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Business Confessions of Fire Flower - by M. Mack and Alyse Knorr -

You leap above me out of bounds and out of ground. You live in other weather. If you would settle, then I would turn the color of wicked, the color of why. Congratulations first spout before the still pout of envy. I am in the right place in the right dress. A man's fingers on a man's thighs. You with your right success. I am a dog in a ship on its way to the atmosphere. I am a ship making its return. And you sleep late, compose a letter, wish me well from afar. And I give these things away as well. I make a coffee, wait for the right time to burn.

#finery #birds of lace #poetry #m. mack #alyse knorr

"I DON'T TRUST ANYONE WHO DOESN'T LISTEN TO MUSIC!" - by Jeffrey Haynes -

--after Sam W. because who could trust anyone who can’t explain the blue scar like a tributary worming down their neckline? who doesn’t have at least one story where a car rolls end over end on some lonesome stretch of Illinois highway before shattering into a cavalcade of glass? who could knowingly crawl from the doused inferno and into bed with the someone who refuses to admit they tried on their lover’s jeans while they were gone just to see how they would fit? see already plans are being made loaded into rowboats and shoved off from shore without you please raise your hand if like me you’ve ever pried the lid off a can of old house-paint with a buck-knife and nicked yourself then sucked the wound clean or wasted thirty-three picturesque New England afternoons thus far waiting for leaves to rake everyone wants and as far as I know I am no different at least once this winter I’ve dreamt of kissing the pale freckled stomach of a close friend’s elder sister and awoke with honey on my lips what I want is be wanted back by what I want which is like my mantra so no I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t listen to music because who has the audacity to stick their arm into the gift horse’s gaping mouth? who is so hungry they ask for more after seconds and then thirds? who could doubt the miracle even after the preacher says be healed and we are healed?

#jeffrey haynes #poetry #finery #birds of lace

Recurrent Ghazal - by Alicia Rebecca Myers -

I connected temperature dots on the chart. A strip instantiated that it took. We quit the chart,

floated gleefully through news. On Overlook Drive I bled out. It was John’s birthday. Caroline offered to chart my horoscope: Mercury glimpsed through a cluster of ash. We resumed position, kissing the hem of the chart. I marked squares for mucus, sleeplessness. Inter- course once again ushered in the blessing of the chart. I forgot caution. With the teller. With the woman who cut my hair as her razor hovered. Cable on the fritz, Charter sent a repairman to the house. “Y’all have a frayed wire.” I beamed while I chewed a pre-natal. He fixed it, the chart conked out in darkness. I tried to staunch the second loss. I cinched my legs in denial. You were cursing the chart, spooning me, when my parents called to thank us for their Fruit of the Month. Pitting peaches, were they thinking of the chart?

I was shameless in my self-pity: Bulleit and Blenheim, skirt lifted on the passenger side in plain view of truckers, the chart a cloth grigri worn about the neck in two-fold end. What wards off doubt no doubt punishes. The tough of the gristle of the chart.

The universe stopped being clever. I ate something called an Un- wich. You tried a joke about the dentist, punch line like the chart not funny: 2:30. I tasted metal on my tongue. Three strikes you’re out? Third time’s the charm? According to the plot of the chart it was accidental. I wouldn’t pet the cats or raise my hands any higher than my waist. Still: fontanelle slipping. Targeted by the chart I heard my slender voice, its feeble sunk-me-cry. Carnival passengers called the office for refunds. I consulted a chart.

When I told them what was possible, they refused. Refused what? You were the sole bright spot. At the doctor, chin up, the chart a weapon in your hand. We’d entered the 1%. I drew a bath. Soil,

seed, thunderstorm. I played a game of garden on my arm.

#ghazal #poetry #poem #birds of lace #finery #alicia rebecca myers

cruising - by Ben Pelhan -

semen dressed like turtles. fact. an orgy in the family room. a midnight drive. a convenience store. radio. convenience. semen dressed like turtles swim up and down the aisles looking for Funyuns. why Funyuns? only Funyuns will do. clerk: 3 bags per customer. semen dressed like turtles: fascist. clerk: clerk don’t make the laws. 3 bags later semen dressed like turtles act like turtles. slow down and the Funyuns burst like confetti in the back seat. back seat fetti. back to the levee. a river will do when the bridge is narrow. semen dressed like turtles but the tails are dead giveaway. freebies. tug boat. moon light. ejaculate. the river is actually a stream and semen dressed like turtles buy Xanax at the levee in high tops from high school boys. pop pop. semen like pills. pills like turtles too.

