Yard Sales

Three broken chairs
A rusted seesaw
and an assortment of archaic pots and pans
how could that be the sum commutation of life?

She tossed out the bag of her twenties
and sold her thirties for $4.50
she sat on her forties

while contemplating the piano and
for sale-sign on the lawn.

- Chloe Viner

(featured in the poetry forum 05.03.11)

First Time

The biological domain of
a burger.
The lasting consciousness of a
seed
the border patrol of Mexico
the racist, sexist, age-ist blue dogs of
delta.

They turn and tear at your feet
like cobwebs made of steel thorns
sex and madness,
the triple decker bus
and the plastic paper ventricle
pumping out information
on a pacemaker
forgetting the natural rhythm
of symphonies.

Basements of pianos,
keys everywhere
in your underwear
and in your hair
when you walk down the street
it sounds like a five year old
has just placed his hands
on a musical instrument for the first time.

- Chloe Viner

(featured in the poetry forum 10.06.10)

Bystander

She sips the liquor in her mind
to ease the fire in her nest
and all the words she hears remind her not to rest,
inside her womb there is a fire
that lacks everything but denial
and she tips the glass off until it is full
of… empty.
The taste of contempt spoils under her tongue
like a rag or a straight jacket,
urging her to be clean.

The demons of us
laugh at her anguish
knowing that now, there is less to go around.

The abyss of her stomach rocks in pools of acid
aching into a purge of rocks.

The trials inside her cerebrum are futile
as the jury is biased by the color of her conscience
and the judge lacks expertise in this particular suit.

Familiar with the phrase
“Off with their heads”
but lacking the wisdom to challenge the
last king of America
or to pardon the taste of regret.

The line where immigrants are checked for lice and foreign fruits
but swallow balls of poison to afford a tricycle for their
daughter’s ninth birthday
and everybody is bribed into destitution, or worse . . .

passivity.

- Chloe Viner

(featured in the poetry forum 08.08.10)

Closets or Classrooms?

The closet is her Narnia,
between wet coats and leather shoes
she can't hear anything.
She retreats here when the mother beast feels like hunting.
Her teeth bared she rips through the apartment.
Carcasses of furniture and toys strewn across the floor
remind her that
the nurturer is also the werewolf.

She feels for the back of the closet
wishing it could fade into forest,
The beast drags her out
and breathes dragon breath and
cascading thorns.

She closes her eyes and pretends.
Pretends,
she has not woken the beast.

It spits and spews,
setting fire to her t-shirt
then sends her to school
where children bare their teeth
and back her into corners,
forcing her to debate whether
the closet or classroom is worse.

She hides her fear in her pockets,
raises her hand in class
and lets the world disappear behind
the right answers.

Chloe Viner

(featured in the poetry forum 02.09.10)

Strings in your Eyes

They always leave
and you're usually on empty,
they never stay even if you're open
until there is nothing to give them,
but the broken glass inside your thighs
and the tired strings falling from your eyes.

If you sold out when I suggested
you would be on full now
and not jaded outside Los Angeles
with nothing to count on but the tracks inside your shoes
and the light bulbs in his basement.

But this is the way it goes when
no one ever reaches the edge of the abyss
they get lost somewhere outside deer park
and fall prey to the antelopes and their mesmerizing dances.

If I ate last time then there would be no need for us.
but once again I crave the bulging deception of your arms.
two more and a tarantula could have us both
for dinner.

- Chloe Viner

(featured in the poetry forum 11.26.09)