despite the sting of solar vision
I still self-identify as a child vampire
holding whole generations up at sexpoint
no golden winner only silver indecision
when the city streets ran out of strippers
we cat-called the river: hey sexy! big muddy
shakes its ass out to sea sick of dredgers & jumpers
what's one more corpse on the forklift the stork
swallows for breakfast? I'm all for crying out where
wolf or genital warp libeling the only viral shine that
spreads us too thin at night between setoff warning lights
& buckets of nothing but the dust we become under history's
thumb nail gif: an imperial conquest surprise-ending in
faceplant instant replaying forevery eternity squared or
divided by zero in the face of pain there are no heroes
but out here in the flyover states both stay stuck in a riddle
I'm the borderline hoarder bored gargoyles cum quick to haunt w/ their crouching hindquarters
in the attic dust, I'm not afraid to say I found an alien musk that sent me undressing my ancestors
one by one into ovens of rust—here's your bundled lump sum: crunch the numbers down &
ground them into backhands of rabid distrust. on the path back to straight & near-loved, I wake
up in a day-glo chokehold while the nightclub goes up in smoke-rings out the top. what a
triumphal human test-drive: to spy your former selves dismembered by the karmic wheel of
arson—whether biblical damnation be fable or forecast, I'm counting myself able to reform
my heathen ways by dry-heaving my way into america's heart-seams: borderline states of a
borderline emergency, borderline requiring triple bypass surgery—and the borderline real & the
borderline dream share a j on the street where they're borderline free from all the seething
vows of vengeance the sea sucks through its teeth, like a family man stubbing his terminal daze
on disease: the hunched statues all see it, but they're not sure which potion to drink to piss clean
today I googled how to get committed as if a wedding dress & medic's
coat were cut out from the same un-cloth: bobbin full of fairy
dust & buckles latch at watch your back a riddle where you lose your
head but grow a golden shell against your every former self
w/ one priest in one tomb I thee woo using this sparkly
superstition metronome clique b/c there is no going home for
little fickle aliens padding their cells w/ space age
anomalies like optional sex organs or chernobyl drone porn
let's consummate our stakeout vows by dying on
this dotted line slice here and here and then recline
to a time when mom & dad staked all the vampires outside
walked their own sanity lines down the mirror which made the house
hum like a fuselage finding its underside no longer tied to the night
Dylan W. Krieger just graduated with an MFA in poetry from Louisiana State University, where she also served as a writing instructor and co-directed the annual Delta Mouth Literary Festival two years in a row. Her cats and warm jackets, however, still reside in South Bend, Indiana, where she was born, baptized thrice, and graduated from the University of Notre Dame. Her first full-length collection, Giving Godhead, received LSU's Robert Penn Warren award for best poetry thesis. Poems from its pages can be found in several online publications, including Juked, Small Po[r]tions, Deluge, So and So, Crab Fat, and Smoking Glue Gun.
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