Constance Culver's Virtual Chapbook

New Poems

2009-04-17T08:54:00.000-07:00

in collaboration with Jocelyn Chase

Traveling South

on a slow boat to

China, land of babies

and economy

like a two-ton bag

of cat litter, held

within a burning

framework of

metal, bump and squeal

of engine coming

to a realization that

her heart was a small

fist glimmering

in a small fountain

and bright,

spirited

aura

the color of

an orange

peel.

Take a long look at your past

wolves dripping saccharin

from their tongues

the girls kept

singing and spraying

like an autistic skunk

who appears to be covered

in mucus

wads of cotton padding

her bottom lip quivering

in anticipation

for the fall of man,

he was a sorry case.

ode to san francisco

2008-12-12T17:49:00.000-08:00

hey you ol' no-good rebel rouser-

you're a mean joke.

a madman's grin

in a sea of canines

would you like paper or happenstance?

to carry those potatoes-

to carry home those dreams of yours

you win some,

you lose some,

you're winsome,

you're Newsom,

you're panhandling

at the panhandle

of love's lost summer-

fool's gold

while fellow patron saints

are going to great lengths

dropping hints

to prove you are the last exit in America

but i've felt your grip-

and i'll probably end up back

pressed in the center of your seedy palm

glad-luck,

pigeon-hearted,

choke-hold,

waiting for the scenery to rise up to greet me

nobody's fault

but your own.

"ode to san francisco" was first published in Recto Verso, Vol.1, Issue 2, Portland, OR

The Dinner Party

2008-12-12T17:33:00.000-08:00

We are going to the dinner party

I, in my Judy Chicago

You, in your best Judy Garland

We are going to devour.

Tartan Turnip and Seersucker Squid

Venison Ventriloquist

splayed open and rouged

against starched white canvas

unapologetic and on display

dig in.

The Philanderer, three plates down, doused in vermouth

calls to inquire

"what diety on your arm?" (assuming Italian-made)

but you cannot be reached, you are

too busy wondering

which line you will choose

to hang yourself with tonight

while Trophy Wife is busy making scientific

discoveries

regarding new species of glacial forms

that have taken residence

in her pink cocktail

across gravy-boat~

Show Stopper stabs at his veal

you raise the stakes

joke that the conservatives ought to foot the bill

since they practically own it, anyway

a choke is chased with a Manhattan, stirred with a

murmur

Apple-Cheeks lifts a leg-o-mutton sleeve,

wipes a disdainful brow;

with arch of frown so furious

you fear her jowls may slide off her face

like buttery chunks

into her lovely, lemming soup

please pass the whipping cream.

meanwhile, in between exchanged glances

with cataract-glazed marble eye of Trout

you notice Trophy Wife's lips

seem to be having trouble forming the word mouth

and 18th-century clergymen are aligning

with iron wall-sconces

to make light of a matter

hemming under the table's skirt

later,

arms are ushered into sleeves

crumbs and loose change retrieved from plush crevices

waiters draw straws to break the wishbone- remark how the fowl was barely touched.

"The Dinner Party" was first published in Attention Span Therapy, Issue 3 Feb-Mar, San Francisco, CA

Clandestine Jukebox

2008-12-11T17:55:00.000-08:00

most days

churn like butter over butter

we greet mornings with a sigh and

a mutual handshake

between reluctance and gratitude

eyelids sweep floorboards

linens are hung out to dry

beds get made, only to be unmade

yesterday's seeds are soaking for tomorrow's sprouts

Maud stirs her tea with a dactylic finger

we take long walks

some nights

old willows croon

shake nettled whispers up our spines

Esmerelda shows her knees

and wags her thumbs in the air

junebugs fall like rain

and glitter smiles hang

from the

sky

Lunar Misery

2008-12-11T17:43:00.000-08:00

Every now

And then

My women ancestors

Rise to the occasion

To rally in historical protest

They become the voices in my heels

Tsk,tsk...tsk,tsk

They pound at my inner walls

As if I am their last chance for freedom

With their frail wrists and bony knuckles

Like the ghosts of sacrificial lambs

Their shrill voices echo up my spine

"We made you! How will you repay us?"

To them I have no voice

So I revert to the fetal position

Stark white and wincing

As they remember me

As they prefer to remember me

If they could listen

They would hear me say

I haven't won either

Precipitate

2008-12-11T16:44:00.001-08:00

I lay it on thick-

a scarf,

a hat,

a coat,

a pair of woolen mittens;

minus the scratch

minus the constraint

they are sound, permitting me to take up space

we swat at precipitation

[a clean slate requires upkeep]

we wipe woolen hairs from our runny noses

dampened and sticky from heated breath

still, our cheeks are rosey

and our bellies full

we crack

smiles through the cold air

which stings, then burns

i have chosen my battles-

though all battles are meant to be fought,

even the undulating and insurmountable

i fight weather.

though it may swap artillery

it does not hide

under blankets of sweat, or hail

as caves

and people

sometimes do.

"Precipitate" was first published on www.poetrysuperhighway.com, March 2007