnants
of squatting Hari Krishnas
deciples of the blue bodied boy
in an abandoned farmhouse
we were not the first hippies
to touch down
on that moon soil
we changed everything
the overall
Dad felt comfortable in funkiness
left me always trying to put things in their places
these days I don’t trust my own decisions
I’m running out of stories
ready to fall back in love
he pulls away
I’m confused
enough to follow
these woods are dark
with I told you so.

Cassandra Dallett/Rusty Truck Celebration @ Bitchez Brew

Posted in Cassandra Dallett, VIDEOS with tags on March 22, 2011 by Scot

Zippo Lighter Fluid Is My Favorite Smell by Cassandra Dallett

Posted in Cassandra Dallett with tags on June 11, 2010 by Scot

I remember or dream I do
Mom painting
a fuchsia colored flower
on the ceiling above my crib also
unwashed bodies in unwashed Levis
belt buckles and soft leather worn blue t-shirts
with a front pocket for Camel cigarettes
the Zippos comforting clack and close
our refrigerator black
a red and white STP sticker stuck on it
Dad’s chair sit in it if you dare
a good solid wood table
legs speckled like ostrich eggs
spilt coffee and beer glaze
illuminated by a coffee can light shade
over a single bulb
the pile of junk on the kitchen table
threatened avalanche
homegrown kept in a Buglar can
sat high on a shelf
wood smoke and creosote fires
driving us from the house on frigid nights
wrapped in blankets mom would hold me
while Dad got the fire out of the chimney
some nights on the way home from a party
barns burning
not immune to the starry spark
flying embers we’d slow
mesmerized by molten beams
insatiable flames eating up black sky.