Last Night One day I’ll get a forty-five
and blow my brains out.
But not today.
I really want to blow out yours though.
And when I roll over in sweat
soaked cotton and sit holding layers of white,
I can look out the window.
The mountains are too pretty—
strange oils in smoky shades of spruce, pine, and granite.
I want to touch.
I stand and grab my bra off the floor
My hands shake. They always shake now.
I want to reach into breathing creeks carrying black pink
dreams you lay in black cotton sheets, where your white shirt with neon green eyes follows you into dreams, and you kiss that hot blonde from dawson’s creek, james what’s-his-name. only now he’s someone else. that blonde chick with the neon green eyes you saw walking down the street wearing your white shirt, and you wonder how she wears it so well and you can’t. though you know it’s not really yours because you haven’t met and you aren’t lovers yet, kissing silently in the sh
Religious Wash or Late Night Laundry “cleanliness is next to godliness” whispers this bleach bobbed chick to white rib-tank man shoulder crossed india ink black In God We Trust
wash tan blocked feather filled quilt clean of Flame point siamese in blue light 24 hour launder-o-mat clutch black canvas book bag in red silk nightie lap and purple fingers on black pepper spray’s red switchy button Jesus I hope it’s safe here
he doubles cadet-blue bra crucifix glittering “is th
Dancing Whirl ginger hair,
and start slowly—tapping
to three, driving hands
with spread fingers up
through sun fired mud,
cracked and fluid.
Sparkle and smile.
Wink blue eyes.
Make it look like Swan Lake
to Thriller beats in red
metal mush gliding
into still brown clay.
Torqued and twirled,
ooze panic, fire over
an arched back with cream
skin, grace en pointe.
Make the dance
a prayer, screams gyrated
with broken green glass.
And remember to end it
rules i love walking alone at night when the streets are cleaned everything orange and big and thunder my silence a heavy bass line following footsteps with slaps and thumps and whiskering wet leaves old snickers wrappers and little grey rocks moving frat party st. pauly girls and pabst from corners mouths open to whisper sex but there are rules to walk alone at night so it’s better for me to walk quickly away from open black windows and you stopping yellow zambonis and spinn
High School She wore blue, velvet hair spiraled and tied,
mama’s pearls taken from the cedar chest,
and glassy studs pocketed from Christopher’s
jewelry on the corner of Main and Bullion
by the red door of Sandy’s greasy fried.
Out the truck’s glass, in sulfur baby’s breath
and asphodel, two red deer rested,
doe and fawn. Her cowboy smirked and spied
a tawny hide.
She cried when the buck-skin boy
ruined the black-eyed doe, gashing green steel
red, and she cried
Snow White's Senior Prom I saw when Sarah’s stuffed and whale boned
dress by Demitrios burst. Her breasts called mosquito bites popped,
“Do you believe in destiny?”
caressing roses on wrists ebony and blood on snow.
The kiss is so important,
curved smoke drowsing over vampire lips
excusing sleepy seduction.
I pinched my toes and buttoned down my flesh
for Nick’s sexy basket ball legs in blue slacks,
clammy hands, a tailcoat, top hat, and Mustang. He called
Painting Mother rendered fantastic canvases,
petite glass slippers and Prince Charming,
strawberry sky-lightning strokes
coloring fairy mushroom forests diamonds and gold.
She sketched comfort: a chenille blanket,
Earl Grey, chicken noodle soup,
hot drawn bubble baths
by warm willow-wood fires
where China and Christmas parties
brushed elbows with painted Pegasus.
Mother rendered fantastic canvases,
oils on male sketched easels
to plaster jaded dragons
The Death of Virginia Clemm Purple curtains silken
slide with ocean breezes,
stirring heavy sleep
in shrouds of salt bathed bedclothes.
My Christ name blazes virgin,
gravel breath spattering
on white wool shift.
Mother brought me chicken broth
living in shiny white shoes,
and lace trimmed taffeta.
