My body has a warning label
details listed in hieroglyphics
as much as I want to be studied
I don’t really want to be deciphered
I’m so bent and broken I’m perfect
if you’re on the hunt
and catch my scent
I’ll wait blindfolded by the firepit
come warm your hands
together we will terrorize the night
This Skin
So bony
I break like branches
withered veins
buried so deep under my skin
in fear of a poke
they cocoon deep into muscle
I beg the moon to forgive me
I beg the sun to bathe me
lie so natural I form clouds
that float along
swab up my aftermath
I’ve yet to whistle
last whistle was 1996
last kiss on the mouth was around there
maybe that was when the world stopped
and my hell – is thinking
I’m still alive
Everything Counts
in large amounts
with coffee
money
food
love
money
It’s all so big
a conundrum of consuming
vultures
It all counts
in large amounts
go bigger and get me some more
It ain’t enough
never e-goddamn-nuff
We are still hungry
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.
I watched from the sides
tucked under countless souls
every shade of flesh
dimpled and sinewy
bent beauty in these tortured limbs
begging to be forgiven
pushing to the front line
as not to be overlooked
My lover and I tight knot
step over torn and broken wings
masses of angels swarm like hornets
and hummingbirds
try to decode dark and light
try to recall what Jesus said
what did he say?
something like thirst
is in the spring of life?
no no - as we are pulled apart in divine separation
Jesus said
To the thirsty I will give
from the spring of the water of life
without payment
as I stood on the side
parched and burning
and watched my lover flutter away
with glowing wings
Summer Carnival
Billy Joel bellows
through the speakers
sausage and peppers
spilled beer
vomit
the world is back
as if war and disease never happened
pigeons swoop in
to feast
while the homeless still beg
crackheads still lurk
undercut by all the laughter
the short heavyset man
kisses his baby girl a bit too much
a gawky teen lurched over a garbage pale
vomits his kabob
the blonde stringy haired girl
strung out in the last stall
gets hauled out
in an ambulance
after the EMS blasted her nostrils
with Narcan
Still the Ferris wheel keeps moving
within this matrix
Billy Joel still reverberates
among cackling passers by
not one stops
nor looks
a milk white hand dangles over the stretcher
whirlwinds of people breathing
smiling
living
as the girl hovers
suspended over her dead self
aching
Remember When We Had No Money
We cashed in all our change
for diapers and formula
scoured the car for loose coins
every cent a fiber of survival
every hand me down a gift
nothing purchased
items always given to us
to use with kid gloves
and carefully pass on to the next poor soul
Those valleys
we thought we’d never climb out of
with babies on our backs
bills snapping at our Achilles
money dripped in
like an IV
We were on pins and needles
for that IRS check
laughed all the way to the bank
cuz it was pre-spent
Those moments of grit
tested every muscle reflex
certificate awarded to us
for our rogue-ass survival tactic
called juggling
You and I
we were the circus clowns back then
on the brink of a fire so intense
we didn’t realize we would have burned
the entire lot of us
to smoldering cinders
had we slipped
We look back
cuz we on the peak now
laugh greedily
say it was nothing
never that bad
We just shimmied
out of that freak show
half nude
half crocked
yet still the clowns
Players
Because right now - at this very moment
there is some poor sap
inhaling the very dread
I escaped from
Right now
that chosen victim’s sadness
fills every cavity
from loin to breast
That pinned heart engulfed in woeful mist
that evaporates
before
my
very
sad
eyes
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.
