Poems written in 2010, published by Poetry is Dead magazine and Matrix Magazine.
Wringing out the rattle
of words that hook ears
hanging from her head
a misdirected fax, a broken pencil
the bus gritty with
she climbed aboard
in sticky polyester
and a tiny thimble rocked
between her fingers
while she waited for the insides
of the glass to freeze over.
One stop till last she
picked at sugar cubes while
French fries and waiting
Another hour before heading
To the elderly bar where cowboys
Soaked pints and warbled
Cmon nows and where you froms
Rinsing her blouse in the
hotel room sink it hung from
the shower rod like a ghost
upon linoleum that curled softly
like a dog-eared paperback.
She hummed herself to sleepAs flickered thoughts broke
Socket breakers and short circuits
Sudden and siezure
A gasp of a girl
smothered in water.
Ditched the shirt the next morning
Bought discount denim, crayon blue
(that would stain her legs indigo with sweat)
She set off along the shoulder
Near the woods and so she thought to herself:
Maybe I’ll reach the house
where my dad grew up.
Near the powerlines, in the mountains
off the rez, snug by the river
teach myself how to hunt rabbits
someone told me once
you would starve if all you ate
I told them, yeah.
and I can’t even run that fast.
Pedal pressed flat she smokes past horizons
pushing shirt cuffs past elbows and drawing
words to make an argument that
leans over slightly, looking to the left
aviators drop and a car freckled in dirt.
Swerving bits and pieces of
a likely understanding before wrecking
all the tidy promises that she was never
meant to keep but they say
(not unless you expect to live till eighty).
Another cigarette pulled back
a deck of cards sitting smug
gambling a way out of here
elbows empty of aces and a smile
worth convincing. It’s the perfume
that slipcovers a night of 3am
rock and roll stomping, boots
that slack-jaw open and
a shirt worn three days prior.
You wish she pet that pistol
to pieces her knuckles run raw
with a one-touch punch and a
jaw sore from clenching certainty.
Splintered blood and a white flag;
bravery smashed over glass.
This was the buckle ready head toss
of tattered hair and wide shouldered beliefs.
Closest to the forest was a tree shaped
freshener and a dedicated habit to overtake:
Like ivy like moss like pine beetles.
An organized break of order while a new
Understanding employs destruction,
a habitual breakdown of demanded respect.
Roll the window down before
passengers feel as though they might
drown beneath the haze of rat-tat-tat
explanations and well-played arguments
arcing like a halo; Surrounding glimpses
of a softer future. Round houses for families
instead of personal agendas and
a glued together dinner plate
intercepted expectations for every
Brown faced beautiful raw snicker that
you didn’t know.
That your kid-sister spent 10 years
learning what to dream of.