Hey everyone! I was introduced to a young poet not too long ago, whose work I absolutely adore. I wanted to share with everyone. You guys may enjoy her sorrowful honesty and realism. I am particularly fond of her ability to capture the feeling of a moment, whether it be on a beach, in a broken down building, sitting next to a telephone. She has a beautiful talent. Here are a few pieces that I really enjoyed and more can be found at http://milasfindings.com/apps/wordpress/.
by Mila Anhielo
Rubble and loose concrete prick the bottom of my bare feet
just as I push down on the barrel of a syringe
to fill the needle’s shaft
to fill my skin.
My attention shifts like a kaleidescope, to a man who looks homeless,
who drags a couch from the 1960′s into a corner
to fill space.
I sit on it, next to him, and he
tells me to watch my back here.
Here, people come and they leave, they keep their hands busy
with things they acquired when they were sober. Books and credit cards,
cell phones and lighters.
There are dust spattered drawers that hold bags of needles, but
they are clean and accounted for, which helps me sleep better
as soon as the blinds get folded shut
to metaphorically “close shop”
and the kitten whose ribs are visible returns to a pile of unwashed laundry
I gaze into poorly painted eyes on a statue of the Virgin Mary
surrounded by candles that ooze hot wax down to their surface, her face is lit
and I imagine if she could, she would walk me home, so I
lift myself from the 1960′s couch, and walk toward the doorway.
Outside the sunlight is meek but I stand underneath it to get warm.
I squint at the people wih meat on their bones
like health is a commodity I can’t afford.
They smile at me, console my aching temples, my shaky fingertips, I turn
to walk in their direction,
where the light bends at an intersection
if I cross now, I might blend in.
I hear Lou Reed’s voice from the speakers of an old parked Cadillac.
The lyrics, “well I guess that I just don’t know”
remind me of smoking tiny bits of cheap heroin in my best friend’s closet,
cigarette fliters inbetween our sparkly fingernails and smoke falling into
freshly dyed pink hair, gossiping in cut-up punk rock t-shirts, her room
decorated with Andy Warhol reproduction prints, my blue lipstick on a rolled up dollar bill.
I turn around, walk toward the porch, short breaths before I
turn the knob, to go sit back on
the 1960′s couch.
COPYRIGHT MILA’S FINDINGS 4/30/2012
By: Mila Anhielo
Air conditioning out of order
The signs are all in Spanish
So I had to translate.
Bob Dylan on the car stereo
Aged air polluted my relaxed lungs,
No cigarettes in over an hour.
Heat made the lingerie sweat black ringlets
Underneath my jeans, in-between bone marrow
And I checked on the sheet of acid in the backseat
As if it was a smiling baby.
You were angry at me; you cursed affirmations on a pale street
You said my platform boots were gaudy – and
In the light, you could see the sequins melting.
I told you I hated this weather, just take me home.
The cement cracked all around you that day.
I was sixteen, inhaled courage, while you screamed:
I’m sick of your differences.
You didn’t go to college, you sold weed out of a UPS truck.
And after we broke up, you went to China for a while
Because I wouldn’t be caught dead in red.
If time was not linear, and we hung there like stars,
Would you have grown out of this phase before jail time?
Or would you have gone home to your mother
Like you always talked about?
And tell me, old friend,
Would your eyes still be green?
If you had stopped loving me