Poetry

The Kind of Girl I Want

by Michael Raffaele

I want the kind of girl who will see the seriousness in my humor and sarcasm that is to follow here.

The kind of girl who understands that I just don’t function like everybody else-
And this is what she will love about me-
Who doesn’t say I just can’t deal with your depression, I don’t deserve it-
And I’m forced to come to my own defense and flail my arms into the air of sarcasm’s humidity yelling Excuse me for being a mental defective!-
Tell you what- let me buy you a new purse and we’ll fill it to the snap with Zoloft-
And then every time I get lowly and abusive you can drug me up and drag me on and out-
And then on I’ll be happy and high and in total patriotic complacency
on your boss’s yacht- serving cracker hors d'oeuvres and half ass friendships
six months before you get laid off riding through the sweaty American oceanic dream
that is always nothing but a summer vacation from what you really want to do.

I want the kind of girl who understands that I’m a fucked up poet
Who sometimes wants to be just left alone to his always lonely affair with writing-
Without her going you don’t want to spend time with me anymore- things have changed-  it was blissful three months ago-
And then before I even realize it I haven’t written anything in weeks
Because I have to make milkshakes every night and watch reality television dating games-
And then all of the sudden she’s mocking me for buying “the cheap kind” of toilet paper-
As she runs her mouth with the faucet from behind the candle lit bathroom door
And I’m out in the hallway with hands in the shouldered air mouthing silently
It’s just toilet paper you label-obsessed phony bitch!

I want the kind of girl who never talks about a tit job- whether she had one or wants one-
So I don’t have to constantly remind her that some guys were over the whole
Tit Phenomenon long before it ever began-
So I don’t have to lay there afterwards and reassure her tits
When I all really want to do is smoke my cliché post sex cigarette-
But instead I have to watch it burn to waste- as I’m too busy saying
No sweetheart your tits are great- no I don’t grab them all the time just because-
Yeah I love the feeling of disappointment between my digits- it’s intoxicating!-
And then she continues to talk and talk some more about her tits-
As I continue to stare at my cigarette and scream inside Bring me cancer already!-

I want the kind of girl who carries around the movie Dirty Dancing in her mind- and at every wedding or bar mitzvah or whatever we go to- she comes up to me at the table right after the main course and says Nobody puts Michael in the corner! -even if I’m sitting nowhere near the corner- because we’ll both know we’re constantly being thrown into corners- and we’ll always be looking to carry each other out of the corner and onto the dance floor and be in the center where we belong.

I want the kind of girl who loves to grab my long hair and say
It’s like making out with a girl at the same time! because she digs androgyny.

I want the kind of girl who doesn’t think accents make you alluring and mysterious-
And then gets drunk and puts on a Boston accent- even though she didn’t have much of one when she actually lived in Boston-  But now it’s four years later and we’re living in Dallas- and she wants everybody to pick up on the fact that she once lived in Boston- and simply stating it wouldn’t be enough- So she plays it up by extending her A’s and R’s and her own doubt that I don’t even notice the change in her voice- And I sit there in embarrassment and silence in front of all our friends because I have to be supportive of my Boston girl at all times- And our friends see the fakeness as well but they too have to be supportive of the blonde from Boston- but inside we all want to shout across the beers on the table Being from Boston doesn’t make you badass- shut your damn mouth already!

I want the kind of girl who wouldn’t be sitting with me on the couch
watching a humanitarian commercial about starving AIDS-infected children in Africa-
And she shouts out With all our money can’t America help these poor little things!
And then breath polishes the five thousand dollar engagement ring that
she just had to have- even though she said that material things don’t matter
when the dating began-
But then gave into what her mother and grandmothers and sorority sisters all have-
And said Yeah, but when it comes to the ring all girls want one- we can’t help it-
And then she doesn’t comprehend my mockery when I say
Ok baby, well in order to get married I’m going to ask that you buy me a
Porsche and a penis pump- you understand, right?- after all- all guys want it bigger and better and with just a little bit more power- we can’t help it!

I want a girl who understands that Irony is just a glossy term for something being wrong-
Who knows that running in circles is a metaphor for the earth- so she does not obsess over working out-
Who sees long waiting lines and smells the conspiracy of lunch time capitalism-
Who listens to Broadway music and doesn’t wear those furry boots-
Who doesn’t say smoking makes your breath smell gross and then proceeds to eat pickles all the time-
The kind of girl who stares into pavement shadows of naked tree limbs over sunned into overexposure- standing unnaturally planted in loneliness- and she thinks of my veins.

I want the kind of girl who’ll storm with me around early morning’s downtown staleness-
Searching through a snowfall’s dusty affect
for cranberry juice change in our dark blue velvet blazers
And for direction in our dark blue minds seeking to blaze marijuana that feels like velvet across our brains-
Thirsty and surrounded by falling white angels and our pale white hangovers-
Underneath black wool hats covering our hungover angel hair flaking it through
the juiceless morning- with dry mouths and nickel-less eyes and unspoken knowledge that everything will be ok when angels stop falling down and melting away in front of us-
Knowing snowflakes are not angels and sometimes poetry is just an excuse to daydream.

I want the kind of girl who loves rainy days more than sunny days-
So we can lay in bed all day long and invisibly melt the rain with our own sunshine
Rubbing our skin into rays while our phones ring as we ignore technology’s temptation.

I want the kind of girl who thinks stars are too far away to really mean anything-
Who stares into mirrors and see windows-
The kind of girl who isn’t kind but mad to be kind-
Because the world distracts her from being kind and this is what drives her mad-
Who knows that clouds are clumps of gray hair leftover from the scalped native sky-
And that this is why storms appear to be so angry- because sometimes there is nothing but gray haired anger filling the aging sky.

I want the kind of girl I want to exist-
The kind that comes up to me after a poetry reading- or after somehow finding this piece-
and blushes and squints her eyes and says I loved your poem; I can still see it in your eyes and I think I may want to read it forever-
I want the kind of girl who knows she’s the kind of girl I need-
And she finds me and tells me so- as she sees how manic and lunar I’ve become
with all this humorous romantic mess that is earning the title of Love.


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