This is where we keep wild things like writing and memories and lovely aces.

Switchblade

Sometimes at night I visit the squat house

remind myself I am lucky for what wage I get

in a country where this hold up is safer than

starving yourself on rent.

All the rights to them, but you don’t return

to the den your devil’s are made in.

Dirt driveway in winter, bumpy serenade

to the chaos of a ghost town.

Someone kicked in the front door.

Guilty consciences splintering

across the stairwell where boys my age

drank themselves father, snort home life

off the frame of abandoned bicycles abandoned

to rust on the front lawn.

A mattress in the corner-

where tension breaks like a needle.

Bits of paper and garbage litter the carpet.

A syringe is in the corner and nobody goes

to visit.

Something is breathing in the attic.

There are scratch marks on the bedroom door,

I think there was a dog here once.

Once they cut the electric

It probably didn’t make it either.

Turn the lights down.

This is the kind of story told in the dark.

Live from the furnace.

Wild in the blackouts

This hangs like a chandelier

in closets filled with bloody poetry


I AM THE VOICE OF THE SWITCHBLADE

WHEN YOU TURN YOUR HEAD, HOME WILL BE LOOMING

THE SWITCHBLADE DOES NOT SLEEP

IT WANDERS IN POCKETS ALONG AVENUES

AND SIDEWALKS YOU FORGED IN BAD BLOOD
 
FLICKER PACING LIKE AN EVICTION NOTICE

I LEFT THE PORCHLIGHT ON FOR YOU ALL NIGHT.

HOW ELSE WOULD YOU REMEMBER TO COME HOME TO ME?

There are so many memories in the ways we are handled

Traces of steel history you abandoned your spine for

I am no palm reader but goddamn

look at the poverty line.

See what they’ve drawn us in.


Notes
5
Posted
1 year ago

Electric Angel (Draft 3)

(Poem. Check me on this one. Thoughts? P.S. it’s been stormy in the 603)

 The first time you
climb a streetlight,
stretch your spark
body skyward,
towards a glowing
neon heckle, and swear
to the ghosts of held-breath,
promise them your hands.


 This is where
the atheists and astronauts go to pray.
Straddle that alter of rusted footholds
and scale.

Left foot.
Right hand.

Forget about the night
When she left.
Don’t look down.
It gets easier with altitude.

Memory viewing the crash sights your bodies made together.
Hypnotized by her lipring found meditating on passenger seat
illuminated by a magnitude of lamposts.
You caught them dreaming.

Right foot.
Left hand.

Sweet static voice
echoing in your eardrums
Echoing through the adrenaline.
Spark plug lungs
paused on the upward

When that gasp
Of a storm
Opens to greet you

You will think you see
the face of someone else’s god.
Parlor tricks of an angry sky.
The snap of lightning,
So quick
 It is almost smooth.

Climbing over fences
Is an easier way
home tonight.
Avoid the lamp posts-
They laugh at you,
Firefly boy.

Shout mercy to that Electric angel,
soaring from a steel heaven.
You are a mosaic of lost causes.
Pray to the Patron saint of
sodium-lamp halos.
Trace your celestial scarlines like empty lips
in puddles on street corners at dawn.
Pray like a gaslight.

Know that static burst daughter
of lightning strikes has always been
too much storm for you.
You- just another lucky conductor for her electric whisper.
Know the morning she fades you for will be windows down in the rain.
The only holy
You will ever know
Is the gap       between
Dead nerve fingertips and remembering
how her skin
used to feel
before a storm.

Notes
6
Posted
1 year ago
#OPERATION VanSwag
This is too much fun.
 My parents probably wonder why Johnny Cash floats from the garage at all hours of night.

#OPERATION VanSwag

This is too much fun.

 My parents probably wonder why Johnny Cash floats from the garage at all hours of night.

Posted
1 year ago

Lightning Storms

In southern NH the day before SFOD goes to Nationals.

So what I needed.

This weather, coupled with the full moon last night, makes me fucking wild.

I can’t wait for Charlotte, NC. The 2012 alleged apocalypse couldn’t stop these poets (And we may end up being the start of it..)

