PART 10

DETECTIVE

The light left when daddy died. The world started to get a grain over it; dimmer and dimmer went her waking life, until the doctor said it was all in her mind. Migraine auras, they’d said, without the migraine part sometimes, blind in this eye one day, blind in the other tomorrow. Get some sleep. Get some help.

Sometimes she’d think she saw something out of the corner of her eye, a loitering figure, a hunched posture, or she’d catch the heavy scent of an unbearable perfume, the kind that festers in the throat, the kind you can taste.

Everything was too loud, everything had a strong smell that made her head hurt, and sometimes she never wanted to leave the dark loam of her room. With all the lights out, she could imagine what it would be like to die.

She understood what it meant now: light of my life. Ever since the accident, she was never the same. She can still see his gasping face from when he was dying in her slender arms, and the hot flashes of the bloodied grin and the trembling sound of the death-gurgling up from deep inside of him; they wake her up at night when she’s alone.

The detective carries herself as if this burden is nothing to her. She is tall and rigid as a classical statue, saving the opportunity to pretend to be lax only for when she’s questioning suspects, with her dusky skin blemished by nothing but worry. The mother was standing outside already as she approached the weathered, molded trailer, that like a wilting flower stooped lopsided as if somebody had kicked the back of its knees and it never fully stood back up again.

Can I help you? The mother asks, she can spot a cop a mile away.

Yes, I’m looking for Gabriel, is he home? I just need to ask him a few questions about the disappearance of Miranda Delano, the detective asks. Her hands in her pockets, relaxed as she advances in her weighty boots that crack the spines of fallen sticks from the scrawly angel oak. She ignores the amorphous shimmering that’s begun in her peripheral; it’s just a migraine, like the doctors said, hormones.

He doesn’t live here anymore, ran off last night, mother says, and she stubbornly crosses her arms in the universal posture of a shut door, clearing her throat with a rattling noise as she loosens sediment there, spitting into the dog-piss grass. She’s stout and tubby and bejeweled, her eyes lined dark with black eyeshadow.

It ain’t that boy! A voice exclaims, and from what she instantly measures it’s come from behind her. The detective turns around to face the limping approach of a feeble-looking, toothless white-haired man. His cane has the image of an open-mouthed wolf on it, and he continues.

It’s them satanists, he says, age making his tone tremulous.

Satanists? So you’re saying you saw what happened? The detective asks.

No, but I heard it. And I’m a good christian man and know a satanist when I seen one, he says, stopping in front of her and leaning on his cane. It sinks in faintly and he glares at her with one bulbous eye, the pores of his nose covered in blackheads. She can smell his sweat.

What did you hear? When?

I heard a buncha howling dogs the same night that girl went missing, and I heard her screamin’ too.

Is it possible you were asleep?

He laughs, no ma’am, he says, I never sleep. You should know. By the look of you, you ain’t ever sleepin either.

What makes you think satanist just by howling?

It’s the loup garou, he says, and behind her the mother clicks her tongue in irritation. They all satanists because they been cursed by god.

What’s a loup garou? The detective asks, where do they live?

A man or a woman who takes the form of a wolf when the moons right, ya’ll call it werewolf, I call it fairytale bullshit, mother says. Ain’t no truth to it.

And where are these fairytale creatures living?

Both of them pointed her into the right direction, told her to go about a mile in, and told her to never come back at night. She wouldn’t listen; she’d be back once the sun sank down, but for now she went to see what she could find in the day.

All there was deeper in: a deer bloated stiff, shredded apart, it’s intestines alive with ants, patches of its fur strewn across the woodland floor and far away behind a thick valley of oaks, a dog staring back at her.

to be continued … 

part 2

 

NEW ORLEANS:

Morning rose and the wallowing sun divulged trace litters of a lady’s’ under things and a stringy rip of shredded denim. The evidence was fixed up in a concrete drainage ditch by a humid water line, with alien pale rocks that jutted out circling it like delegates from the moon and carefully placed on top the tatters to keep them from disturbance.

When the nutria scattered after having nibbled at coagulated blood spots dry and sweet to them like hard candy, they’d arrived. A set of shadows, which frowned and overlooked the mystery pile like mourners hovering over a peeled casket.

But where’s the body, one asked, yellow lettering dramatically over the heart of her windbreaker spelled out the words S-T-A-T-E and P-O-L-I-C-E. She shifted and bent her knees to crouch and lean over it thoughtfully, making the chunky coat swish and her arthritic knees click. She grimaced as if the evidence could spring up and shout BOO.

We don’t even know if this is hers, the other one says sardonically in his gloomy suit.

