New Poems from Donna Dallas

Half a Hole

Turned out
when the din
the twisted neon lights
the swaying bodies
all evaporated into
green sulphury ghosts
into boredom
into heavy - meaning the fatness
of calling it quits

Turned out
that when you turned up
I threw in the towel
it was wet and matted
stank like mildew
squishy under my feet
I, just as squishy
trampled it good though

I became the harpsichord
played to broken
dilapidated elephant in the room
withered and rusty brain
tilting to one side
a good lean into a hole
but just
half a hole

Deadlock

Everyday day at 1:45pm
we kick off
another round of silence
I head out the door
drive to the bay
watch the waves cut into each other
all the seagulls in swift play
lurk for lunch

Avoidance and I - we get along quite well
I’ve stuffed my pockets with hurt
they bulge in distress
try to conjure up a way
to transfer this awful distress
pass it onto these ravenous gulls in waiting hunger
but to no avail
I find myself back home gorged with sadness
only to run the gamut again
it’s this ritual - this addiction 
that keeps me going

Ride or Die

In between your legs
sits the red eye of a loon

hungry and wanting
behind your eyes

dwells the mind of a bat shit waif
ablaze with envy over the filthy loon

hobbling alone along the edge 
of the storm ridden shore

pecking and sifting
ready to launch at any movement

even a sand worm
you’ve seen the shift from glazed purple skies

all through speckled stars
along the skyline and think

the loon has it better
in between your loathing and longing

lives the ever-slightest seedling of good
some little pocket of hope

that pulls you along
day after scarce day

as if you didn’t long so loosely
for the loon to be yours

for the moon to be yours
for the hole in your tainted head 

to close in the palm 
of your sweaty hand

The Residuals

Feel the cold against my skin
sharp
icy slaps
could have driven
walked instead
to Maritza’s salon
can’t do my own hair
this is a necessity
every four days

Today the child is there
in the chair
agonizing screams
while I sit and watch in horror
I know something is wrong with her
realize she is not a child at all
but a little adult

I’m late now
stare at a roach creeping its way
up the wall
screams turn to howls
the poor creature struggles 
to twist out of the grasp
of her nurse
she growls low and long
Maritza picks up her left foot 
crushes the roach
with her bright yellow 
patent pump

I walk outside
the growling rises 
into a high-pitched laugh 
a row of pigeons perch on the phone wire
ascend in unison from the vibrations
of this cackling 
pigeon shit on my windshield
a ripe smelling homeless person 
walks by rolling four connected carts 
each filled to the brim with plastic bottles

I just want my hair done
I don’t want this cross
nor to think of these horrors
that are as real as these fierce gusts of wind
real as those haunting bellows
and my roots that also need a touch up
I wish I was next in line for Maritza
that nice nurse - taking the poor creature to the salon to get her hair done
holding and stroking her bony hands
cradling her fragile body
Maritza trying so hard to apply the color in quick strokes

Sky dark and deadly to a grey black
if this were the end of the world
who or what
besides
roaches
plastic
homeless people
and pigeons
would replace these screams
and where would I go
for a blow-out?

Chagrin

You’re going to hate him again
and again
his calloused hands
initialed shirts
perfectly shined shoes
Saturday stubble
morning erection
the way the dog cuddles into him

His muscular legs
that long winded conversation 
he took over at that godawful dinner party
to save you from stumbling into yourself
his deep voice
you know where this is going

When Catullus said odi et amo
(I hate and love)
thousands of years ago
you think Catullus didn’t know what he was talking about
back then?
before chivalry
before sexting

It’s as obvious as which cup you know 
your lover will choose in the morning
glimpse his deep blue eyes
as you pour his coffee
this is a tragedy of torment
that you love 
to play over 
and over


Bio: Donna Dallas studied creative writing and philosophy at NYU’s Gallatin School and was lucky enough to write under William Packard, founder of the New York Quarterly.  She has appeared in a plethora of journals, most recently The Opiate, Beatnik Cowboy, SpillWords and Phantom Kangaroo.  Donna serves on the editorial team of Red Fez and New York Quarterly.

@DonnaDallas15

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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