This one is called "Home for my Blankety Blanked Birthday."
"Today, in honor of my blankety blanked birthday,
I put on my new pink, low-rise corduroy flares.
Today, in honor of my blankety blanked birthday,
Augie and Lyana, my widowed minnows,
swam synchronized naps.
Today, in honor of my blankety blanked birthday,
I changed the sheet on my bed from baby blue to red,
to red, to red.
Today, in honor of my blankety blanked birth,
I watched Bob Woodruff, who I slept with once or twice
in 1986, report from Islamabad for ABC.
He still looked good.
I would sleep with him again.
Today in honor of my blankety blanked birthday,
I brewed up, just for me, a whole pot
of Prince Vladimir tea.
I mean, thé.
Today, in honor of my 30 something,
I remembered Berrigan's birthday poem and his birthday pants.
I think he was turning, burning 27, eight, nine, 10,
and the New York sky returned to his sky.
And his heart and Frank's and given many more years
and tries.
But now, that's not how it works, is it?
Maybe mine.
Today, in honor of my birth, my rebirth, I was Frank
and I was Ted.
I was, would have been that good in bed,
but my husband was nowhere to be found.
He was let loose.
He was hunting moose near Magrath
on a raft, a fat new moose of a lover and his bony head.
And remember, there were also those nasty birthday poems
by Sylvia, by Sylvia Plath, Plath, Plath.
And Salamun wrote a wonderful little birthday poem
with that army shit and Tommy in it, and who else?
I don't know.
I'm secretly not that well-read.
Although it's a secret I keep only from me, from me, from me.
Today, in honor to preserve my honor, my poetic code,
I actually went and found that little black book
with the lace applique, the book I stole from the Juneau Public
Library, and it is, was rare, a following in Ted's books--
in Ted's boots, his foots, his falls, his step.
Still to do today, smoke more cigarettes, steal some books.
And my God, look, Berrigan also had a birthday shirt, dear,
old, and he was so young.
Ted was always over, over, over, over the fucking top,
good for fucking him.
Today, in my honor thought, at the top, am I of my game?
Today, today, in honor of my 30 and my eight,
I ate, and ate, and ate.
I decided to stay up late, late, late.
I celebrated.
I berated almost no one.
And it was already afternoon, but I never
should have picked at-- picked up that cake.
I mean, and I am mean.
That Cate or that Spenser, I made short, I mean, too long,
too young, too dean, I mean,
too earnest, too important, too marvelous, too much, and not,
not, not near or far enough is one day
to celebrate my miraculous, my moment ary, my airy, my aerie,
my moment of inertia, of truth, my ous and my tum,
my monument of a birth, my lovely girly girth.
No Maid am I, but still not bad, not bad.
Today in honor of my 38th, I wrote this poem,
and I haven't written a poem in years, in years, in years.
All my friends, to you in tears, I drink a beer.
Your old friend is 30, is 30, is 38.
Right now, today, though some of you forgot, oh, forget it away.
What would my long not heard from friend, Jill,
have to say about all this?
What would my tall short found, long last friend or foe, Matt,
have to say about anything at all?
I must go read his new book and find out.
Still to do in honor of my birth today,
go for a short long walk, buy some milk, both skim and whole.
Hold off on that pregnancy test until next week when I'm not
so depressed, not be so depressed, eat many, many,
many more M&Ms, line them up, pair them up by color,
by design, by birth.
Yay, give kids baths "more bubbles mama and less
troubles please", say they.
Kiss their faces, and their bellies, their fingers,
and their tips, get rid of them, palm them off
to sleep, to sleep, to sleep, and then watch a good movie,
or write Mary.
"Mary, have you seen anything good lately?"
or finished reading the good, well, the alright soldier?
For God's sake, stop and think.
Master, master, masturbate, sleep
my way, my way to not today, to not my birthday,
yet somehow try to always feel this, this commemorative
and this commemorated.
Finally not underrated or sedated, look,
see here my firework, my flat stomach, and the fruit
of my womb, my flares.
Tomorrow, in honor of my birthday,
do not revise this poem.
This life, this everything and anything is something,
ain't it, love?
Love where and when?
Tomorrow, buy birthday shirt.
It will, will it?, be red, or orange,
or pink, not yellow, not blue."