Detectives, a voice asks from behind, come have a look at this.

 

to be continued …

FLORIDA – Samantha Lucero

© Samantha Lucero

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

let sleeping dogs lie
or if they’re in florida
set them on fire;
let them die.
speaking of the plentiful
imagery of the world
i am the melting ice. i am the gun
on the dashboard to Savannah
for the 4th of July.
i am the word speak
now, or forever hold
your pieces.

for rent: a popular swamp,
far away from the highway.
a tongue left behind with a
womb-scent, a piece of me
in the toilet.
and the dog,
always barking up
the wrong tree.

like mottoes, mildew
crawling up the walls like arrows,
climbing down.
point me away from
the fingers they lick
in prison for nicotine.

they live in a dishwasher so they can
put roaches on my eyes instead
of coins when i die;
this is where he laughed,
where he made me into wax.
they check in, but
they…

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‘ This mess we’re in ‘ – Collaborative – S.K. Nicholas & Samantha Lucero

recent collaborative with S.K. Nicholas.

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

   the lights are always on now, no one ever sleeps.

   i am one of those dreamless alien lights; one of those nobody’s cradled in the teeth of a high-rise window. my building’s a fang that pierces an eye of god. i loved you more because you turned away from me.

   i stare at my reflection until i become the memory of you; until i am become death and stones in pockets, and the formless outside in the velvet dark. you, the ghost that rushes in the corner of my eye, the reason i wear lace when it rains. i’m trying to read your mind, wherever it’s gone, but i can’t. i try to unearth the sandalwood smear of you on my walls and in between my fingers, but you’re not there. i’m not there either, not anymore.

   and so i’ll go to the hudson where they…

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you’re not religious

some people are only religious when they see Mary
on the corner with a heart-wet mouth. h a i l  Mary,
full of avian bones and candy wrappers they pick up
at disneyland
that you never see get thrown
away.
won’t you be mine?
perhaps. she makes them think of their mother
smart and streetwise
with all those invisible skirts and ankles
or perhaps the cradle where it all went
down hill; it’s all downhill from there
from birth to showers of sparks
to final scenes fading to black
the camera now pans to an inky bedroom
where you’d cry out and somebody
would always come (or cry too?)
or maybe you used to pray there
like a wound by a candle
no one ever listened to you
— why would ‘they’? —
no one is there.
and that’s okay.
i’m comfortable with that
like sharks are in waves
i’m the steak knife on the kitchen table
by your mothers hand
when she’s crying in a mink coat full of smoke
i’m the girl in the dark; leave me alone.
i want to be here.


words =samantha lucero 2017 ©.
photo = alexa chung.

the monsters are due on vine street

of a grin usually on the missing
persons board at truck stops
where famished men would pick up hitch-hiking
girl-children run aways, escaping home
to find themselves, smelling like
violins in the attic
here she is in red-hot-red,
rose-red, blood-red, a portrait streak of
glitter high-heels with no hosiery
ankles with tattoos of talaria wings
and a wink at an invisible camera

she’s such a gem, such a picture
on the side of the road on her back
holding out her upturned palms to catch the diving
heavy rain, collecting it inside of the sinkhole
of her open mouth,
crooked THERE, like a tangled doll.

do you see that glorious photograph
of her alive, when she felt so dead
and here she is getting the flashing
lights she craved, licking the gravel
on sunset boulevard, dead as the moon
only bright because the camera catches
the last expression that her face made before
she fell into that uncanny embrace
of unknowable death, where the eyes, wide like wax
stare out into another, unseen place
blind to where everyone else remains now
because she’s escaped and found herself

who killed—— ?

the best psychics in venice beach
say his name was ——.


words = samantha lucero 2017 ©
image = tumblr, as usual.

currently working on:

  • self-publishing my poetry book; dancing around with different designs, sparring with words that want to, need to be said, all tangled up with an impatience to have it mystically accomplished in under an (unrealistic) hour. this is largely for my daughters. as i’ve mentioned, it’s an epitaph in the event that my medical condition goes south quicker than what is expected. it isn’t expected to, but in my life the unexpected has been in the front lines. my life’s an infantry.
  • another horror short story for an indie publishing company. (i’ll post an excerpt eventually.)
  • considering posting the rest of ‘the horseman’ as one large post rather than continuing the ‘series’ style of post.
  • more poems, of course.
  • believing in something other than fatigue & pain.

i’ve been so isolated for a very, very long time that i sometimes stumble on my words in public and for this end up avoiding speaking. i deliberately go in public, but avoid people, because i love being outside. i live in a very interesting area with access to a lot of history and oddities; if you haven’t noticed, i’m into that.

