Alex Stolis lives and works in Minneapolis, his second chapbook The Latest News
From Home
was just released by Foothills Publishing. His third Chapbook Drowning
was released this summer by Little Poems Press.

The image of the moon on the retinas of our eyes is the same
(mundane astrology)

She wants to talk about how cold it isn't,
wants to see the horizon and wants to burn
one or two bridges but she doesn't
want to take the blame for ashes in the water.
She lives in the corner of a sigh, the small
curve that turns a shade of pink before it spreads
into a laugh -- tells me about unused stars
that are scattered on a ploughed field.
God's own orphans, she says and I am amazed
how one syllable can turn down the corner of her mouth.

She stops talking and turns her head, the nervous
itch in her cough distracts me from the cold --
her answers pretend to be everywhere
but easy and anything she could possibly say
at this moment would get drowned in the voice
that purrs from the radio. Miss Kitten
tells us Frank Sinatra is dead -- I won't
remind her that music can't stop

the bleeding and won't put an end
to those dreams she thought she was having.
She doesn't even remember the time we fucked,
it was like trying to talk to the Queen of Spades,
my mouth closed and the Jack of Hearts
standing by to clean up the mess. Back then
her name was Sunny but she liked the night,
T's and Blues and men who talked in their sleep.

She insists she doesn't two-time anymore,
tells me making love is just another form of adoption
but the sign on her door says broken bones
and eventually she runs off with the Jack of Hearts
leaving me to shuffle my feet. Miss Kitten
fades into wallpaper that seems to be faded enough
and I swear -- next time I won't be the one
to re-create her misery.

Varga Girl on the 94GK to 2nd Ave S via Marquette

The meter of her voice matches
a wave of sunlight that insinuates
itself into a shadow -- varnished
tan legs end in Manolo Blahnik
black stiletto heels. Her sepia eyes
can scrawl words on a bedroom door --
she'll take your heart, entangle it

in fingers until you're a stranger
confused at the sight of your own
reflection. The silk chiffon scarf
makes her the final reel of a weekend
lost in Alize Red mixed with champagne.
She quotes Rimbaud, likes to sing
album one side one of Exile on Main Street

with a tinge of scorn that bounces
off your lips and falls in the corner
of her mouth causing you to smile
when you least suspect. The rain
falls -- a ghost on your fingertips
and you wipe the mere thought
of flight off the window.

A History of the American West Part I

I walked into a bar in Arroyo Seco, New Mexico
and two chicks dressed as dead Princess Diana
were fighting over a guy who looked like Orry-Kelly.
The last thing I remember is the two of them
calling to the bartender for another round
and a waitress in thin silk pajama-like pants
delivered their frozen strawberry margaritas --
the taller one tried to snort it and the other
excused herself to go to the ladies room.
The bartender bummed a smoke to Orry-Kelly
as the remaining dead Princess Diana dropped
the eight ball in the side pocket after banging
it off the opposite cushion. Orry shot down
his CC water and the second dead Diana returned
pursed her lips and dropped a twenty on the felt.
I decided to leave, nodded to the Dianas and flipped
the bartender a ten. I find a Patti Smith wannbe
with some credit left on her Visa, enough
to cover gas for the Nova and an extra pack
of Camels. She blinks her eyes at every mention
of suicide and her ghosts glance off the rear
view into the scars on her wrist. She swears
the best bet is to take my headache and screech
into next Tuesday because there are no answers
in the sentence fragments that roll on the dash.
She tells me, mind the corners and the paragraph
you are so afraid of will fit nice and snug in the frame
and since this road is too lonely to take shit from strangers
I feel there's no other choice but to listen.

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