1. Name: aj
2. Age: 19
3. Location: The midwest, in general.
4. Three favorite/ influential writers: Neil Gaiman, Charles de Lint and Alan Moore
5. Preface to your poems: I was a slam poet first and have a harder time getting meaning across without the verbal help than I'd like.
Is this comm still alive? And apologies to anyone at evidence0flife as you've seen some of these pieces before.
6. Three poems:
We have made love over the cordless phone,
pretending that 'hello' was our safe word,
still wrapped in HP Pavilion cyber wires and Ethernet lines;
we haven't graduated to real steel handcuffs, yet.
Our mouths have found ways to be more intimate
than our fingertips.
Her lips have touched me
where not even my mother has thought to caress.
Her tongue strokes a part of me
more intimate than my sex,
And more worn than my gender.
I have whispered away my virginity,
bedding her past reluctantly,
because pre-pubescent trauma is far harder
to love than her full hips,
Bible Belt slung low and loose,
Almost too far South;
My mother thinks I'm lonely,
because girls side by side
cast sisterly shadows.
She misses hip huggers hugging unowned hips
and indirect kisses on melting chocolate bars
smeared across our lips and fingertips.
Her generation never laid down paper
for bedding, or passed pelvic rocking rhythm
through poems and she doesn't
understand hand holding
through words and to her,
a comma is just punctuation
and never makes her
my mother's rocking chair
has taken up vacancy in the window
she invites hemingway to sit with her,
and only steinbeck shares her bed.
the dogged ears of her books are
studded with orange
slips of paper.
she holds spines in her hands
like how she used to hold
she misses the wrinkles
in the sheets that used
"i want to grow old with you."
she is old,
and he is gone.
‘I want to move mountains,
But all I do is create avalanches.’
Reaching past me to
Grab a hole of mistle toe
So she can pretend to kiss me.
‘I don’t care if they can hear me breathing.’
Whispering from behind oak doors
And brass door knobs that we pretend are gold.
She’s hoping that
Sun will burst out of her pores
Like a million tiny flashlights
Packed under rice paper.
‘I don’t believe in love.’
Pinning her boyfriend’s corsage
To my belt loops,
Linking our fingers
‘This is life’
Sneaking a hug between commercial breaks
We pretend we’re at the movies,
Leaning over an imaginary arm rest
To mock the main character
And trade bites of lo mein for sushi
And sharing too big bottles of Orgina.
She has to go
And we tear the project down
And collapse the couch.
I watch her boyfriend in the crosshair
Of the window pane
As she strides down the front walk
To greet him.
‘Goodbye, see you later.’
And we both hold our breaths
Waiting for his world to crumble
So we can set up our theater again.