w i l d f i r e
every july the west burns
the skies darken
sicken
from yellow to brown to grey
and the wind fans the flames
that cleanse the forest floors
and barren hillsides
to clear the way for the coming year
every july i burn with those hills
and everything i am and have and want
goes up in smoke
rains down in ash
ripping/tearing/breaking me down
to clean bones and aching soul
every july i am destroyed with the forest
rebuilt with the grass
burned and healed
layer by layer
until i can start again
and it begins
strut to that electronic beat
sway those hips &
shake those curls because
oh don’t you know you’re sexy
when you shout out
hey! hey! hey!
welcome to the revolution
my delicious little narcissist
whisper to your shadow
painted pretty in the limelight
spending dimes to buy more time
before night takes it all away &
oh don’t you know you’re going
up up UP
it starts at midnight
scream to that song
because it’s yours
just let it out &
breathe it in again before
you meet me in the bedroom &
oh don’t you know that you’re mine
when you moan
yes-yes-yes
& baby we’ll go with them
when it ends
that’s one way
whisper it bohemian
when the cards in your hand read 8 & 7
& there’s no more money in your pocket
but why should you care
as long as there’s
gin in your freezer
& coffee in your cup
as long as wilde & bukowski
poe & plath wait patiently
ready to rock you to sleep every night
as long as you can sing on that sidewalk
& kiss underneath those trees
& dance in the streets when it rains
as long as the ink stains your skin
the blisters cover your fingertips
the tobacco fills your lungs
[ whisper it ]
Creativity Must Be Spontaneous.
i am
s u s p e n d e d
floating some place
soft –
after sleep but not awake
where heartbeats slow
& thoughts wander f
r
e
e
l
y
between conscious
&
not.
i am
d a n g l i n g
hanging dormant –
my waking potential on pause
while this sleep-rooted mind
breathes quiet
unchecked
released.
i am
u
n
b
o
u
n
d.
lila. (01)
she wakes with blood under her nails
/ /
it would seem
she’s been picking at her seams
while she sleeps under the influence
of one too many downers
& the truth is never allowed
to be this damn obvious
but this time around
the stains aren’t washing off
/ /
her windowpanes are cracking
even as she pulls the curtains
Chriss is a poet and author living in Northern Idaho with their spouse, cat, dog, and too many unused college degrees. Healthcare professional by day. Daydreamer by night. Look for their work in new words {issue three} from new words {press}, as well as in milk: on consumption, materialism, and taste from Carrion Press and the debut issue of Tension Literary: Writing with an Edge, both to be released later this year. You can follow them on Instagram @viciouschrisss.
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