Spring 2015

Volume 10, Issue 1




Baby America

He says every killer’s a noir
    or a forest I paint wide-brushed
and some like to swallow
    alone on the first floor
    sore torture, my dust.

I wait for red thunder
    the crack of a pulled tooth
eyes on the snake cacti
    I wrapped in lace.

Stars shoot from her ears
    bassinette sticky.

I sweep the floor with his hair
    addicted to his hands
the broad back where I’d carve
    “Man of Constant Sorrow”
    kick the day open
    its blades unattainable
    and    God’s onyx truth
    rain on the cross in the grass.




Best in Show

I grow up wreathed
  in the Pontiac’s highbeams
swallow drawbridges
  sink femurs in cedar.

You see me scream “boatglass”
  the sand trio chiming
my mood does not move
  from one man to the next.

You give blood at the chapel
  solidity convulsing
burn my sweet hairbow
  sprinkle its ash.

Abscess, adolescence
  I get my grasp back
creek rising, God willing
  angry and jealous
snowmelt surrounding
  my leopardskin dress.




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© 2015 Americana: The Institute for the Study of American Popular Culture