 It’s humid out, thunder turns me on, and I’m working on a fun project in the garage with Johnny Cash floating out of the old boombox.

Oh, and did I mention the project?

 ~OPERATION VANSWAG~

Posted
1 year ago

They say his scally cap washed up onthe banks of the Merrimack.That a fish punctured its lung on a 5 cent pinfrom the hat.This river is where the refuse of my generation leave themselves for the drowning. We are tied to the places our desperation leaves us for.You were so new. I imagine people will tell me I should havedone something different.Built up a mocking jury-rig of a home for you in concrete places. How I rested you down easymakeshift patriot of ups and downs. By the time we had arrived,  you weren’t breathing.When home uprooted itself from under youleft you fending for your own like a free-fallto be embraced in the spasm thatis life leaving.My hands were as fragile to your existenceonly as much as your broken nerves couldfeel from the inside of of that doorstep.You would have had a wingspan of survivorin you. And if we are so in our humanity made images ofa meaningNothing so quick should hurt.Humanity is such a blink, a pinprick in time.And we’re such imperfect little timebombs.We are all the children of someone else’s survival. In this, we are family. I will fight for my family.I will fight for all you.

   - Untitled, Me

They say his scally cap washed up on

the banks of the Merrimack.

That a fish punctured its lung on a 5 cent pin

from the hat.

This river is where the refuse of my generation

leave themselves for the drowning.

 We are tied to the places our desperation leaves us for.


You were so new.


 I imagine people will tell me I should have

done something different.

Built up a mocking

jury-rig of a home for you in concrete places.

 How I rested you down easy

makeshift patriot of ups and downs.

By the time we had arrived,
 
you weren’t breathing.


When home uprooted itself from under you

left you fending for your own

like a free-fall

to be embraced in the spasm that

is life leaving.

My hands were as fragile to your existence

only as much as your broken nerves could

feel from the inside of of that doorstep.

You would have had a wingspan of survivor

in you.

And if we are so in our humanity made images of

a meaning

Nothing so quick should hurt.

Humanity is such a blink, a pinprick in time.

And we’re such imperfect little timebombs.

We are all the children of someone else’s survival.

 In this, we are family.

I will fight for my family.

I will fight for all you.

   - Untitled, Me

Notes
3
Posted
1 year ago

Lipring (draft 3)

Last lover last night I dreamed

I watched something being stitched whole

by the pits of torn pages littered around your dresser.

Gently they are feathered by ink and mascara and other

staining things we find at the crash sights our bodies make together.

As it drew up into itself, it formed

the underside of a tenement miracle;

grew wings the shade of coldwater flats and

filled belly-up by breadcrumbs – topping off on coffee

and wayward lovers left by mornings painted with sunlight.

It read:

“If you went looking for our early years

you would find them scratched and sprayed on the lawns

dives, and pavement we frequently ruined.”

This consistency is lost somewhere between drunk nights

and my disbelief in hopeful romantics. There was hypnosis

in the finding of your lip ring meditating on my passenger

side seat and a magnitude of streetlights illuminating a walkway not far

from where you reside.

And I’ve got the kind of personality that needs a fix to sleep so

don’t tempt me like you like to do.

Just walk with me. Let our feet

etch a path through the mortars of this city.

This is how we echo ‘goodnight’ to lantern ghosts.

What a pretty mockery we were.

We made such beautiful sins together.

As you left like they like to do you carved

your woodwork fingerprints into my neck

choked me out on broken codes, left me dancing

in chains for the mobs.

Sometimes, you still call.

A rebel yell for renegade media operating on pirated wavelengths.

Sing ‘missing’, sing ‘lonesome’-

 You tell me all your stories of secret skeletons,

but I cannot afford to be the collector of bones anymore.

Springtime has brought lightning storms blooming

on the horizon and in them I will wash you

 from the cracks in my knuckles

the haunts of my veins.

In the rain I will lose you.

This time I will not go looking.

Notes
1
Posted
1 year ago

Lipring

Last lover last night I dreamed

I watched something being stitched whole

by the bits of torn pages littered

around your dresser.

 Gently they are feathered by ink and mascara and other

staining things we find at the crash sights our bodies make together.

