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The Argotist Online |
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RACHEL
LISI I grew up enveloped in the arts.
My father read my brother and I ancient stories before slumber and I heard my
mother sing arias upon awakening. Music and myth are where much of my
inspiration arises. The rest comes from nature and my experiential and emotional
well. Writing is a resting place for me. It is also a safe place for me to dream
unveiled, placate pins and needles and scream sordid secrets. I share my life
with Sitka, one well-named and well-fed cat. I enjoy the works of Neil Young,
Kate Bush, Leonor Fini, Edward Gorey, Michael Parkes, Emily Dickinson, John C.
Gardner, Carl Theodor Dryer and Terry Gilliam who glimmer among countless
others. I enjoy a good red wine, strong coffee and contagious laughter. I am so
very happy to be here.
Queens of Dark Suns
A
DIFFERENT KIND OF GOLD RUSH Whispering
pages in rustling attic leaves There's
a haunting here Nothing
spoken, but the breezed silence. Grandaughter
sifting through Grandma's things And
coming to an understanding That
Grandma was a woman once, a girl, an infant, A
fetus - perhaps unwanted. Dried
flowers for journal entries turned dustied mold Like
the day turns Like
the day turns Like
the day turns Lore
that could not be told within wrinkled folds From
long ago - lost comb with rusted teeth and ancient topaz, Sketches
of a now gone life before the world war Before
that indigo jazz Before
the red-washed beach Before
the bullet and bloodied razzmatazz The
ghosts waltz their way in and out of stained pages Skirting
images of sepia-ed ages Through
granddaughter's honeyed braids Into
the shades of decades Their
chill still dancing like the rain Stepping
with the weight of water Around
fire and milk and rose petal slaughter Two
were of dead lovers (who
never got over grandma, but died well in love) Three
were of aunties (praying
to Madonna, Baba Yaga, the old man above) One
of a dog (wolfhound
and found on the tracks half-dead) One
of a cat (black
and blind with a penchant for the sun-drenched bed) I
am not sleeping, but I do dream silently Listening
to the child up there sifting - looking for me A
different kind of Gold Rush One
that has remained hush-hush One
that will push us gently Push
us gently into the riches that only Bees
and the trees and the sea can understand. GRAVITY’S
RELEASE Look
down upon the king of cities. Angels
tickle trust daring a Jump
into the chaotic brew. See
if they catch you. Down...down...down...
Gravity's
increase. Gaze
with haze into the clouds. Take
heed of the angels' sing song laugh. Faith
has been frayed, Keeping
the holy at bay. Away...away...away...
Gravity's
decease. Wide
eyed wild world, Still
waiting for the exhale. Dancing
with the lawless divine Spinning
on the universal spine. Faster...faster...faster..
Gravity's
release. SECUNDINES
Secundines
make him
uncomfortable buoyed
by blood fed
on and flayed xyster-scraped
bones for
her ejaculatory not
hush-hush nor
diseased no
need for vincristine it
is a tell a
reckoning nothing
fancy oneiromancy
tossed
on a fire where
Katydids dance to
auld grimalkin's vox and
the Iroquois play Zydeco denizened
diatribes and dissonance yellows
and blues and arrows Quetzals
and Cormorants phosphorescent
feathered-fall fat
fox prays well with lugworm a
whipsawed killing uxorial
sacrificial bigarreau Jejune-Non
when
he smells the Jessamine at
the light of her moon copyright
© Rachel Lisi |