Natural choreography
I fantasize
bodies, parts
parts of bodies
hovering lovingly
breathing and heavily
falling into
and onto.
My roommate says we have a reciprocal friendship
that when I bum a cigarette I’ll return the favor soon
or even tomorrow
Today my pack rang up to $6.66 — it feels like a deathwish
and I don’t mean to sound bleak
it’s not like I believe in superstition or anything like that
in 40 years we’ll see if I’m still smoking
still alive
Nothing is unequivocally wrong at this point
but it’s like I can feel the ticking
within every ounce of uncertainty
trapping me into myself for the first time in months
The last emotional breakdown I had was yesterday
if yesterday was a year ago
I said it then and I’ll say it now:
Fuck.
That Michelle Featherstone song repeats itself
except I don’t like coffee and I haven’t quit
smoking.
worrying.
anticipating the very worst.
I gave a friend Betty Boop and she bought me a caramel macchiato
reminding me of the three hour long games of Scrabble
reminding me of Florida and I find myself
slipping on a summer dress, flaunting in the mirror
damning this not-quite-winter but definitely not spring
weather limiting my urge to take all my clothes off
and smoking in the hot of July
with fireworks and lemonade
bikinis and pride
ultimately not giving a shit
and the world reciprocating.
Unkempt
De-
vine the brick
wall, clean sweep.
Trim trees make
for a better city
and a lost cause.
A Poem Exemplifying My Strange Tendency for Hypothetical Thinking at Awkward Times in the Middle of the Night
What
What if
What if we
What if we could
What if we could only
What if we could only speak
What if we could only speak like
What if we could only speak like this?
(We would probably speak a whole lot less.)
It’s fucked.
In five seconds’ time
something pushed by, nearly knocking me
down and my friend turned around before
I looked back—my first reaction
that a purse was snatched and a black
man in black bolted, blue bag in hand.
A limping or stumbling older woman
reminded me of those dreams
where I try to run, but have no speed
She screamed:
HELP, please!
But I was high
So I yelled at the guy
Drop that you fucking asshole!
But he didn’t and we left
without helping
Fallen gold
The tree gave
no concern to the clouded
sky, scrape or
passersby passing by
at night
time’s breath
its last leaf flees
on concrete
Yellow—
gold
Take a number
make your try at the Price is Right
but before you buy that flat screen
calculate the consistency in which
you moderate your money
Round four, congratulations!
You’ve made it far enough to choose
WHO IS MORE IMPORTANT?
a) the consumer, or
b) all of the above
Grab and go, two for one, fill your cart!
I wonder if anyone ever thinks
about who gets shot while we’re busy
getting a “bang for your buck”
Epiphany
Stockings thin with holes torn delight
fully clothed hourglass of Maltese fashion
Strutting restlessly past the limelight, green with envy—
Cornered fiercely deficient in unfamiliar relation
ship raging in friction and waste by the age old storm
forming less than blessed callings from the motherboard
Horrified by the white noise radios—
He who cherishes heritage is left be
hind shot by the hunter’s arrow graceful in its demise
Forward time erodes while there is fidgeting in anticipation—
Ivory pillars infinite, shine so super
man is not God after all the storytellers lied
it being the dog infecting minds and barking at prayers
The universe is yet a synapse of the human trajectory
-Megan Carter
Forgotten Fragments
Hanging amongst the branches above the river full of blood;
clutching the weight, perpetuating a rage inside of me.
Just remember what he told you, that gypsy from the boulevard
with plagiarized love poems,
thick with conscious tongues.
It’s 10:46 pm.
I feared for tomorrow
before I ever breathed oxygen on my own.
