You had never tasted the ocean,
letting the waves flay open your youth
and settle their scales inside taste buds
like little eggs – weaving saline discovery
into a granular pelt. I used this moment
to explain the writing process as volcanic
islands – breaching humpbacks –
an archipelago of keys and letters.
I meant to imply it was deliberate and, eventually, cold.
Calculated. Gelatinous. To you, however,
I’m just slow and warm,
a pulsating earth passing the time on lukewarm sludge
until I’m molded into something a bit more divine
and the universe, frozen and misshapen, lets me hibernate
once more beneath the mantle.
As I attempt to rekindle my literary side after my first graduate semester, Porkbelly Press launched an amazing deal: a bundle of three books – any of them! – for $20.00. Considering the time and dedication put into these beautiful pieces, I would happily pay full price for these. Their Etsy page is an endless stream of five-star glowing reviews. Each book was magical in its own sense, yet so different in their themes and formatting. My selections were as follows:
- Feeding the Dead, M. Brett Gaffney
- What’s pink and shiny/what’s dark and hard, Sarah B. Boyle
- Daughter Shaman Sings Blood Anthem, Kristi Carter
The latter two are written by women with a background in gender studies, while Feeding the Dead brings forth a very macabre tone. I’d highly recommend all of these, and Porkbelly Press in general. You can follow them right here on WordPress, as well as their Etsy Shop, WickedLittleHeart.
Thank you for your time! Go out and support these fabulous independent presses. 😀
when our aortic spiders incubated
their reservoirs of pressure and spindles
her shimmering body crawled out like
glitchy escalators from a haunted parlor
blushed with rubber and oxytocin
wearing fragile circlets of contraction
divine its chromosomes in cobwebs such
gasping chambers for little phalanges such
pastures of copper all the mating
cells in those fire whirl fingerprints
the fetus is squeezed out in fat
globules like princess sequins
listen: branded with stellar iron
it was named like a constellation
(and they called it hot hemoglobin
and they called it a kaleidoscope)
we herded its horned astrocytes
like a bull and hogtied it a heart
so I ushered him
tarp my body towards the sun
like a slanted copper arch
nail it down by
to soften, to slouch
to expand a golden staircase
steal this spine
sticky with dried impulse
as your ticket
to board the universe
you’ll crown my skull
preferably a soldier
slumped on an amphora
and inconvenient to paint
Once in a blue moon, I’d like to call attention to works that have appeared elsewhere and the generous journals hosting them. In December, I’ve had three works appear through multiple outlets. Two of them are quite nascent. One of them has reincarnated into a new form. Glass is an especially intriguing outlet, since they would originally publish one poem a week every Wednesday. Please feel no pressure to look into these, as I aim to not only support my own name but promote just a handful of the dozens of journals I frequent.
Thank you sincerely for your time and the support. If you take away anything from this post, remember the small and large publishers alike, the pockets they empty, or the lives they dominate for the selfless proliferation of literature.
What are the symptoms of wanting
outlets to melt in your hand, stick
to your cheeks with cheap licorice?
I console my batteries like dying
crickets. Wait for that leg to sputter,
the mic in its thighs to gain power.
Pure water isn’t very conductive.
I dare you to drink from wetlands
that don’t transform your feet to rubber.
The electric tongue, stilled in new tar.
Lily pink lingers on your fingers, misty
on the matter if it was Advil or candy.
It’s not about healing anymore
but liquefying your spine into
rivers brimmed with biomass.
I toss my tantrums to the apricot walls with last year’s toys, their nicked batteries splaying in transient stains across the whisky tiling. Leak in Christmas ribbon crimsons, desperate innards shimmering in gaudy tissue. Of course, I call this crying. I tear at my own gears like gutting pumpkins; I squelch like a rotten gourd. Of course, I can’t call this crying. The frontal lobe sneaks out in the guise of melting crayons, skinned like the shadows of runaways and their coughing grey trains. I am a child. Thank you for the womb. I wasn’t good today. Thank you for the goo.