qarrtsiluni

by Julene Tripp Weaver

I still mourn Judy Garland
with the queers at Stonewall—
I was one of the flamboyant ones
who’d had enough. Salt-sweat
mascara running my face
getting on with my grief for
my girl. Cop raid ire-fire
this is my right, my life,
you bet I snapped.
Don’t push us
when we mourn.

Judy Garland (June 10, 1922 – June 22, 1969)

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Julene Tripp Weaver lives in Seattle. Finishing Line Press published her chapbook Case Walking: An AIDS Case Manager Wails her Blues, with poems inspired by her work for 18 years in HIV Services. Her poems are published in many journals and several anthologies, including Hot Metal Press, Gemini Magazine, Chicken Piñata, Outward Link, Blossombones, The Smoking Poet, Drash and Future Earth Magazine, and in the anthology A Dream in the Clouds, featuring art inspired by the 2008 Presidential Election. Her first full size book will be published next year. She does wordplay on Twitter @trippweavepoet.

by Julene Tripp Weaver

Janis Joplin’s gruff voice screaming to the hordes
I wanted to live in her screams
We sat in your day-glow room plastered with posters of Hendrix
Bohemians and Beats barely passé

I wanted to live in full-surround-scream—
Led Zeppelin, The Doors, in mad love with Morrison
We basked in the Bohemian equivalent of our generation
Life magazine photos of Haight-Ashbury

Led Zeppelin, The Doors, how I loved Jim Morrison
Ragged cut jeans, everything bright
Reminiscent of photos in Life magazine
We sat at Café Reggio, watched kids like us on MacDougal

Ragged cut jeans, tie-died bright
World of runaways
We sat in Café Reggio watching the natives
Never wanting to go back to Queens

This world of runaways
Your room plastered with posters of Hendrix
We had to go back to Queens
Like Janis Joplin we screamed, on the subway to the hordes

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Julene Tripp Weaver lives in Seattle. Finishing Line Press published her chapbook Case Walking: An AIDS Case Manager Wails her Blues, with poems inspired by her work for 18 years in HIV Services. Her poems are published in many journals and several anthologies, including Hot Metal Press, Gemini Magazine, Chicken Piñata, Outward Link, Blossombones, The Smoking Poet, Drash and Future Earth Magazine, and in the anthology A Dream in the Clouds, featuring art inspired by the 2008 Presidential Election. Her first full size book will be published next year. She does wordplay on Twitter @trippweavepoet.

by Julene Tripp Weaver

Mom, they want to bomb
holes in my aura,
they fucked our men at war:
your husband, my father,
your brother, my uncle.
They’re bombing Iraqi children with plutonium.

Bumblebees can’t hardly kiss nectar,
the world is awry.

I came a long way
from bearing a child
my two-time denial scream
then the ultimate screech,
No way Jose,

we live in a toxic cylinder
where martyrs have
no good reason to live.

Not complacent, but I sit,
sip tea in my condo in America,
I have a man, a passport, a beater car.
A single white woman hanging onto a job
my nails scrape cement, but I carry on.

It’s enough already, enough
it’s good, good enough
I breathe, pay my bills, stand on my head,
have caller ID.

An all American white girl
not complacent being fucked
so they better leave me the fuck alone.

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Julene Tripp Weaver (website) has a chapbook, Case Walking: An AIDS Case Manager Wails Her Blues, based on her work in HIV Services. A poem from this chapbook was featured on The Writer’s Almanac. Her poetry has been published in many journals and anthologies, including Main Street Rag, The Healing Muse, Knock, Arabesques Review, Nerve Cowboy, Arnazella, Crab Creek Review, Pilgrimage and Letters to the World: Poems from the Wom-Po LISTSERV.

Something blocks my brain: rain
stuck dewdrops: glisten: listen
impossible to hear: time of
inflated deprivation: waves of
credit: soft porn and fetid kisses:
ears clogged: wet floods force family
evictions: no one hears above
the rift: Daily News: ways to save
pennies: homation: linoleum installation:
stayacation: media invention: report:
birds sing on your deck: remodel,
for a home-vacation: television
trepidation

by Julene Tripp Weaver

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