the western ‘across lots’ will be published this month

so the excerpt of the rough draft of what i was working on, which i mentioned here 800 years ago, will be published in the anthology i submitted it for next month. it’s quite violent. i didn’t think they’d accept it. i’ll post more about it when the book is printed.

they also asked for a ‘headshot’ and a bio. naturally, i’m insane and thought about all the scenarios of people knowing what i look like, but then i remembered i’m a viking and i don’t give a fuck. but, i have no pictures of me unless they look like this:

lol.PNG

which is a more accurate portrayal of me; note the child’s hand holding a giraffe. his name is wilson.

but, i decided to attempt a nicer photo with things that weren’t pajamas on, and also bigger, nerdier glasses. just in case.

so this is what i got.the real one.JPG

 

so now you know what i look like. but if you ever see me, i’m dangerous. don’t approach. 🙂

r.i.p.

here lies you, silent as the dust you’ve built
my favored disgrace, my bookmarked witch.

i hang YOU every morning in the mirror. i curl you back from your pacific grave by the rope i buried you in just to hear you scream again.

it’s your tired eyes that shimmer patiently in the placental dark that makes me hold my breath, makes me ooze ‘why?’

some silky word you cup over my mouth like a burglar’s glove;
sometimes i glint like a knife under the moon.”
 sometimes i want to die.

here lies me, the view from the prison behind my eyes. they have to saw a hole there someday. maybe that’s when i’ll go away.

there was the picture of dorian gray that he would hide from everyone. the monster gnawed by its own teeth, the truth.

i am the picture & somewhere is my better half.


words = samantha lucero 2017 ©
image = not mine. from tumblr.

get back on the highway

this place is dead.
it fell down with me into the velvet soil of a fresh-dug grave.
the wisps of faces from their glory days
where their nuclear shadows burned in time
on concrete walls; you see them in their
jalopies, fretting over marlboro reds
they got by fisting pennies into the coinstar, what a jackpot, and
where to put their name in goblin spray paint tonight at 2am? ask H-i-m.
they say he only
knows.
i see them like ants shuttling home their
crumpled friends on twisted backs.
this place is like an amusement park,
except the amusements here
are people’s lives.
perhaps a haunted house.
it’s the grey toxic place where you couldn’t hold it anymore,
everything evaporating, everything broke, everyone
modern pompeii.
an american nightmare.
the next stop not for another 40 miles. same
shit food, same gas station H-e was at, same
lost girl with overgrown acrylic nails she
can’t afford to fill till next paycheck, maybe
not even then. handing you the 15th batch of
fries. have a nice day.
please help me.  i’m anonymous as a flea.
invisible as pain in the dark.


words = samantha lucero 2017 ©
image = giphy.com

smoking

i live at the end
vanishing in the bed of a wine glass,
a stuck-stain that only dissolves in hot water.
l et  t he  d a rk  o ne  i n,
& maybe your wet fingerprint can rouse me again.
i breathe deep when i’m alone because it’s the only time that i remember i’m alive. i’m here. where are you?
i want a cigarette w/ hot chamomile. it’s 11:59pm & you had a fireplace that night, naked on a floor. the miracle of sleep skips my window, no wonder. the undead mouth of my house is ice-teethed, damp skin emerging from the tub steams. it’s sharp, the air, comforting.
i want the wild-hunt smoke in my throat; the drifting dust in my head, the slit feline focus on the void that softens into ridiculed slumber. the sex/bonfire scent in my hair. dreams with no fingers; no remorse.
i want the way that it made the cold feel like part of my skin. how icy, small, spidery my hand crawls in the winter-white outside reaching thru the firmament of a ripped screen in a tiny kitchen into the starry night, hey, nice apartment. empty as my swallowed eyes.
i lived there when i could smoke.
me & van gogh & christmas eve.
i was alone then, & now
i live at the end
vanishing in the bed of a wine glass,
a stuck-stain that only dissolves with a tongue that can’t reach it.
i breathe deep when i’m alone because it’s the only time that i remember i’m alive. am i still here? are  y o u?
i want to remember what it’s like to love you, to obsess, when i’m at my best.
but love leaves like seasons.
& now i’m the tear in the veil.
the venom cup of breastmilk that waits at the last table.
of all, always ending in the end.
burn me when i die. put me in a dry merlot.
drink my ashes & tell me you’re my grave.
i live at the end
vanishing in the bed of a wine glass.


words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.

the good ones die

 

i wish i could recall the pulsing safety
of my mother’s red, warm womb
that sacred burrow i curled where all i heard
was the watery song of her galloping heart
& the indistinct voice of my uncertain future
where she’d forget i ever lived within her
where i was wove to bone & flesh
& therefore have known her like
no other ever will
where she could not turn her back on me
as she did in life, because she wore me
in the front; a living fragment of her
until it came time i breathe on my own
& since then i’ve always breathed
alone

how did it feel to be carried
in strong arms born on
or near halloween?
to be kissed while i slept
by the bags of blood-blue eyes?
to be ignorant of the
cold, hard truths of life?

before life scrubbed them from my skin
erased them from my spine & eyes
replaced them with fire
& darkness, so that i’d know that
bad memories burn & the good ones die
i wish i had my last memories of peace


words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.

if i had a heart

he ripped into my dreams again last night.  my long lost friend.

he’s the familiar shadow of a silver-tongued deceiver prowling on the wine wall, amnesia like sequins beading from the rusty valley of his pores, wet grass, filthy winter rain for eyes & i wrangle it all in my mouth like a siren capturing sea-gems on her tongue-bed, held like a bullet caught between teeth. a chthonic jeweler fashioning a ring from heartsick-heavy brows overburdened, incurably lone, melted down to the joint, onto the bone. but he’s just an old year’s specter. a christmas carol. the hot graveyard dust my breath makes in the cold. like always, never truly him. my pulseless chest is sore from pressing against empty air.

i don’t remember what his kurt cobain, dirty-blonde lips tasted like, except for when they tasted like me. i tore apart a red rose and walked to the corner of your street. burned secret words. littered the ashes & petals on the concrete. maybe i ripped you apart, too. i begged gods of love to tell me like so: if you love me come back, if you don’t i will know, i will know. & i knew.

i whisper in a jar, a hole in a tree

i love you & you’ll never know

the words are trapped there waiting

like the ocean’s song

twirling its hair inside of a shell

already spit out

but still saying its name

over & over.


words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.