Micro Poems By Genelle Chaconas

Genelle Chaconas is queer, feminist genderfluid, an abuse survivor, and proud of it all. Genelle Chaconas is a 2015 MFA Writing and Poetics graduate of Naropa University. Their first chapbook is Fallout, Saints and Dirty Pictures (little m Press, 2011). Their work has been published or is forthcoming in Burningword Literary Review, Exposition Review, Milkfist, Image OutWrite, Bangalore Review, WT Paterson’s The Asylum, Former People: A Journal of Bangs and Whimpers, Menacing Hedge, Futures Trading, Crack the Spine, Weirderary, Dirty Chai, Third Wednesday, The Fem, Crab Fat Magazine, Door is a Jar, Five 2 One, Bombay Gin, Calaveras Station, Late Peaches: Poems by Sacramento Poets and others. They are a volunteer submission reader at Tule Review, and they hosted Red Night Poetry in Sacramento.

The Mole

This mole on my left handed face Zarathustra whiskered not smooth enough to jazz speak rack of blonde meat Monroe me instead DeNiros me with pre psycho punk maverick billy chic aesthetics of desperate poverty mania the anti-Oedipus anti-God’s lonely left hand armed man of venal acid dropping rain streets.


Glass Pearls

-for Janis Joplin’s cover of Big Mama Thornton’s “Ball and Chain” at the Monterey Pop Festival
Glass bead curtain Carnival goddess bangle roadhouse bandana wrapped Cleopatra feather fringe dime store ring fingered psyche her tortoiseshell goggles askew she throws her kinky overgrowth mane through the air against the violet horoscope Porsche sky voice rough as back roads highway tarmac opens her booze bruised lips and sings.  


Fever

-for Saturday Night Fever
John Travolta’s foxy bump rhythm of the panamorous genderfluxus molten butterscotch strut Morrisonesque ballerina disco leopard angel dust headed hipster superfreak built like brick trench house his hips a new solstice of cool doesn’t pace swaggers why would he walk down the street when the street can walk down him.


Float Purple Hazewise

-For Lee Conklin’s Fillmore Posters
The striptease statue butterflies drift float purple hazewise above hairy-chested longue chairs in the white satin chamber the handsome lovers dance palm to palm four step the sex synesthesia tango to hallucination Boleros above them the fleshy beheaded God of Looney Tunes Stamps inhales the atmosphere exhales a psychotropic gasp.



Leftover Tesla Orphans

-from Donavan’s “Epistle for Dippy”
We pass the delicate serotonin floors we like leftover Tesla orphans we in Theta wave Technicolor coats holding inertia hands weightless in the elevator of the brain hotel let the ground floor magazine racks crumble with the other rubble above the TV ceilings crash the signal’s beaming down and through.



Gladiator

-from Mark Pauline’s Rabot
So much depends on a reanimated hare not replica but corpse tied to a mechanical android rig with barbed wire walking not walking stumbling on a blowtorch kerosene hazardous waste blacktop concrete barriers for audience safety marches not marches hobbles around the fire pit demands to know if we’re entertained

Mr. Electrocool
-for Adbusters
Oh you Mr. Electrocool mohawked patched mixtaped jumbo safety pinned septumed steel toed doc martened skull Das Kapital quoted bandana masked or better yet neo post-anonymous Guy Fawksesque you impeccable middle fingered Topic why couldn’t we meet at a Maalox caked resistance  instead of Borders comparing Adbusters pre and post.



THX Chic

The blade passes clean smooth sharp defiant and definite across my THX Productions scalp I wanna look like Britney’s last pole dance like Stripetease Sinead or Stipe like butch leatherman post apocalypse Aryanesque like industrial monks like the don’t ask don’t tell boys I always wanted to be but can’t.


Junkyard Mixing Board

-for the soundtrack to There Will Be Blood
Sledgehammer piston chain operas tetanus junkyard mixing board suites railroad spike sonatas quiver the alkali aluminum sky vibrate the scrap steel shrapnel ground the upside-down waterfall of heat air oil pour up into the smudge smuggled air the night like the shatter nitrogen roar surge organ like the earth exhales.

For a Few Wandas More: Wanda Poems By Tyler Pruett

Tyler Sherwood Pruett is a writer and artist with a special interest in short forms of poetry, as well as creative nonfiction. His work has appeared in many prestigious journals such as Modern Haiku and Frogpond, as well as important anthologies including Haiku 21 by Modern Haiku Press, and a fear of dancing by Red Moon Press. He is the author of Blue Wolves Are Howling Grapefruit Orange, a collection of poems selected from over a decade of published work in poetry journals, and A Refutation of Exile with Red Moon Press, a themed collection of Threshold Art poems. Tyler is currently working as a professional writer, and as a graduate student at Johns Hopkins University.

