Rachel Mindell is an MFA candidate in poetry and MA candidate in English Literature at
the University of Montana. Her chapbook, A Teardrop and a Bullet, will be released in
2015 by Dancing Girl Press. Individual poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Horse
Less Review, DESTROYER, Anti-, Pacifica, Cream City Review, inter|rupture, and elsewhere.
With hips forward in another set of violet panties, girlfriend takes full advantage of
stormy veins well stoned. The chorus well don't I know it. How this one must
have barely handle her bruised and miniature heart like
I never. Girlfriend starts the show now head down with lipstick. A cloud indicates
rounds of hovering, smokers with domes capped by beanies. A three four rhythm
of shade seems to rub everybody up their pocket holes. She
grips the bass talisman, and this is where people hurrah. How the girls
drip like pints in condensation, how she wasn’t water every time how her lyric
reaffirmed what I know forever about the car the barricade
and some dummies, a battle of bandages. I'm roaming mine off now with an
unsullied steady but who did we think I was and why did I ever agree, ceaselessly?
Better off alone down
with abandon, coming didn't other girls, well then I am, at least, prizedly single-
minded. The audacity in her insistence on a sampler's gambling - loose faith. Just
special enough or more special than then. But no one's
coming that knocking is no one that knocking is your head against the wall. And
that yelling? Veins in wrists and stones like a cliff from below, hardly worth it.
the hands either supporting an instrument
or cueing a riff it goes new solo in another lady's leash with crisp linens, plush
carpet, the hottest soup. A needle was just sitting there so you must have
scheduled an injection. Or
were you blind too. Closing up my new start but what is that noise? The
audacity a fresh caretaker peels girlfriend's dressings to a flashy reveal while the
van with all that gear and two darlings runs out of gas.
scarf of extravagant strut never mind
the snake around my neck never mind the contraction
of its everywhere, scale to unfathomed inner.
Discount the spike of these taut my heals, the height
from which they parade a bed of nails
held firm on the strong man's chest parallel to staging.
He lays down and the tattooed lady not yet. Coney Island appears
the way feathers and scales resemble one another, how easily
abandoned the trappings. Runways avoid cages underneath.
A promise of twinning. Body sized mason jars in split face
shadow. Freak makes same more regulate, the box more
square with lid more tight. As for constriction,
you there you paid for this seeing, as far as queen and drag happy
showing tightens a grip on the stained swan neck, the rock
of adam's apple, a princess of little consequence in the very front row.
When the night hour blacks out the folio the moon appears with her face canyons swelled. Javelinas were stanking up the street. The dog banged her head with howling. Backing the house a parched lizard praying at the kitty door. Horses in the pen circle walking. Soon there will be a nothing quiet. The coyotes squealing mute with arched backs to the potential overdose slumping at the neighbor's wall.That evening he must still be alive. The dog descending to its belly beneath the hanging garlic and pans in the bone cracking of their boil. And the lizard dried akimbo with lightness behind an armoire. And me so wracked with strangeness it looks as if the moon sought to slide free of her skin, each shadow a fleeing stitch.Mouth of teeth
Having bared fools too long persistently changed never
I totaled myself that night.
Photo one at the art opening taupe rusted with me standing right.
A backless number by the cheeses.
Those rose practiced photographs their milk teeth spoiled by memento.
Thus my failing to make it out
beyond the open bar, prize gala or even two exhibits talk about trash.
Down on my fours later in an oath
for tile, I desire to flee outwards as in melt through, sometimes to imagine
the disaster not found somewhere else
and no less real. My coworker in newtown confides over smoking
I could stand to loosen up and so on.
In an apartment novel to these my things how old. The partly papered cabinet,
a light switch in the main room that
connects, in fact, to nothing. My only good shot at a second childhood
where neighbors say shit like maybe
I AM going to kill people. How much is my own private abnormal
and how much have others
brought over, a mixed palette, two boxes of assorted crackers
on the Goodwill table, such shimmy.
Upstairs this man, his thin turnips in a baby pool the cats pee. I bang
my ceiling with a broom. Par course
the job too, a tall proud mama. Some one day I'm hip with an espresso pull, Boss fills
two overhead slippings right up
a fresh apron. So maybe she doesn't heart me. She does, however, hear that I've called in.
I look out the window and a stranger is
yelling. His bike waves three more American flags than his mouth has teeth.
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