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Submissions From Aerie 2008
Intercontinental, an excerpt
I drew from your earlobe your breath,
with the syringe of my tongue,
drew from your neck silence.
Put your skin on ice,
body speaking in morse code.
Climbing hands on the hills of my back,
an electric stance–
no thought of the morning,
not thinking forever.
We bask in the disappointment–
I drown in the trampoline stretch
of your black chest.
I hug your young-tree chest,
feel the press of your breath
across my shoulders' stretch,
Take your tongue's
kiss and find no disappointment
in its silence.
It won't last forever.
I can cast it in ice,
breaks sleep's code,
you melt from our stance;
I wait to have you back.
[. . .]
I think I'll always remember your hands
the lines inside your palms.
What fortune you could have had.
I'll remember the time you took me to the store
and let me hold the deli ticket–
"There's a prize at the end."
I'll always remember that there was no prize,
the pink ticket used to buy shaved animal corpse at a dollar-ninety-nine a pound.
I'll remember your promises,
your empty "I do's."
The very same that brought us here.
This isn't your everyday anger.
It won't be on TV
for all the unemployed stay-at-home mothers to see
But you'll know.
This won't be published for literary fame
because nothing's new, the stories are all the same
But you'll know,
"Some drugged up mother
screws up child: neighborhood confused."
I'm better off without you.
Note to a Professor Upon an Exceptional Unexcused Absence, an excerpt
To Professor Gibson, the drowsy instructor of English 101:
Upon the date of one Monday, October 1st, I was absent from your class (as well you know, I am only seeking to establish of base of facts before my most excellent defense can progress, not call into question your keen powers of observation, goodsir) due to an increasingly absurd and convoluted series of events that conspired to keep me wanting of your most excellent instruction upon matters that, as your excellent powers of excellent obsercation, have excellently informed that I already have an excellent grasp therof.
I sense that further buttering is superflurous, forgive me should I wax verbose upon the events that conspired that lovely October day:
I was returning home from the theater, after enjoying a one-woman show focusing on sex roles in traditional relationships (I wholeheartedly recommend you go and see it, her name is Candy and she starts at 11:30PM) when I was accosted by none ofther than Hitler himself, freshly risen from his grave, inexplicably, here in Hartford. I had no sooner dispached him with my kung-fu (learned during that two-week period last semester when I forgot to do the homework for that other class I had with you, honest) then a number of vampire ninjas set upon a nearby orphanage.
[ . . .]
Open-Mic & Pizza in the Shaw Center!
October 9th, 2017
Bring a poem or two to read.
Bring your six string to play.
Bring your voice to sing or slam.