#ben pelhan #poetry #birds of lace #finery

I's a Two - by Jacqueline Kari -

my puss quivers while dreaming slits flit squinch, stretch curled, unfurled accommodating take up least space posse me & I in[di]visible bits we solder on

#jacqueline kari #poetry #birds of lace #finery

excerpts from 'Meowsers' - by Caroline Picard -

#caroline picard #meowsers #finery #birds of lace #art #illustration #comic #visual art

excerpts from 'Meowsers' - by Caroline Picard -

#caroline picard #meowsers #comic #illustration #art #finery #birds of lace #visual art

excerpts from 'Meowsers' (cont'd) - by Caroline Picard -

#caroline picard #meowsers #comic #illustration #art #finery #birds of lace #visual art

excerpts from 'Meowsers' (cont'd) - by Caroline Picard -

#meowsers #caroline picard #illustration #art #birds of lace #finery #comic #visual art

excerpts from 'Meowsers' - by Caroline Picard -

#caroline picard #meowsers #art #illustration #comic #finery #birds of lace #visual art

untitled - by Megan Kaminski -

for Bonnie Roy dear Bonnie dear nine a.m. because seven a.m. is not so dear to me still sleep-soaked in bed warning off early rays no wonder I say I love to sleep let’s imagine I wake to fields of Kansas wheat or corn stalks baking barely rustling in wind anything bucolic really rather than the construction of parking lots and sorority song practice it’s damp and cool here this morning my own coastal longings start a slow slide of earth westward to you to the city to the sea perhaps all language is both living and dead resuscitated in each sentence formed and mutated in our exchange a place where we dwell

together I think of you through cricket-call and refrigerator hum

the grass grows tall and weedy out front

the campanile tolls in the distance

#megan kaminski #poetry #birds of lace #finery

Eventually - by Simone Wolff -

our toes popped out the weave of jelly shoes and rolls of puffy stickers got spent on old notebooks butterfly clips and scrunchies busted and tore up our long tight-braided hair nylon barbie backpack lightup velcro sneakers all our fashions and our juvenilia have become our trash we were holes the world was falling through fast

Courtney Love is still in my heart every time I fall through someone else my plastic ponies trotting off the shelf I get trashed under skies all violet singing give the violet more violence I was a hole but now I’m a meatgrinder

#simone wolff #poetry #finery #birds of lace

Mosquito Kingdom - by Brooke Ellsworth -

I woke up this morning with so much thirst for life. I am a dandelion stem by the river. I thank my sister for swallowing my drone. Our drone and wonder how many. Outsiders patrol the borders. I harvest all my crops. Yet there is nothing I want to own. Apart from maybe a seaport. Under which I’ll deposit my eggs. I said iguanas lay their eggs. I was nowhere near the scales of their third eye. How many spines do you really need. I have such a channel of gifts. Down by the coffee plantation. A girl the color of coffee beans. He saw the gourd. And he saw the gourd carved into a shield. Together we perambulated thru the cattails. Noted the wizened hag was a murderer from the beginning. The left eye almost out. Divesting the white heroins. The white heroins divesting the lawn—of my funeral. Drafting the mess of whitish scents of coffee flowers. A homeland with rivers. She turns ghostly and reminds us—Sandino nest. A second girl says her place. She picks up two stemmed glasses with one exposed arm. The talk overlaps itself as a widow—Mmhmm, mmhmm.

Can you pass the midnight bread. Requested Midge. If there’s anything left of the mills. After the flood. Pass along the memetic flow. After we spill into each other. The spy who goes out by day complied. Down goes the nut of the table. I enjoyed your lectures on homilies. And you took so long to write you thought some would be saved individually. Thieves are not a rhetoric. Before the conifers provoke shorewards. One has also thought about. The smell of cheese in the cheese-woman’s boat. I was the black gap of recluses shored up in hotels. Which date back to the filibusters when I would sell coffee on the pier. In the gap we could then name the gap. The footing of her wolf-mask came closer. When she approached to give me a marshy warning about the gourd. Did he hear her secret. Wulf wulf wulf wulf.

Never had a job I liked. I said goodbye in English. I thought it would be a sleeping sickness in the end. But when it was the pack emerging from the reeds. Our placement of weakness and strength. Steeled the head who was meant to take me. She swept down my arm. With the watery humanity of a melt. Assume they are exactly where they appear. Along with the rest of your pregnant sayings. The fool in the end is one you have to actually name. One girl says we are always kissing each other. Anne the Wolf is nauseated and glides into the field It was supposedly her turn to be called.

#poetry #finery #brooke ellsworth #birds of lace #poem #poems

thirteen-ringed transvestree - by Alex C. Henry -

_He; the simpler kind of hedgerowed growth whose every foot and planted step expounds a length of character, a meter in trimmed privilege and a piping of reserve. she; the five foot flat shrub lifted high— for every foot a frail trunked heel, in every step a stir. whimper, whimper, whimper. inches crunched to mulch; crusted leaves to Fall. chaining thoughts trail chaining saws and chaining saws trail r ust, t rail rain

, trail dust_

#Alex C. Henry #poetry #birds of lace #finery

An Uncomfortable Trip Upstate - by Autumn Giles -

There’s no explanation for our steamy chariot. My loneliness needs real estate or, at the very least, mature fruit trees. The driver isn’t listening, so I’ll mention that I’ve been googling herbs and now I’m a witch. I know what it means when a man starts tucking in his shirt. What I need now is a beautiful woman to bless my body with flower essences. I’ve boiled burdock root and dried bodega rose petals. I’ll be the first to tell you that I’m not running away.

#autumn giles #poetry #birds of lace finery

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