Girl Talk: Drive

Dedicated to my godmother and the train she rides. 

She gets in the car. Breathes. Sits down. She’s done this before. The night is unraveling above her, a thick wool blanket, and bright lights beam out from the moth-eaten holes. Stars are mistakes. She takes the keys out of her pocket and they stab her hand softly, fighting to the end. They aren’t afraid of her; it’s the other way ‘round, the other way home. She fiddles around with them, holds the ring and swings the loop around so she can hear the wrangling. The keys and keychains crackle together like lightning. Destiny. She looks at the golden key for a moment, letting it shine under the car light, and quickly jams it into the ignition. She turns. Roar, says the car. Roar roar roar. She can’t talk like that.

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Carnival Games

The carnival was the kind of place fun went at the end of its days, to retire, it said, but everyone knew it was going there to die. Trash cans lay on their sides with weakly flapping bags, and people did little more than toss their junk in sideways to accommodate. Everything was screaming at once, in pop hits that had fizzled before they hit the sky, in classics played on dusty guitars, in spanish beats that went doom-da-doom-da over and over again. Lights razed over the dead grass, looking for a startled teenager or frazzled parent to catch in its glare and draw in.

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God Help Himself

*This poem was created through a technique involving the scrambling of song lyrics (through multiple translations into different languages). It is no longer recognizable as the song it was incorporated from, but I own no lyrics from the original piece.

This is the idea of a new beginning, the heart of the night

In my grasp, taste it—

I am the kind of person who wants

To adore, to submit,

One of the girls with love in her eyes

and flowers in her hair

But I’m not the kind of person

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