She wears a wet blue dress
and if you undress her
she is not vulnerable or
violated. She is a curved
and proud body;
fertile.
He is molded. He is ceramic mannequins turning sick
against the sea. Noon splits pavement and silicon swallows
in a frenzied gulp.
She is airless, something to know and fear.
When clouds steal our stars, she calls to the moon, carrying all of her love and loyalty back to shore,
while he steals her pearls
in the dark.
hold on, for dear
life, hold on,
holds on, tight
grip, white knuckles,
ripping my flimsy body
from the sea.
We are ballet together.
Strict, and flexible.
The tragedy of the sea
drips from my fingertips;
he twirls death out of me.
For years, I drifted on dead logs,
raging against a hateful water,
dipping my hands in to remember
the violent debris, floating barely
above surface.
He disagrees.
He only saw a body dance perfectly
ill-tempered, diving into
the boiling veins of the world.
His hands reached in,
not to pull me from death,
not to release me from dangerous
waves that swallowed me in
then spit me back out,
but to dance
a perfect dance
on dry desert land.
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-
Everything is crushed, tonight,
in story,
in shoreline.
King and Levin
layout in New Orleans with
others that crush hair
and people drowning in a piece of
the rocky Atlantic.
I don’t know who knows
King and Levin, or if New Orleans
wants to crush them
back,
but, like the rest of us,
I wonder,
if they crush
pills or poison when they layout,
alone,
tonight.
The sky is dead.
A muddy sun aches in memory; an
unconscious fire, leaping
into dark waters.
Loneliness fades in deep congested
pressure, a million sea
tragedies
couldn’t lift her waste
from submergence.
Salty seaweed slowly crept down her throat,
entangling itself in soft
asphyxiation. Her beautiful body swelled
with the sea,
tides turned and turned over
purple lips in a green dress,
spitting her raw
meat shell
out into silver moon beams.
The wind stalled after striking
her cold cheek. Shiftless.
Idle in a sodden night,
offering nothing more for
life
to feed on.
So, life takes her flesh,
sacrifices her meat to
micro bacteria,
burning her bones into the
sand;
a fossil of destitution.
She lived in a junk ocean
swimming
in the dark waters
of nostalgia
She gave birth to four babies
two in the spring
two in the summer
She tied
all four of them to Her gills
they were heavy
they pulled and tugged
on Her
making Her instinctual efforts
tedious
She never let a tide change
without
reminding
the
four of their weight
of Her struggle
still
She carried them
dragged them through
Her muck
strung them along
deep
in the dark
junk ocean
the tides changed
over and over
eventually
the four
grew gills of their own
weight
swimming muscles
and She was forced to untie them
still
reminding them of their weight
of Her struggles
the four stayed near
Her
eager to help
to relieve Her
of the strain
they had caused
but no service
could mend the damage
done to Her
strained
tired
gills
the four
swam around the
shameful waters
drowning in moral
conditions
as the weight She
had been burdened with
slowly
slowly
grew in the gross waters
latching on
to the strong
untouched
gills
of the four
weighing them
down
down
down
deeper
into the dark
junk ocean
where
they surrendered in Her
waste
maggiemaeijustsaythis 