Hologram Girl
Eeriana wa born in a bubble, fired by a thousand lights. All the colors of the universe glowed through her translucent skin as her kaleidoscope eyes learned to twirl.
When she was seven years old, she pricked the bubble and flowed out into the blue light of a slithering moon.
skipping work
to read Anne Rice
time travel
daydreams…vampires
of my mind
Tanka prose is a haibun that includes a tanka instead of a haiku.
– for Amos
The sky has a nervous stomach.
This spring of shattered estates
and salad bowls tossed on hillsides
where mercy chefs bring porkish
mac and cheese and new friends
with chainsaws rid the pool
of sweet gum branches. The wreckage
of joists and complaint of wires, poles
all frowsy and dinged. Give me
your hand in these hot smudge days
and let’s whisper the best
available myth of ourselves
to the ringing grind of bulldozers
who herald the coming currents,
the barren calm of our old earth.
sweet, cruel summer leaves
The wristband from my first concert
A faded picture of my grandpa
An old friendship bracelet
And a hotel key
My first cars keychain
And a ticket from the theater
A wrinkled love note
And my mothers old ring
Sometimes we forget they’re there
But we know their tucked away safely,
I drop my remote off my bed
And find myself lost in a world of what used to be
I wonder how I’ll fit all the memories I have of you
Into one of these
Clouds
cotton candy
create childhood memories
sparked by endless dreams
spun with visions
of monumental
Fantasies.
Taste of dirt and the everpressing dark–
Some nights, the worm arises from soil
in a thankful wash of the moon.
Its ringed body makes an arc–
fades again into the stillgrass.
i’m a southern girl i can’t help it.
black too. means my bones
are sad & rotting
in a field full of sunflowers.
born in Virginia
raised in North Carolina,
my body is full of love & racked
with oppression. i can taste
it in my mouth, it rolls between my
teeth, airy a hotbreath i can’t shake or
rinse from me. a history lives in my bones
that proceeds their creation & i don’t know
how to stomach it.
Dolomite dynamited
for the sweeping curve of road
that extends like graceful
swan necks into the Salem
Plateau,
sawmills,
red dirt drives gashed up hills,
over-sized flags
waving next to gun shops,
highway rest stop at Laura Ingals Wilder
RV Park where mythical pioneer wagons
have flush toilets and satellite
Mansfield’s
New Chapter Book Store
houses long shelves of musty tomes
settled there for thirty-five years
and the owner checks her free map
of Missouri for cat shit,
in front of Wingo’s Cafe
a woman campaigns for state rep
on the shaky porch
and asks us all to lift
our hands for the pledge,
I go on in
for the hand-job ice cream
and slip the waitress a sawbuck
because she’s so pretty
in her blue tank top,
her left arm tattooed
with red roses
and her right shoulder
blade with two white
pistols
the women have gone wild
leurs roses de verre envahies par la végétation
& in the brambles bleed his moldy bones
de l’eau pour le sol, Grand Nord
her belladonna of sadness in bloom
nuit d’été collante, détendue d’une vie arrogante
call to death church bells and brimstone
pour la liberté qu’elle appelle, elle aime
like no other man of vermine forestry &
frères timides dans les boiseries
this flag, waving in the wind, burns
Le Théâtre du Siècle
undoing of gold, wedded between hare moons
il y a du bois de chauffage, beaucoup.
the women have gone wild
elles tuent leurs maris
they read
ils veulent
they fall
ils mordent en retour.
