Janet Kuypers reads original writing during her live feature Mercury Cafe in Chicago 02/16/08 called Mega Poetry, because the poetry read covered material from the 90s, the 90s, and in the 2000s.

For more information on the writing of Janet Kuypers, go to http://www.janetkuypers.com to read more of her work.

Here are all of the poems thatwere read on the radio (plus 3 potential poems for reading on the radio):

"addict."


i was sitting in the front seat of lisa's car, i can't remember if
it was a rental or her dad's car. my face and chest were
sunburnt, i could feel the top layer of my skin burning. i was
wearing a peach shirt with a mini-skirt; i remember that i
always had to dress up when i was with her, men always
thought she was prettier. i was sitting in the front seat, it was
night, lisa was driving, she just finished putting on her burgundy
lipstick with her rear-view mirror and she lit a virginia slims
menthol with the car lighter. my father always hated her. we
parked in front of some strip store, probably off davis boulevard,
and david was getting out the back so he could buy a pack of
cigarettes, too. marlboro lights. they were the closest thing to those
french canadian things he smoked. the ones where the box
held two rows of ten instead of two of seven and one of
six. the ones that were shorter than marlboros. when he
got out of the car, i asked lisa what was wrong with david.
he usually loved any opportunity to get out of the mobile home
park. but the whole car ride he barely spoke. so lisa said
that david was going through withdrawal, that he had no cocaine
this vacation and he's got the shakes or something. i don't
know if it was the shakes; whatever you get when you
stop taking coke, that was happening to him. and i was
mad because he never told me, and i was mad because he
was fucked up from the stuff in the first place. and i had to
act like i knew nothing when he got back in the car.

--

The Cycle


It all came to her like this:
she remembered when she was a child
coloring eggs for Easter,
wire spoons dipping into the cup;
colors of spring and happiness
left to dry on a newspaper.
And she would always steal some away
to eat before Sunday. And she
would hide the pastel shell in the trash,
the evidence.

And then she remembers the onion skins,
boiling eggs wrapped in layers of skin
dyed them beautiful shades of brown,
like the amber beads in mother's
jewelry chest, the variations of color,
trapped by nature,
captured by ourselves.

And she remembers
as a child listening to the McKinleys,
an older pair with stories of
Panama, Mexico.
They had so many foreign
stories to tell:

once they gave her an
egg for Christmas, a carnival egg,
with the inside blown out,
filled with confetti,
covered in colorful crepe paper.
She made her own,
relished in cracking
them over people's heads.
But she saved theirs.

And now she stands
in the kitchen,
scrambling them for morning meal,
yellow and white,

the colors in the nursery for the child
still inside of her. She can feel
the kicking now.

And she wants to know
if she can give
the color, the stories,
bring the cycle of life around
for her little one

as she puts breakfast once again
on the plate.

--

Brewing the Coffeeand Remembering Summer


I pulled the bag of coffee beans
from the refrigerator door.
I could already smell the aroma of the flavored coffee:
this time I picked Bewitching Brandy.
I loved the smell.
I treated myself to these flavored coffees
at only special occasions.
I closed my eyes and inhaled,
filling my lungs,
intoxicating myself with the bouquet.
and I hadn't even opened the bag.

I walked over to my coffee pot,
dropped in a spoonful,
then took the boiling water
and poured it into the pot,
put the lid on it,
and set it down to let it brew.
I sat down at the table
and watched the steam rise
from out of the spout.
The steam poured out,
like it was trying desperately to get away,
as fast as it could.
It looked so violently hot.

I then remembered summer.
I would have flavored coffee at work
over the summer.
Work was my haven,
my home away from home.
My home away from him.

I brought some coffee beans home
for my mother once.
A week later,
while eating dinner with my parents,
mother thanked me for the beans.
Father, after eating in silence,
finally said he didn't like them.
"I don't know why you had to change.
I liked it the way it was."

& then they actually started to argue
over coffee beans.
Mother vowed to it like a religion;
father discounted it like one.
It all seemed so silly
and senseless.
I finally spoke up.
"I was only trying to be nice"
and I thought,
I got these beans from work...
& work was my home away from him.

--

Robert


I stand in a room full of strangers
leaning against a wall
a wallflower
but I was content with knowing no one
with knowing you

beer glass in hand
you introduce me to
the vast assortment of drunken fools
you call your friends
and I stand there
merely happy to be by your side

a stranger
intoxicated to the point of being comatose
tells me I'm pretty
but I really don't care
because I have you
you are all I need

as the rest of the party imbibes to no end
and you take yourself
down the road to oblivion
I stay leaning
leaning against the wall
and I watch
you sing a song with your buddies
laugh at the stupidest jokes
eat dog food
and I keep thinking
that this was all I needed to be happy

you seemed to be
all that mattered in the world to me
how was I to know
that I was leaning against the wall
because you gave me no support
--

Falling From the Sky


I'm taking a one-way flight today

And you know, when people say they have a one-way ticket
You assume the plane
is landing them somewhere
And not flying them back

But lucky me, my only way back
Is to jump out of the sky

And hope I land on my own two feet

And my flight takes off
In just a little while
And I can feel that tension knot
That knot's rope, being pulled
By all my nerves

And like it was heartburn
I want to slam my fist into my chest
To try to make the pain go away

So I've spent all my life
Trying to soar so high

But I guess I have to be prepared
For coming back to earth

--

Terrorism Intelligence


terrorism has been growing for years
one year before nine eleven
Iraqi terrorist Khay Rahnajet
mailed a letter bomb
but didn't use enough postage

his letter bomb came back to him
marked "return to sender"

Khay Rahnajet opened the letter bomb,
blowing himself up in the process

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