i have been inwardly and outwardly cringing for so long though, and for so many reasons that have piled on my shoulders, making me feel like atlas, that i’m finding it difficult to finally relax now that i can and the world’s off my watch. i’ve had burdens and depression, anxiety, too long to just forget them and think they’re like smoke, just dissipating. i know better than that. the mind leaves leaves marks on itself, like falling asleep on a crease of your pillow. the dent takes time to soften.

i am true introvert and INFJ. this reminds me that i need to refresh my studies of carl jung. he had the same personality type as me, supposedly, and i fell in love with his work many years ago. introversion has nothing to do with being shy. it has to do with your reaction to stimulation. i am very easily overstimulated by loud noise, bright lights, too many people (or is that just my migraines?) — too much to focus on. i want to absorb things too readily. i think it’s because i like to pay close attention to things, one at a time, and end up doing so all at once. i’ve also read that introverts brains tend to pick up on all stimulation as animate (something to pay attention to.) rather than inanimate (looked over.), and therefore they hardly are letting their brain rest. my brain/mind seems to never rest. i wasn’t always like this.

not to mention i have two beautiful demons who need my energy as well.

speak of the devil …

don’t be afraid of the dark

it’s my desire that the membrane of
featureless dark slumbering between you
and a living, breathing world will
never scare you, not from letting go
and dreaming.

i want you to be as untroubled as a feline shadow
stretching back like the vivid light in your young eyes
for you to know that nothing creeps
not in the crawling wisps of bedtime silence,
nor the neutered intentions
left inside the house spiders poisoned heart;
nothing waits there in the resting dark
nothing but folded up dust so neatly cached in
quiet relics long, small memories flung upon
the raw grass of ageless play
where moon meets sun, and sun meets moon
in endless day

think of the mythic wild,
aching for a secret of your river words
tree limbs undressed in winter
waiting for the untamed howl
of the green man’s oily summer yawn
the salt of the sea widowed on your cupid’s bow
a chorus of humming live creatures in the stars
and serenading you with indiscernible hymns
only a child can know and hear;
show me how to listen again.

look not in the cold dark where you cannot see
and think of lonely things which might hang
in the hard corners of your nearing sleep.
shut your eyes. let life rest.
think of the day and how in the dark
there is nothing that was not in the light.
and if there is
let it be afraid of  y o u.


words = samantha lucero 2017 ©
image = wish i knew.

let’s be strangers in new orleans – samantha lucero

more of me from SD.

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

next-day sore, fabled romance memories we’ll never have again hang themselves over the morgue of myshoulders. they sling there on the murderess hews of my collarbones like a noose. over the rubble of me like a shapeless dress, they cling. my sadness is a one-size fits all.

there’s a bad mystery of stitched up, prayer-words smothered & held hostageunderneath the humid crucifix gameof your nails. maybe we could be in love.your calloused hand, my beating throat. memories are ghosts that can physically embrace me; embrace us.

likedirt-sweat in a ghost-tour day of that hot mouth street in New Orleans, where the grinning specter-folks wanna stay like pastedgaslight posts in booze-colored hurricane beads. where there’s oiled-up candles in the balmy night lining decatur& quivering tarot cards in a sweaty palm telling me i’m meant for greatness. hail the votives for a virgin or a saint-chief, & watch palpitations at…

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meet me

there’s a splintery hand on my itchy throat

Y E S

chain-smoking chemical lights with a cat-grin
fangs winking & biting into the swan-lake
neck of the unloving moon
& a peace that’s always prayed for festers in the ears
but the knock that never comes to say
your wishes have arrived pales in your vampiric heart.

my lips, lost in thought, are clotted by an amnion of flesh
to the golden filter of a yellow pack of american spirits
thinking of your living hands, thinking of danger, thinking about
getting out of here, of everywhere
the enemy-skin bleeds of hesitated words or held breath,
i taste my own blood
& like the soft wolves of sudden-grey sleep
waiting there
i lick, fetal-lick. curl & lay.

i’ve got half a mind left, the other half obscure, and that barbed-wire boundary can’t even seek refuge in its own cage. half my mind is somewhere wailing in a hellkitchen into a hollow-bone bottle of blackwood. half my mind where it begs for retreat, for an unexplored path to surrender, raises a white flag into heaven that just comes back down with bullet holes.
& the knuckle-numbing snow days
i miss more than i love my own life linger like smoke outside that bar.
the smell’s in the edges of my hair. the smell is waiting there.
with you. s o m e where.


words = samantha lucero 2017 ©
image = giphy.com.