Blue gingham nurse dabs
as if it will wash blood-spit
from cherry post bed,
preparing to penny-wipe pale eyes
into Baltimore marble
an old black man in big 5 who wants shoes i don't have machine guns drum,
the thump of throbbing mobs
i don’t need your help
i’m going to be around
paper numbered thunder
stop panting blood
i don’t like to be a bother
you don’t go on an ego trip
hot shot lungs
red rung lungs by beretta
for gold timed finish
can’t demand this and that
by dixies water
i’m going to mesquelle
get me nice tire
Thief Mommy stashed
a small canvas cross
stitch in her
purse, because I coveted
Rock ’n’ Roll Barbie
on the toy aisle
and on another, her hands
with a calico of strings.
So the two laser
altar boys burst
as we departed
the dingy white store,
and the three black
polyester pressed policemen,
came to cuff
her, and my eight year old scream shot
through the cracked
confessional window as they ushered
her to their white
striped Crown Royal, lights
Ashes I wish you could stay
until our meteors cease sailing
across the sky and until full moons
silver-shadow the sun.
I don’t want to forget
your wink and smile, penumbra of strong brown arms
circling, chamomile comfort after basilisks
and werewolves, bucking white appaloosas
named Man Handler, and breaking a tooth in junior high gym.
I watched them spread you around the lonely white pine
high in granite mountains nudging the sun
blue and silver. You will rain d
applebee's parking-lot love i want to wrap
you in strips
the cream back
of my sundance seat
where i will jack
your sundae legs
until you beg
can drop my
and leave you
at your parents’
so I don’t wrap
myself with your strips
in an A sized bra
and now used
The Cellist The camperdownii elm’s yellow eclipse,
grafted arms twining, spilling
umbrella-ed the red leather jacket girl
(black messenger bag filled with Emerson and Thoreau)
as she breathed pianissimo to forte,
imagining soft red hair slide
down his maple neck,
soft fingerings against her white shoulders,
quiet breaths of two beats
and long bowing arms drawing across her small breasts,
until the resolving chord,
and the sound breaks to business suited cigar smoke
Canon Coitus a blonde girl in red heels
slides into black vinyl
bar seat with mahogony man,
tip fingers stroking rose neck.
butterfly pressure of eight pianissimo notes
bowed across her shoulders,
like fine gold chain and cross draped
down soft collarbones. he likes
her red lipstick on the crystal tumbler,
glittering brandy in sixteen tones
and one small string of fire singing F-sharp.
Pachabel was right to pattern his melody
every four measures, a breath
The Corner Diner Between 3:09 and 3:24 a.m. We’re waitresses with hands glued to rags on counters I say as I watch this Lady make-up dripping from blood injected whites in the red vinyl booth across ashen diner wipe one splash of yellow yolk from sink-eyed mate’s stubble face
My name is ________ and I’ll be your server tonight her rag limp at her side bound by tight little white strings around 28 inch waist bust overflowing insignificant white uniform grazing her ass as she
Saturday Afternoon at the Mark IV Swimming Pool Rule 1 — [printed mechanical red] No Diving in Pool.
10:58. Ammonia bleached white rubber glove, calf graze white collar and cuff grey skirted uniform, fire hair female drove pizza box, Kleenex, aluminum can stacked trash pushcart signed, Guaranteed Clean By 11:00. 409 down sprayed, pink squish sponge up wiped. She flipped second-hand yellow latex pulled from bottom black waste-can. Hope to clock off after pool toilets scrubbed
So, I'm going to do something a little off my beaten path and share some old poetry over the next few weeks. It's a collection that I put together when I was in my twenties and going through a lot of stuff. These were all very personal in some way, very hard for me to write and not easy for me to share... Though I have shared publicly on Goodreads, where I put them up and forgot they existed, and in workshops, where clinical, editorial eyes were all that saw them. Putting the
This week we welcome author Tia-Louise Way's Ali Brehan to the interview table! Brehan can be found in the manuscript Out from the Deep, a serious passion project just in its first draft stage that Way has "hit my stride" on. You can follow Tia-Louise Way on Twitter, @theoryofrome to keep up with her progress! Who are you? What do you do? I'm Ali Brehan, I'm an engineer for the Hauean fleet. Or I'm trying to be. I don't want to be part of the war my friends are trying to dr