a blue bird twines
of wire
where sunflowers grow
your air is twisted
like she
unthawed
in your
affection
an aroma far
from lonely
i find dizziness
underneath
liquor
we are empty
never simultaneously
the glass is warped
i’ve stood here forever
waiting
for the
freeze to pass
Helios in
a winter solstice
unconquered
I am fire and light
come to me
I got the best – I’m double-edged
a soul made of numbers.
I brought back a green spirit,
a whisper of others.
She fell to her knees – heart tied
to a glance –
my stubborn alibi –
my handsome ax.
But the bait came with a chest,
and holes – the best part
laying on pavement –
a canvas of art,
one finger, two fingers,
creeping beneath
a tongue, and a breath
reaching skin deep
I kiss back the Whiskey –
holding my gasp –
just on the verge –
just over the edge
and there rises the west
with the sun upset –
the cherry is ripe –
but the seed is depressed.
The morning wakes up –
a cold soul is windy –
charcoal rains down –
get me out of this city.
Darkness is the culprit that lingers behind
each slice of sweet Nectarine.
I am late.
I’ve been here before.
The other side of love.
The place that dissects the tongues
of former lovers
and turns them into layers.
love on
anger on
love on
hate on
jealousy on
love
on poison liquid every night before we stumble to sleep
with the darkness that caresses our feet
and convinces us that we love ourselves
to much to live on the other side.
I am late.
I’ve been here before
where I could feed you Mercury
while the sun sets on us forever.
I’d caress your feet and pray to the darkness
to take you far away
from my love.
Set me down,
behind full mountain
tops, make me burn
yellow and purple
hues, while
cold moons take
honesty away.
Turn on false Gods
who paint streets in
neon, let the devil out
to play.
Soak up the sweet aroma
of tonight’s subtle game.
Let it strip you
of your innocent skin…
And let the games begin.
Tuesday morning flakes of acid fall
scalding my skin.
The fingers of sin touched me last night
and I swallowed
and I swallowed hard!
I doubt my nerves.
They are earthquakes in blankets,
shaking for no reason.
Midnight will come tonight
and I’ll put it off.
I’ll put off the moon
and the length of my legs
and the sin that will lay its hands upon me
but, hours strike like tree switches.
At one o’clock, i’ll sink underwater.
Breathing is automatic,
like a trigger,
so all this living,
and my skin,
will continue burning.
After the sun, I will stop drinking.
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/.
In Here
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
to rest.
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.
-Mila Anhielo-
COPYRIGHT MILA’S FINDINGS 4/30/2012
Bakersfield Blues
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
At sixteen
-Mila Anhielo-
and who was I at midnight?
Your throat on firewater, swallowing
baggy, flabby tongues.
It is no matter,
tonight is seven hundred stories high
and I am ready to jump. Before I do, though,
I remember you
and sitting on your lap,
the shot,
the bounce,
your heavy gunman.
The moon has a chain on it,
this I never told you,
I put it there myself, several years ago.
It lingers patiently, sleepily awaiting me,
tied up and braced for thunder.
I will come pounding from the top
of your world, the last one I was shown,
up seven hundred staircases
to reach,
to grab,
to attach myself to the moon.
I have a long connection from brain
to chest, in gentle condition,
you were always soft,
not like this scratched metal chain
stabbing in to thin purple veins, on purpose,
a reminder.
A reminder that it is always just after midnight,
no matter what anyone says.
and then they left their home,
one by one, the salty fluid pouring
into each other, God called
down to Margaret that morning;
“I know spaces between stones,
that, years ago, repressed me.
A harp was broken by an angel,
and now you shall go empty.”
Drums beat wild; a spell of evils
cast up from Hell’s almighty.
Can I exist, just as this?
A nightmare in a body?
I was given a black trail,
a tricycle, and blindly
left my post beneath the drums
to find captivity.
I listened from a noisy Inn
near the Mighty Mississippi,
its waters shook all voice
and took it selfishly.
So, I went, to a purple mountain,
to visit Mighty Oak Trees,
but my tears tried to drown
me there, drip, drip, dripping.
Heaven became worth it when
I had realized it hardly,
every stone and every man
awaited hardening,
I sat in line, in silence
with them, picking at my knees,
when fire grabbed a child’s limb
and she screamed in agony.
I found that I was not an
Angel, the devil had been dwelling
in wine and liquor and
my heart had, all this time, been failing.
I was 26 when I became a rope,
stretched from loud brown cocktails to
the hush of burnt oven mits.
I was too thin to be stepped on,
so I just laid,
spread, fine butter for
Homemade Bread Men.
I went on as rope for two years,
reaching both ends of
limit. Ginger snaps
snapped back at me when
I raised a mother’s hand.
A trained ham clamming up, shaking
during the Spirits Earthquake.
I baked them by the dozen,
hard bread snaps to
braid me when I was bad.
Two years rowed its boat swiftly
and now
here I am.
A rope.
Spread thin over aging.
Frayed ends begging to be stayed.
They will not.
Time can not allow it, but time
will be easy on
middle belly.
Center ground.
That is what I should be.
I have not felt my legs in four years.
I hate months. Each carries different
demons. November is a home-wrecker.
Prancing in lives
like a horse,
with a horse,
trampling my legs,
shattering a fragile life.
He went with the moon.
A silver carriage
whisking him into the night.
I laid on the floor in
a broken heap. Expecting.
A cloud came in and took his place.
Pouring sharp gulp after gulp.
Until, questions came.
Until the bugs crawled through
my nostrils,
dragging hallucinations behind them
on chains.
I loved them. For a moment,
I loved them. But their names changed.
On a basis.
We went infrared together.
Having seizures and one night stands.
Dancing black dances.
Taxi after taxi. Until,
the cloud cleared. Left me like he did.
November was not anymore,
and still I cannot feel my legs.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 