FOR A FEW WANDAS MORE

According to the Order
A secret Wright

Brother named Wanda
Remains alive -

He faked his death
And stole a hypersonic jet

To soar uninhibited
Through hysterical ozone

Of dazeish machinations
And mirages of baking

Desert clay therein -
By night the Order

Commands brass bullet
Casings primed with talcum

Powder and lint
Their sponge fists wrapped

Loosely with used fabric
Softening sheets

The plumes of downy
Cotton balls loaded

Into a velvet cannon
And shot in your general

Vicinity -
The Order intends to cut you deep

Or cause a fiber rash or worse
(Their vampire fangs blunted

And covered with supple
Ambrosia boots

May cause light red marks
On your neck) -

The Order can hurt you
And hurt you bad

And you’ll never feel it -
They’ll pile pink

Popcorn packaging
Up over your head

Until you disappear -
They’ll force you to run

Your hands vigorously
Through raspberry bushes

And you’ll probably get
Some splinters -

The Order has you where
They want you

Squinting like an idiot
At letters on the wall -

The Order wants you
Alive and dead like Wanda

Breathing your last breath
Forever so you never die

And the oxygen never
Runs out -

This is their scheme:
A passive murder

That never really
Transpires



FOR A FISTFUL OF WANDAS

Require clarification
Yet offer none -

Write something vague
Or intentionally

Contradictory
And expect them

To understand -


Recline
In your posh chair

Oiling the Uzi
Dry firing it

Reading the letter
Wanda wrote aloud

‘I shall bring you
to sun and moon

for holy ones
are with you, child’ -

Yet Wanda Bat splashes
Triumphantly

At the shores
Wretching and hacking

Dying for some sign -
Liquid bullets explode

From her cortex
Leaving pools of holy

Water intact on a slick
Of bliss crystal

In a vein of reefer
Mined from the loch -

Now Wanda strikes deep
At golden swales

With each pirouette
Spawning psychic

Revelations
Of netherworld

Empires
And Coricidin bottles -

Wanda utters heresies
To signify

The absence of salvation
Or wielding

A nuclear
Taser



WANDA THE COMELY ONE

Say nothing
And listen to this:

Jah Luna strides
Like a man should stride

When he’s headed
For the clean port

To obtain synthetic
Ecstasies -

An explicit cure
For all anxiety

Reminiscent of dangerous
Vacillations forever bound

To the fissure
Of Doctor Wu -

His path is very difficult
And complicated

For one might mistake
Luna’s grisly hobble

As a blessing
Or cosmic boon -

Luna wrangles
The balmy punk

And subdues him
With gooey elixir

Wanda brandishes
A purple tinted light saber

At your solar plexus 
The whoop ass

Of whoop ass -
Your hush captured

By the algae
Of seeping grottos

On far North lands
Promised to bitter snow -

Yet Jah Luna has long
Forgotten how to read

The Neptunian runes
Of Cushnoc town

Of head tide
Of Popeye colony -

He gracefully staggers
Like a king of the world

Might drag his girlfriend
Swiftly through a bonfire -

Please hang on to small rays
Of hope you had

As a boy
Let it be

Your unfolding
With peace and guidance



THE GOOD THE BAD AND THE WANDA

James T. Kirk struts arrogantly
Down Brighton Street

Like a specter
From The Diary

Of a Drug Fiend
Or maybe

Penthouse -
The image

Of Rue de Marc Avenue
Etched upon

His third eye
Scratching the lens

Whipping up
A pale froth

For the vile armies
Of Wanda Bat -

Cretins tote Uzis
Dribbling silver mercury

From baked carbines
The bare ass barrels

Glistening in subterranean
Magma glow -

Wanda the comely one
The existential reaper

Subverses her high green tiara
Encrusted

With yellow diamonds
Gold dust oozing

Betwixt her voices
Where she formulates

Her radiance
For Wanda loves

The third eye
More than all the others -

Abandon a flock
For the darling three

Freak a holy vision
Postured at the edge

Of a crumbling cliff -
Uproot topology

With her settingless chasms
Of the port city

The clean port
Chided by gray goose ghouls

Where she descends
To find

Her ecstasy
Again and again



AGENT LUNA

Herein coddles
The obfuscations

Of mythological
Jah Lunas

A manifold set
Chiming spirits

In the willows
With a  Joe Plouffe

Of many confabulations -
A vast presence

Transpiring
On Christmas Day

The lord of whom
Once hinted

That moondrift
Constancy holds

The secret to a family phantom
An aura

Not appearing
All at once

Yet beam by beam
Over many lifetimes -

The bees sting
Although they only strike

The steely Jim Kirk
The once promising

Shortcut becomes
A trap in blistering

Heat
An ease of ascendency trickling

Downhill masqueraded
As bee sting quagmire

Whips no way out
Or gets in closer

Out -
Escape to shapelessness

Where yellow jackets
No longer pierce the cloak

Of colorless green -
Swamps expel an invisibility

Of a green man
Crafts an aura

Codestinates
The Wanda whip

A specific shape or shade
Of flock flopping evil

In an abandoned shack
Among seafoam hills

To take dictation
For a book of the dead

Wherein Luna confabulates
Kasserine pass

And trepidation
Of conquered dead



THE OUTLAW WANDA WALES

In the deep east
Mantle bubbles up

Yielding muddy servings
Of gruel in wooden cups

Wherein champagne fungus
Floats a reincarnation

Of the wild west -
An archaeologist shall unearth

These cups someday soon
Though putrid lace essence

Be faded by dirty time -
Yet the cups shall be steam washed

And catalogued in cavernous
Limbos by government Adam types

While baby powder aliens
Purloin a pale orange halo

Pulsing arhythmically
To imperceptible

Limbo poles -
An aromatic labyrinth

Impales in brown dirt
Gossages

The copper anniversary
Of pony boy’s rebirth

With crunge -
Luna man decimates

The escapades
of Samaritans

in the bush
who worship you

like Syd Barrett -
Volumizing

Hair tonic brews
And thrashing chests

Of gold doubloons
That cling to harnesses

Of milk chains
Be lashed

To Wanda’s shoulders
As she barely wriggles

Beneath
The burden



PLAY WANDA FOR ME

Listen close Wanda Lumens:

You must fathom
And confirm

A vague reminiscence
Of beats

Scuffed on brown autos
The seats coated

With tacky shawls
Purchased

From indentured servants
By new money mistresses

On rue de marc -
Scrub that graphite

From your grimy palms
Wanda lumens

You swoon
Amid chauvinists

While super novas implode
Into downy clothe

To collectively harbor
The illusion that flesh

Remains stable
In human form

Without the luxury
Of glue or r pasty-

If you don’t believe me
Ask Jim Kirk



THE CHIFFONIAN ANALECTS

Yellow heaven
Golden cakes

Oscillate
Up

When the seven
Fires rise

Gurgling black blood
Spattered

On her white
Smoke blazer -

Wanda
Of the corn struts

Bare ass down the sidewalk
Flying a Cornsilk

Poncho
Like a damn sail -

Therein
Wanda bat grapples

With the illegality
Of joint-like

Cigarettes
Or clips

For no fixed terms
Shall be tolerated

In limbo
Of the port city -

The clean port
Blazes

Nougat hallucinations
Mere illusions

And nothing less -
None point to non-truth

Nor against false truth
Nor in good mind

Of the false truth
Non truth

Lie -
False in the sense

That chummy grass
Grows back over

And over again
After being mowed

Frequently
And never dies -

The mayor mows
His own lawn

Hisself
Wielding

Interstellar overdrive
While he takes a shot

Of Bulleit
And considers hisself

Lucky to escape
Crucifixion



HIGH PLAINS WANDA

Peach moss
Billows

From a grinding
Machine

Seizing desire
To abound

Paisley shadows
Through frozen

Wanda rage -
Blood surges

Snowmen
Molt

Thrashing and viciously
Stabbing

Black balsa wood
Daggers -

Goodbye
You Wandas

The last train
To purgatory awaits

At the space station
Stupid

Like pissant
Highwaymen

Way back before
This shrill globe

Wasn’t so visceral -
While your very own ghost

Settles
At the head

Of the table
When a psychic

Channels
Your recitation

Of grace

The Dude's Prayer Poem By Thomas L. Vaultonburg

This is a really stupid poem I wrote a few years ago. Sometimes you write something and you wonder why. But the thing about cyberspace is that it's endless and nobody has to cut down a tree for me to publish this dippy poem and no one is forcing you to read it.

The Dude's Prayer

never inflict upon me
the wisdom to discern
shit from shinola

or lead me into
skirmish, scrum,
or uncompensated
wrangle

rapture me not
away from green
pastures
or darken the path
of Cosmic Bowling
Night

allow my slumber
to be a golden hum,
unbroken by the crackle
of angels wings
or The Eagles Greatest Hits.