These ruined eyes
torn up hip
seeking solace in my big toe
it’s an ache
a climb
as if I’ve split myself
into part water
part oil
slam dunked into a fog
that’s lasted two decades
some detour
I decided would be an epic adventure
turned into a survivor search
sun down
stars twinkle
I give it another day
another breath into
a long goodbye
There's This Riff
I have
with God
and Satan
when they decide to organize
a colossal
cluster fuck
together design some universal catastrophe
to rip us from our root
People die
by the dozens
other people have to pick
through the aftermath
to locate their parts
white ashy pieces blended in
with the concrete and dust
piece them back together
for a proper burial
cremation perhaps
closed coffin
most definitely
I want to know how this comes together
like….. does God say
Satan, you pull these people together
to stage a disaster
I’ll hang out here on the sideline
and pick through the souls as they
line up for divination
I’ll take my half
you take yours
we are good for another
hundred years or so….?I've Realized I'm Hurting
It’s guttural
feels like a deep deep ravine
has opened within me
I pour into its oblivion
lucid and broken
with no end in sight
I’ve realized I’m hurting
as I flow into an open and sucking sea
a menace adrift
this ain’t no yacht party
this is the thing
I have feared since childhood
no life vests
no floating devices
scared shitless
be damned
if I drown
Negative Velocity
I stopped thinking
about my breath
pouring out of my body
bleeding into
empty
creating nothing
from some chasm
to some nothing
I - the nothing
give of my breath
give so much of it
until my lungs flap
like a deflated balloon
give a last heave
before they
dry
to sand
while I collapse
like dropped clothing
in a heap
An evening gown
empty of its body
empty of its master
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.
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.
This Isn't a Riff
Or some placid four-liner
something to move you
lift you up
This is a blank page
a morning thought
a screw you
It’s your mother’s corsage
our leopard rug
the original M&M’s phone
Not nearly as complex
as the stone chimney
we watched them build
or the construction
of the in-ground pool
This is thick now
muddy
perhaps this became infected
when it was left out
and rain filled it
mosquitoes
multiplied by the thousands
tortured us over and over
with nasty little bites
the entire summer
This is never as sad
as that light gray
box suit – or is it
windowpane
makeshift herringbone
those awful squares
such an eyesore
This is poker
chips fall everywhere
yet we cannot locate them
when it’s time
to cash in
when it’s time to
call it a nightcap
our never-ending babble
This was nothing
now it’s everything
this makes me sick
yet it’s my survival
East Coast Tears
We’ve danced this dance ----- you stop talking ----- I shut up into my own
later we’ll have casual conversation in front of the kids
so they won’t suspect we are as screwed up
as everyone else
yet there was something brilliant ----- that thrived inside us
merged / made beautiful babies / entwined us for twenty-some-odd
years we had it
you and I slow decomposition
happens with time………………..
here we are staring into space thinking who can we sleep with
to get the other back ----- but really who wants us
now we are more or less middle-aged we go on
because we have no one else
we can’t quite break through to that old and gold love
we have tried babe ----- I know
last night I had a dream I was married to my former lover and in the end
he said he was just using me for sex
I woke up crushed and loved you madly for a minute
now gone ----- in the presence of each other
we only feel regret
Dame
I just licked the devil
he was smothered in chocolate
spooned my tongue
so effervescent sweet
The way to Hades
tunnels deep
always derailed
by blind obedience
the taste sugary hurt
and grainy as bent love
shapes the moon I curl under
when I go it alone
Real People
Scrape the lies off your skin
as I get right back up
to scrape the blood off my knees
roll your tall tales
into a tiny ball
place them in my coat pocket
so I carry your burdens
I am not the cup of promises
I’m the alternate side of the street
a thought no one remembers
the hair in your soup
Wanderlust
Beyond me
beyond counting souls I see
a blurred line
I cross engage
wait it out
(I have time)
centuries perhaps
yesterday evaporates
into a magical mist
that formed a
life and I go on
keep
to the trail
I’m magnified
a thousand times
(considered a candidate?)
I always wondered how it worked - the approval process
the book
the gates……are they truly pearl??
am I forgiven……or forgotten
I sinned
(not terribly)
but where is the scale my dear
(in our core?)
If I’m the half-and-half
weigh me and
see where I lean
if it’s an exact fifty-fifty
then what??
do I breathe with angels
and sleep with devils
I wait
grayed with mistaken identity
here
and in the
after life
pushed down to
resurrect and
re-do
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.
Fevers of the Mind 