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Virgin's CrawlI've driven my desire here in awinter blue Honda Civic. Haven of cigarettes, use of the "F" word, and sex, saved til now at seventeen. To South Pomona ageless suburb, crackling with gunfire. Brown dirt, shedding lawn, coffin sky. Charlie perfume floats up the walkway with me like a highschool banner, lapping at the air. He opens the door to his dead mother's house, still cluttered with her flower print table runners, silver dishes meant for a buffet, her manicurist's table. Next to his bed, the police radio transmits a haze of static over his lotions, his books, his pocket size comb. The room smells savory like sweat, like skin, like him. He pours clean pink wine into plastic cups, "Here, relax." The taste of Walgreen grapes turns on my tongue. I sink into his pile of week old sheets, his broad laughing teeth, the slope of his shoulders lit by television. I smile at my evolution. 1999 |
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Issue #15, April, 2000 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.