FRESH, uncommon use of VERBS and metaphor _ Try it You'll Like iT - Debbie Guzzi's Blog

CONSTITUTIONAL by Jaime Forsythe

Her Silent Silohouette Art by Conway

Plane balanced on a cloud
carves a grave telegram.
If we gather our venom in one place,
it will die in the fire. Tumour be gone.
Foaming under flannel, long 
for weather, long for nuclear 
feeling. The thin robber poached
the change jar, left our linen
floating on the line.

One night only: a memory screens 
on a farmhouse ceiling. The stars
onstage ate sponge cake
before playing. We held our jealousy
careful as injured wrens.
Swampy vocals, dirty fork on an amp,
smashed lilies in the circle pit 
made a map of the downtown core.
Roped into an espresso at midnight,
strange coos in the alcoholic 
hallway. The only one at the punk show
in a pea coat. When shown the sky,
a new device named Ursa Major. Snares
shivered lonely on the concrete. 

Never too early, never solo.
Time melts as mint concoctions stream
from the shaker printed with remedies.
Suspended on our backs, stuffed, ear
canals filling with brook,
the patterns on the bridge’s underside
a silent film. Air thick with the bee
mortality rate keeps the crops
from curing arthritis and leaking ink
for acid lyrics. Plastic hot dog
lost in the current. 

Rawhide in my pocket trails
a ribbon of scent, perks up the dozing
huskies. The leafy swish
of her crinoline, faceless
monsters in the corn.
Please respect the corn. 
It took us months to grow it, 
and your parents first met 
in its rustle. Shards of my shadow
lives gather in the basement, form
a support group, with punch. 
Just when I find solace against a cool 
wall, a panel begins to move. The green
room is bare, but if you stand in its heart,
you can feel the weight of smock,
stethoscope, and scalpel, the energy
of the current that keeps your spirits high.
Fog is a curtain around the operating table. 

We tried to coax the bees into the squash
flowers, but the seeds were rotten to start.
They pour something blue on the beds
and enjoy pastel drinks laced with fertilizer.
Dessert ruined: cream shook to butter too quick. 
Conversation a muddy pool, an empty trap.
The rhythm is recorded first before
the voices, one at a time. At one time, women banded
together: cigarmakers, tailoresses, umbrella
sewers, capmakers, laundresses, shoeworkers. 
A felt-skirt factory, a picture-frame factory. 
Many roamed the cities looking for food. 
Their babies took what they had 
and placed it back into the ground,
eating earth, drooling
as their teeth grew in.
The little ones squinted at shrubs
and dreamed of woolly mammoths
chewing at their land.

First Printed in the Rusty Toque Issue 7

Do you see, can you read and value, the freshness, the unique way this woman expresses herself? What are your favorite metaphors? Which lines gave you pause- to read again and ponder?