Nicolette Daskalakis ~ there is a house on fire (and other poems)

there is a house on fire

there is a house on fire

don’t wor­ry,
it is not your house

it is not
your house

a beau­ti­ful house
a beau­ti­ful fire

a beau­ti­ful house
and a beau­ti­ful fire

a beau­ti­ful house on fire

so beau­ti­ful

look

keep look­ing

it is beau­ti­ful, isn’t it?

so beau­ti­ful

and it is cold,
but we have the fire

thank good­ness for the fire

thank good­ness for the house

thank good­ness
there is a house on fire

~

Don’t worry*

Don’t wor­ry
There will be a sequel
There will be a soundtrack
There will be a six-hour director’s cut
There will be a mon­tage of curat­ed bloopers
There will be a tele­vi­sion spin-off
There will be a sec­ond sea­son of said tele­vi­sion spin-off
There will be col­lec­table, plas­tic drink­ing cups with the lead actor’s face on it
There will be lim­it­ed-edi­tion pil­lows with the lead actor’s face on it
There will be a tell-all mem­oir with the lead actor’s face on it
There will be a theme park
There will be a fire at the theme park
There will be news cov­er­age of the fire at the theme park
There will be break­ing news cov­er­age about the lead actor at the theme park
There will be a fire that kills the lead actor at the theme park
There will be a fire that kills the lead actor
There will be a fire that kills
There will be a fire
be a fire
a fire
fire

Don’t wor­ry
There will be a film about the fire

* poem to be read on an end­less loop

~

Ode to the almost Miss America rose

after John Giorno

you’re cry­ing on the television
and you look so good.

straight white chrysan­the­mum teeth
plastered
plas­tic smile
watch her wave
pink tulip hands
almost Miss America rose.

I smell you with my eyes
and you smell so good
cry­ing on the television
almost Miss America rose,

fill her emp­ty lips
emp­ty her full stomach
fill her emp­ty lips
emp­ty her full stomach
emp­ty lips filled
full stomach
emptied.

I hear you with my tongue
and you sound so good
cry­ing on the television
almost Miss America rose,

arm­fuls of applause
no one remembers
a beau­ty queen’s name
just a beau­ty queen
her body her body her body
her beau­ti­ful face
held in arm­fuls of applause.

I taste you with my nose
and you taste so good
cry­ing on the television
almost Miss America rose,

I want you Miss America
rose
to sit
in my heart and smile.

I feel you with my mouth
Miss America rose
and you feel so good
cry­ing in my mouth
cry­ing on the television
cry­ing in my mouth
cry­ing on the television

you’re cry­ing on the television
and you look so good.

~

untitled b‑movie

Crop out the palm trees
the drug­gie on the corner
any street signs that look post-1983.

Someone googled how much a Hollywood movie should pay
and now they’re ask­ing for everything.

Production, please switch to chan­nel 3 on the walkies
some­one is play­ing opera on chan­nel 2.

Always lis­ten to any­one hold­ing a clipboard.
If you want some­one to lis­ten to you
hold a clipboard.

Bring in the rain guys, the pyro guys, the stunt guys,
all the guys.

We regret to inform you that the cof­fee is now cold
the extras have eat­en all the fruit snacks
the trail­er doesn’t have AC.

Dance faster, please
talk faster, please
the child actor has to leave by 5pm.

We only have one car to set on fire.

~

Nicolette Daskalakis is a writer, film­mak­er, and pho­tog­ra­ph­er. Her work has appeared in Rattle, The New York Times, the HarperCollins anthol­o­gy Notes From the Bathroom Line, Pride.com, and else­where. She is the author of “Portrait of Your Ex Assembling Furniture.” Nicolette holds a BA in Film & TV Production from the USC School of Cinematic Arts, and is cur­rent­ly pur­su­ing a Masters in Fine Arts in the South of France.