With the invisibility they gave as if I had no body, only soul wavering up or down stairs, I stole. From my stepmother's alligator patterned wallet removed bills. Or was there never such thing as unquenchable spirit & no angels singing above the 7-11 as I whispered across its fluorescent lit tiles? Just miles of nerves & trillions of cells churning conversions of glucose & O2 to energy in time to the slurpee machine's stirred vats of uranium green, lava …
Recipe
I am the baloney in the sweet woman sandwich flanked by my angel food mother and daughter known for their honey sauces their endless supply of surrender to the greater good they both may say I am a sweetbread too, but I know I am only minced up organ meat that comes from throat and brain the one that sometimes feels the need to shout out savory bitter truths in hope that real can also be revered and share a place on our inviting earthenware plate Susan Shea is a …
Indelicate Flower
troglodyte femme fatale she’s a midnight hoot all the fang-boys love her silky mane, fingernails an orange sherbet clunky green boots, ripped fishnet stockings malodorous pheromones, a psychic turn-on she’s no momma’s girl & daddy’s long gone Marlboro lights and BV chasers, her a.m. pick-me-up she sucks at miniature golf and laser tag digs Bukowski, Patti Smith worships Ted Hughes she loves honky-tonk polka, double four-time met herself a fine young Liverpool lad— snuck …
The Sun
Did you take it into your mouth feel its roundness and warmth did the rays shoot up and out from your eyes and didn’t everyone see that didn’t they comment on it and didn’t this go on for years like the sun would linger just above the horizon until at last sun kissed land and land swallowed sun and didn’t the temperature drop then as a changed light drained from your eyes and hasn’t it come now night deep and uncertain has night truly come? Bill Hollands’ work has been …
Pussy Poem
I have a problem: I don’t feel sexy when I shave and I don’t feel sexy when I don’t. Sometimes, I shave anyway so I can look at myself better, feel how smooth I am to touch. Most of the time, I don’t. Don’t want a full bush, a gorgeous woman on reality TV once told me, or else men get lost down there. (I’m queer, but that’s beside the point.) I do, I said to the TV screen, wishing she’d get it. I like feeling feral. I like it when my body hides. I like how shame, waiting patiently to be …
Salad Station
I like my poems fresh— my phrases picked early in the morning, before the sun ripens my sentences, wilting words in the heat. Lately, I’ve been trying to find a sharper knife. I want something gleaming, infallible. A serrated mind, more severe in its offerings. I like when words burst in their fullness, like summer fruit blushing towards its yield. I’m stewing the adjectives so they surprise you— languorous in their slumber, dawning purple and rich in your mouth. Pickling makes my …