Dishes in the Sink, Crumbs on the Counter

 

There is severity

to these disconnected

eyes replenished with vision,

blind fingers

over braille

just small mounds 

     of geography on paper--   

        unreadable degrees

            longitudes and

                latitudes             

                  filled with platitudes.             

                  This broken compass         

               spins every time the moon       

           cracks a smile, laughs 

       with riptide remnants on thin

     lips.  

     They sink   

      ships.  

     They drop  

      anchors  

      into  

      the  

       gut    

         of meaning.

 

 

 

 

Tryptophan Tango

 

Tanuki and Thai Elvis walk on air

chasing me with arms outstretched

as I ride on the back of a motorbike

escaping to the Laos border

                                        filled with dirt roads, and

                                                  scrawny dogs howling

                                               hunger from the jungle.

 

I feel my body locked in night terrors

and sweats revolving in and out

of consciousness.  Lucidity is its own nightmare.

 

You are snoring on the exhale,

a train of sputtered breaths

and I lay my hand on  your chest,

                                           your heart beating even

                                                and I wonder if

                                              I’ll sleep again.

                   KEEP

                   YOUR

                   EYES

                CLOSED

                              (tight)

 

Down the dirt road again, dogs

and jungle and Elvis and tanuki.

It is all better than the headache lurking.

 

Yes—I am coming, falling into depths.

 

Upstairs, a man’s phone vibrates on his floor,

vibrates on the inside of my skull.  I am

in two worlds with right and left brain

            buzzing at once.

                      I am asleep but

             startled into tachycardia;

                    arrhythmias feel like a death

                                                         sentence.

 

I want to go

one way or the other

into silence.

 

 

 

 

War III

 

Sharks swim hungry in a media ocean

  tearing into scapegoats with greed,

     promote individual suffering

   through survivor paintings and book

                                                        deals;

                                 movies in the can.

         Faces smile pretty while scars

     bleed easy on the underbelly.

 

 

 

 

A Curse

 

You sit still

QUIET (screaming inside)

straining to listen

to your strong hands

beat the world senseless.

 

You don’t share

                (yourself)

anything with anyone.

 

Too many mistakes made,

caught off guard

things leaking through pupils

                                               (black)

                                  (lonely)

 

You realize maybe

you are invisible (maybe).

I hear you

QUIET (screaming inside).

Blowholes

Double Vision

Ghost of a Friendship

Joined 3

Lighted Trees

Lilies

Lines

Quartet of the Man Behind the Wall

  
ribbons                         vibration                        He sings in the morning                    ribbons  
          rejoicing                       lead dust              his baritone vibrating                                  rejoicing  
morning                                     scattered in      walls and floors—shaking                 morning  
           comes                crack                               the pencil between my fingers                    comes  
                                              and                         I can only stop  
            tone                                crevices                          and                                                    tone  
baritone                                     orbital                                close my eyes,                    baritone  
            bass                               orbital                tangle into the movement                             bass  
            bass                  twisting                          of his lyrics, sung spirituals                           bass  
                                          pitches                                  from Africa (lost).  
continents                            the air warmed     I hear it when he ceases                    continents  
      parched                  with molecules of oxygen        a vocal watermark                         parched  
waterfalls                                 thin skinned.                                 on my skin.              waterfalls 
            fall.                                                                                                                                     fall.
  

Pom Pom Girls 2

Road Rash

Seaweed and Bubbles

Shadows

The Runner

Three and Three

Waves and Movement

Aleathia Drehmer is the editor of the print microzine Durable Goods and the online flash fiction site In Between Altered States. She has a shared book of poetry with Dan Provost called "A Quiet Learning Curve" published by Rank Stranger Press and a solo collection of poetry called "You Find Me Everywhere" published by Propaganda Press. She finds her home wherever her heart keeps beating.