“It’s a hard armor we wear waiting for trains and saviors to happen.”–Lorri Jackson

Let this rummage of uterine captivity undress itself until years of a life unchord my spine, rot the teeth, and styrofoam the skin. Alcohol recognizes me. Drugs are just closer cousins. Basement vantage breaks open gray through the bruised pane in a neighborhood in a city. Blurred tattoos, hairspray, and leakage of brute rage blister some kind of forward movement. Anyone watch the act of change scare itself? I’m fluent in gaping cracks poling me with swelling innards and transient bleeds.

No, I did recognize time grit my tailspin in a sick embrace. It sustains me. The dead flower collection is a preamble to beauty’s naked leer of misery. Doesn’t everyone simmer daylight until it evaporates, wait for the burner of yellow sky to swelter the inner thighs? Sticky and half-baked hope of what becomes just another pock-marked skeleton drunk on its own marrow.

9 Comments

  1. Robert Vaughan

    Hi Meg, you wizard of the poetic prose. You slinger of breath-taking phrase after phrase. I could use every single gorgeous line in your piece as an example of exceptional, lush writing with the best of the best- Gabrielle Lutz, Janet Frame, Dhuna Barnes. I love the Lorri Jackson quote that sets the tone for the entire two paragraphs. And what you accomplish, that overall sense of dread and doom. Also love the two questions posed: ‘Anyone watch the act of change scare itself?’ (W-O-W!) and ‘Doesn’t everyone simmer daylight until it evaporates, wait for the burner of yellow sky to swelter the inner thighs?” (HUZZAH!) Where do you come up with this stuff? It reminds me of the When Harry Met Sally line- “I’ll have what she’s having.” Yes, please.

  2. Koss Just Koss

    Amazing, Meg, all of it, but this: “rummage of uterine captivity undress itself . . .” Keep reading it over and over. And it smells without a reference to scent.

  3. John Steines

    HI Meg: Hard to pull anything out of this without putting it all in quotes as is, yet I do, as fragments still stick out for me within the sentences, paragraphs – small bits that smack the eye. Below are all fragments of description that stand out from the – dare I say, perfect whole. Fragments catch my eye, I suppose because of the particular melody, their insertion into the larger whole, the seep in how they capture. You are such a master. Great to read your work. I can barely comment one fragment to the next. I just sit and go over them. Maybe ‘time grit my tailspin’ tops my chart for the use of ‘grit’ set between ‘time’ and ‘my tailspin’, then ‘Doesn’t everyone simmer daylight’ and ‘unchord my spine’…see, this is endless. Such a wonderful trip to flow through.

    ‘Let this rummage of uterine captivity undress itself’ ‘unchord my spine, rot the teeth, and styrofoam the skin.’ ‘the bruised pane in a neighborhood in a city’. ‘hairspray, and leakage of brute rage blister’ ‘the act of change scare’ ‘I’m fluent in gaping cracks poling’

    ‘time grit my tailspin’ ‘dead flower collection is a preamble’ ‘naked leer of misery’. ‘Doesn’t everyone simmer daylight’ ‘swelter the inner thighs?’ ‘Sticky and half-baked’ ‘pock-marked skeleton drunk on its own marrow.’

    Cheers and cheers and cheers. j

  4. David O'Connor

    Meg, this is perfect, no a beat out of place and so powerful too. Send it to a big mag, it deserves an audience. It’s just wow, seriously.

  5. David O'Connor

    Wait…. I think it needs a stronger title (ain’t there always something) maybe from Lorrie Jackson: eg.
    “Hard Armor” or “Saviours to Happen”

  6. Nancy Stohlman

    I basically want to underline every line in here for musicality, originaity, and devestating beauty. But here are a few of my faves:
    The dead flower collection is a preamble to beauty’s naked leer of misery.
    Let this rummage of uterine captivity undress itself
    Anyone watch the act of change scare itself? I’m fluent in gaping cracks
    Doesn’t everyone simmer daylight until it evaporates, wait for the burner of yellow sky to swelter the inner thighs?

    What I love about it, and what I love about non-sense in general, is that it forces my frontal lobe brain to stop trying to “find” the story and make sense of things, as this workshop is aptly titled, and instead just feel it in my molecules. Feel it the way classical music feels: no words.
    xo

  7. Chelsea Stickle

    Holy hell, Meg! What a closer! “Sticky and half-baked hope of what becomes just another pock-marked skeleton drunk on its own marrow.” I mean, damn. That’s how you end a piece. I’m intrigued by this assemblage of words; “brute rage blister” and may have to incorporate it into my daily life! It feels very relatable. Waiting is such bullshit.

  8. Adrian Frandle

    hi – sorry for coming in late!

    “Drugs are just closer cousins. Basement vantage breaks open gray..” really struck me. There’s a closeness implied with cousins/basement for me, but also the distancing of drugs and vantage and gray. Although unrelated they’re all in tonal conversation in a really interesting way.

  9. Sarah Freligh

    Meg, I just love your mighty and muscular images throughout. The verbs especially do some terrific heavy lifting, especially early on: undress/unchord/rot/styrofoam—you’re a master of anthimeria and the device serves this piece beautifully. A shout-out, too, to the epigram, which gives me (as a reader) a container, an orientation for what follows, a sensing to the wonderful chaos, as it were. Well done!

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