my work at FVR.
pathetically, on each others
haystack-shapes. on your borrowed grayling shades
cupped on resoled leather in an elbow crook,
shoelaces the hometown pillow.
pathetically, inside unmanageable whispers
whose grief for us to segment stars
that arc in the blind-sky, that
which night mysteries immortally disunite–
is yet unkempt; is insolvable.
pathetically, in oblong boxwoods, in
close brumation to each other,
& we opine, to that cockcrow vapor stealing us,
samantha lucero 2019 ©
He forgot to carve his name onto it—my slow-dead
womb builder. So he thatched this house with reeds
as presences and struck cymbals.
I gave its shambles to the fire, heaped its mar and its
lime, and the skeletal birdcage of it into the memory
of a tongueless August mouth.
Its chasm, a door—its screen porch, a belching Madonna.
Thin-torn frankincense fumes like god-blood from the split
of its rarefying wound, where the
whole of purgatory is a scent of goulash and of low mur-
murs; the sin of knowing, a Clorox-tinged swimming pool
rash and the sponge of wood rot.
the rattletrap where i watch
in flesh-colors quiet as the static
on play-slides gallop to a cutlass.
and decrepit with me in a malibu
it rusts in happy meals. bloats on
a warm backseat corpse savoring
in fragmented leather castled by
dehydrated fries like blades.
a baby tooth
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one of the last poems i might ever write.
i’m unhurt here; deeply wrapped inside this ill-starred cell.
chaste of catching time in its seeping hoards
that worm, or unpolluted by the
lightless nature of breath in my
i can oar inside this fervid pulse where
i’m electrically prolonged
inside that silky wave
scene i’ll dream
and dream again
where life unearths
or perhaps, i wince and the spaces
and though i sink into an oily red
womb of her fastenings
i won’t dream of an appalling life
when i hiccup or pirouette my shaping
limbs to arrive at this
none outside this narrow pool
can dream or know, i’ll dream;
put me back into that blood
that last drowsy warmth
of my eyes yawned shut
before the first scream.
to sleep and sleep and finally sleep!
Samantha Lucero writes at sixredseeds.
a city map is sewn in the scalp;
looped in the goat-milk, or spit out,
tongued in silky blades of stomped
i’m crowned with high-pitched fingers
clenched in fur.
in octaves only shades can bear, i simmer
in their holy cradles.
i become the roughened corner of a mouth
grinning at its own joke.
there, the receding home in ranch-style polaroids of a dirty blond stranger and my mother squinting in the sun; some home not mine or yours.
in a woman’s left grows tiny,
and in a man’s more supple.
i keep alive by milking goats.
some like lifelines, some like ulcers
the city streets are braided in my hair.
samantha lucero 2018 ©
i was in a dirt hole or clasped on
a napping road-trip road.
palpitating thru the lines or bones
on the ground, or underneath.
i found her heart in a rat pile
flapping like loose mother-skin
grieving with the last milk oval
on the whelps tongue.
are above me, like you
in a circlet of whore-stars,
teeth for deep space.
a belligerent isolation embraces
me and i am born in bright black.
i stare into the sun and when i
shut my eyes, it winks back
and it will never leave.
my love was a thousand shells
in salt on earth. i was the killing jar.
the beat of sunflower wings
in cement initials.
samantha lucero 2018 ©
where memory rusts, limp on a clunk of
dry land & dragging me through the sequins of a
i croak to the fractured window of a bone-white ford truck groaning down, shambling up a shaft of dreary road.
i, a silver figment or mislaid filament, a filigree wafting bare thru realms hot & rose-gold, loom where the skeleton of the truck is parked eternal: i see the rotting choir of burst leather spaces, vacant, on which the sun has dug its holes. little else remains within apart from remains; i’ve loped from one graveyard to the next.
840 minutes in a warehouses’ baking mouth bending metal out of men, where oil-dyed hands stain wonder-bread or stay-at-home wives’ necks, they used to make trucks like those. and like the one that was his daddy’s buried in that old garage. all he had was that truck
and all I have are his songs.
you’ll never feel young in your old cage—that’s old age—
and all you’ll have are songs.
samantha lucero 2018 ©
a collab about the historical significance of the code of hammurabi.
Heathers and jocks, flock together
You and I tethered to Glocks & black
Clocks broken, shot
into a myopic future
We meditate on bloodlust
of a murdered adolescent reverie,
besotted with living forever
The colour of Mondays changed
when I tasted the insidious guile on
your lips; glossed in Carrie-red
you needn’t incentivize this perilous
heart of mine
for you I would cut off my misanthropic
and illuminate the dark matter
’cause all that I bleed
coiling in a house where hymns burn
damp or dirt, or fire walk with me.
daddy is a watershed in dallas, mommy
is a wire hanger bent out of shape.
the world is an open wound,
and i am the trace.
you are the knife and the wail.
the wide awake.
the boulevards red myths, sight and
names in squirming lights, and seeds
on the flashing ground.
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i’ve evolved from spitfoam into hearth-iron ribs
trapped between septic fingers and lost doors.
one gummy eye used to be the rasp moon,
the other a varnished cloud.
i’ve created ants and snow in a womb
for licking, cloying death.
for freezing, for festering age,
years. rafts of web on web.
i scream in a locked room.
where only i am dreaming of being me.
to accumulate in wrinkles that are parenthesis
around your matchwood mouth or baby horns between
the swale of brow-felt.
the hole that gullets its teeth.
samantha lucero 2017 ©
who kills, father time?
time who kills:
time who kills
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