  As it drew up into itself it formed

the underside of a tenement miracle

grew wings the shade of coldwater flats

and filled belly up by breadcrumbs – topping off on coffee

and wayward lovers left by mornings painted with sunlight.

It read:

‘If you go looking for our early years

you will find them scratched into the lawns

dives and pavement we frequently ruin.’

My home has been lost somewhere between drunk nights

and a disbelief in hopeful romantics. There was hypnosis

in the finding of your lip ring meditating on my passenger

side seat and a magnitude of streetlights illuminating walkways not far

from where you reside.

And I got the kind of personality that needs a fix to sleep so

don’t tempt me like you like to do.

 Just walk with me. Let our feet

etch a path through the mortars of this city.

This is how we echo ‘goodnight’ to lantern ghosts.

- Derek Avila “Lipring” 2012

Notes
1
Posted
2 years ago

For the Girl with Patterned Skin

 1.   Its morning. We sit in a half-sunlit kitchen. Her bare feet curl in front of smooth-drawn legs, and we sip black-brewed mirrors to a criss-cross mantra.

And her sunrise, which has always been so much less then what it could be, can’t remember how to stand.

  Try to recall the first time a fist curled in your throat, choked up on the names that belonged to every face that ever broke you.

This morning is the first morning after a hard winter.

I came down to the kitchen and found a fly contemplating

loss atop fruit bowl parapets. It looked curious as to what forfeit tastes like when leaving the tongue.

  Here, we have always been one gleaming canine short of grimace. Half an inch from hitting the bottom, always been just one knuckle short of albatross.

  And she stands there, radiating this vacant strip of concrete, impressing the few passerbies’ with the smoothness of her rhythm. Raised by the wolves her fathers pretended not to be. Presses the damage end of her lucky strike to bow-shaped world spinners and

open lips exhale smoke atmosphere into my broken codes. I want to ask about her beautiful belief in the answers of hands.

2.  So to boys with Saturn-ring eyelids: This kitchen is filling with smoke. It’s not the first time. Your lungs are trying to remember their first time. Before they started moaning sirens.

   There are carbon faces drifting restless here in the white-washed dorms housing over-sweet fragrances of collapsing willpower.  I can hear your slate-faced lover, all hips and illusion colliding with other doorframes then your own. Cradle them in sand paper hands, the playful guardians of missing things. Through the 5 a.m. light, crisp fog shows fireflies running late for beds they thought they owned, lamp-bodies losing their shimmer. Unshaven and barefoot kneeling naked uncradled. Nobody here ever wants to be where they are.

 To the girl with patterned skin: Count your piercings like I don’t count my blessings. Exhale a lullaby through pinstripe lips.

  Ask the boy with Saturn-ring eyelids if he’s learned to dance yet. Two-step a vendetta in the rose garden.

These are the motives I use to establish

distance from evolving into someone else’s comfort.

   When he flirts you, pretend I stopped looking. Pretend we aren’t all falling right-side up for the predators.

 Pretend that this smoke-mirror, bust-lip generation wasn’t born with the American heartbeat our ancestors would asked each other to dance over.

- Derek Avila, “ For the Girl with Patterned Skin “(2012 edit)

Notes
3
Posted
2 years ago

Last lover last night I dreamed

I watched something being stitched whole

by the bits of paper littered

around your dresser.

 Gently they are feathered by ink and mascara and other

staining things we find at crash sights.

  As it drew up into itself it formed

the underside of a tenement miracle

grew wings the shade of cold-water flats

and filled belly up by breadcrumbs – topping off on coffee

and wayward lovers left by mornings painted with sunlight.

It read:

‘If you go looking for our early years

you will find them scratched into the lawns

dives and pavement we frequently ruin.’

My home has been lost somewhere between drunk nights

and a disbelief in hopeful romantics. There was hypnosis

in the finding of your lip ring meditating on my passenger

side seat and a magnitude of streetlights illuminating a walkway not far

from where you reside.

And I got the kind of personality that needs a fix to sleep so

don’t tempt me like you like to do.

- excerpt from ‘Lipring’, Derek Avila 2012

Posted
2 years ago
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