Denise Duhamel


Mille et un Sentiments (701-800)

after Herve Le Tellier's Mille pensees

701. I feel amorous around angels.
702. I feel bodacious, baiting these boy scouts.
703. I feel cunnilingus should be part of the curriculum.
704. I feel devastated by my dental dilemma.
705. I feel eager to learn English.
706. I feel fanatical about French.
707. I feel gregarious compared to the Green Beret.
708. I feel helpless in honkytonk bars.
709. I feel justified in my love for julienne vegetables.
710. I feel like the King of Kitsch.
711. I feel a lull during leap year.
712. I feel mean-spirited towards the minority leader.
713. I feel neurotic, noting the nuances of newlyweds.
714. I feel obese around Olive Oyl.
715. I feel perturbed by your postcard.
716. I feel like the Queen of Quirkiness.
717. I feel the Republicans have reduced me to a rodent.
718. I feel stupefied by your story.
719. I feel titillated by too many tomatoes.
720. I feel under appreciated by your underpants.
721. I feel voracious about Verlaine.
722. I feel winsome when it comes to window-shopping.
723. I feel xeroxed when I see my extra-special twin.
724. I feel a yearning for yarns about yearlings.
725. I feel zippy around my zip drive.
726. I feel like a yo-yo going back and forth from Yellowstone to the     Yucatan, year after year.
727. I feel extra-cautious looking at my x-ray.
728. I feel welcome in Walmart.
729. I feel virile around Vincent Van Gogh.
730. I feel upper crust on the Upper West Side.
731. I feel like telephoning Tel Aviv.
732. I feel like a sorority sister in Sicily.
733. I feel rococo in Rhode Island.
734. I feel quaint using this Q-tip.
735. I feel pretty poor eating this instant pudding.
736. I feel like Oprah’s my oracle.
737. I feel negligible in this negligee.
738. I feel like a monster munching on this mattress.
739. I feel luminous driving this Lexus.
740. I feel like karate-chopping a Kennedy.
741. I feel like jiggling my jugs.
742. I feel independent of idiots.
743. I feel horny when I look beyond your horn-rimmed glasses.
744. I feel girly guest-starring in all these girly magazines.
745. I feel like exploring my fetishes in Frederick’s of Hollywood.
746. I feel like eating everything.
747. I feel like divvying up my dumbbells and donating them to the daycare.
748. I feel like a caricature of Captain Kangaroo.
749. I feel bad about the beef business.
750. I feel admirable as an apple.
751. I feel as beautiful as a bowling pin.
752. I feel as cordial as a cordless phone.
753. I feel dangerous, like Detroit.
754. I feel edible, like an egg.
755. I feel foggy about Frost.
756. I feel groggy listening to these Gregorian chants.
757. I feel hexed by my hula hoop.
758. I feel incredibly innocent about the infidelity.
759. I feel like a jerk in these Jordach jeans.
760. I feel like playing the kazoo off-key.
761. I feel loaded drinking all this lemonade.
762. I feel mixed about the military.
763. I feel a nervous wreck watching the nightly news.
764. I feel open to outrage.
765. I feel politely pissed off.
766. I feel like Quasimodo on a quiz show.
767. I feel resistance from ready-to-wear.
768. I feel sultry listening to the Surgeon General.
769. I feel turned on by tornadoes.
770. I feel urgent about utilizing this urn.
771. I feel like a wimp when it comes to wrestling.
772. I feel like a xenophobe from Xanadu.
773. I feel like yawning, listening to her yackety-yak.
774. I feel Zen around zealots.
775. I feel like yanking off my yarmulke.
776. I feel like Xmas should be rated X.
777. I feel wild about word processing.
778. I feel voodoo vibes coming from this video game.
779. I feel ultraconservative in this UFO.
780. I feel trapped by Trotskyism.
781. I feel like going stag, even though I have a spouse.
782. I feel like the ringleader of rubber checks.
783. I feel unlike the quintessential quipster.
784. I feel pompous around Pulitzer Prize poets.
785. I feel like an organ grinder listening to the opaque overture.
786. I feel nippy in Nirvana.
787. I feel menopausal in Maine.
788. I feel like Lucifer in Little Rock.
789. I feel like putting the kibosh on kiddie pools.
790. I feel like a jackass during the jam session.
791. I feel intense about my idol Iggy Pop.
792. I feel humankind has lost its chutzpah.
793. I feel grandiose sitting on the grand jury.
794. I feel like a fuckup in another fistfight.
795. I feel like the only eyewitness to the equinox.
796. I feel it is my divine right to damage this doodad.
797. I feel like the castaway of the century.
798. I feel bored by all the brouhaha.
799. I feel "art, an activity always available, attracts abundant aspirants     among Americans and aliens alike." (Lewis Carroll)
800. I feel able to bowl continuously until dawn. Even as a girl--hey, I'm     just a klutz-- I'm learning more now, ogling pins quite robustly since     timid upstarts vie for my willowy extra-young Zeitgeist.

Denise Duhamel's most recent book of poetry is Queen for a Day: Selected and New Poems. She lives in Hollywood, Florida.