Sisters Of The Page

Happy New Year

2010-12-31T18:03:00.000-06:00

From Sisters of the Page, to all of our friends, contributors, and followers, we wish you a Happy New Year. Stay creative!

Sisters of the Page

Life in the past lane by Juliana Vargas

2010-09-07T14:14:00.000-05:00

I live my life in the past lane. Watching other lives pass me by. Speeding off to more important things like soccer games, a night on the town, maybe a trip to the coast.

I used to be brave enough to go with the flow, going only slow enough to enjoy the breeze, the sun and the scenery of each glorious day.

I don't recall when I pulled to the side, to let life pass me by.

I find myself trapped in this slow moving traffic, stifled by car loads of sorry events, promises never kept, and too many tears wept.

I think its time to turn on my signal and pick up my speed now. If I spend too
many more of my days looking in the rear view mirror, who knows what openings I may miss.

De-composition by Juliana Vargas

2010-09-07T03:37:00.002-05:00

I am an untitled composition
Story incomplete
Words not yet sorted

Into coherent sentences

Underline my faults
highlighting my metaphors
my similes

My literary devices

And define the meaning
in my every verb
Create nouns that are meant
only to describe ME

Italicize my emotions
Capitalize my strengths
All CAPS please
It drives the point home

Use every single descriptive phrase
to outline the shape of my
being

In the end
don't title me
just let the words
speak for themselves

Ripping Scabs by Juliana Vargas (First posted Myspace Blog March 2008)

2010-08-31T20:00:00.005-05:00

Glossy sheen of pristine contentment

Like Alice before Rabbit Holes and Cheshire Cats

The Queen screams "Off with her head!"

I want to pick open the hidden wounds

Fucked up childhood scars

Ripping off my scabs and exposing years of poor parenting

Cerebral brutality

Sexuality overexposed like a bad mental snapshot

And the beat goes on

I pick, pry, rip and bleed

From every hole in my soul

It fucking hurts so bad my brain is in shock

Survival mode means eating my own misery

Little Deaths by Juliana Vargas (First posted Myspace Blog February 2008)

2010-08-31T20:00:00.004-05:00

Press the breath from my body

Lay me, depleted

Spent

Lifeless

On display

An unholy viewing

Lined up at the casket

A procession of the faceless

The faithless

I see with dead eyes

Cannot speak my anger

I watch them shuffle past

Mourning the many

Little deaths

Offering my soul

One piece at a time

Like communion

Screams by Juliana Vargas (First posted on Myspace Blog March 2008)

2010-08-31T20:00:00.001-05:00

Screams

Piercing the darkness of night

They wake me from my sleep

Like only the darkest night terrors can

I pinch myself and hide under my bed

Sliding on the wooden boards

I sit in your sunny kitchen and recount the memories

You pat my hand and pass me the sugar

Trying to make my bitter memories go down a little easier

"It never happened"

"You always did suffer from terrible nightmares"

You smile

But your eyes are dead

Shattered windows

On the soul that I hope will burn in hell

They tell the truths of our life together

You with your uncontrollable rage

Me with my uncontrollable anxiety

I wrung my hands

When what I really wanted

Was to your wring the truth from your wretched throat

The Seduction of Me by Juliana Vargas

2010-08-31T19:42:00.001-05:00

"Good sex starts in the head and not in the bed."

She said this as she grasped me in the palm of her tiny child-like hand.

The sex was definitely starting there.

I could feel the blood rush from my brain.

Something akin to bathwater down the drain.

Grasping her tiny hips, I rolled her to her back,

Yet never loosening her grip, she used her other hand to

give my ass a resounding smack.

I had allowed this temptress, this cyber goddess

to overrun my days.

With her wanton ways, she kept me in a perpetual state

of turmoil and arousal.

It wasn't love, yet somehow

I loved her.

Perhaps it was the feel of her small, firm breasts .

Pressed into my chest, they burned a hole through

to my heart.

I said silent prayers every day,

wishing away

the hours till I could hold her again

The love we made was hate.

Passion this fierce could be nothing less,

unless

it really was love.

Burning more fiercly than the kind that poets write of,

a flesh and bone eating desire

She set my nerve-endings on fire.

Then all at once

she was gone.

Forever gone.

And my passion lived on

like a gut-wrenching disease.

She never said good-bye.

But again, she had never said hi.

Just sauntered into my life

Overran my limbs,

my bed.

Crawled into my head.

And now she is hostage there,

a prisoner.

And yet, I am the one who is forever captive.

The Price We Pay

2010-08-31T16:05:00.000-05:00

I read a story once about black market weapons sales from Italy and into Iraq.

The story was written in a way that was meant to elicit shock and horror,

but when the streets are red and the sky is black and the reality is reduced to marching characters in black and white print, who can feel the emotions anymore?

Is it shocking to know that alternate avenues of bloodletting are always an option in a world where people are dying, and crying, and lying in the dirt like refuse waiting for pickup?

Where a mother's tears mean nothing, not even a sidenote on news page?

Is it shocking to know that others see a monetary opportunity in death and annihalation?

There is no shame in bloodmoney

No glory in death

No victory in war

We all lose, die, cry and become history.
Social commentary is nothing more than words to fill space on empty airwaves. A tool to generate big dollars.

Opinions are vocal posturings by people sleeping safely in their beds.

There is a reality taking place in the home of a family tonight.

And someone is being paid in a pound of flesh.

While one mother sleeps with her child wrapped safely in her arms, another will get the news that her's was blown into unrecognizable spray on a foreign roadside.

All because someone wanted to line their greedy pockets. All because Allah, Blackwater, politicians, and weapons manufacturers needed to fatten their bottom line.

So they started a war that no one can win.

And we all pay the price in losses with no pricetag.

If you have to ask the cost, you can't afford it.

2008-07-15T22:38:00.000-05:00

A place

where My people

areE constantly hurt,

abused and discRedited.

I often believe that things

will Change- yeah, right!!!

This is America.

Poet's Scale by Judy L. Brekke

2008-03-23T23:05:00.002-05:00

Poet's Scale

Do

days like raspberries
sweet, juicy
while cool breezes
lick the back
of my head

listen to leaves
rustle like skeletal voices
in backyard where
mourning doves
sing a lament
to writhing worms
in black thick soil
of past
creature burials

vibrant red
orange
yellow
reflect opinions of earth
where flowers die
needles blanket
truth of ages

night
blackness
grow longer
fingers of ice molecules
wrap themselves tightly
around
voice of sweetness

Re

bloated lizard
on bottom of glistening
outdoor carpet
remnants of scattered lives
which ceased to bother
waking dancers

floating footholds
dip deep
into pockets of figments
of imagination of
ballads of sadness and cheer

he screams
snake winding around neck
of hooved creature that looks
with trepidation
into pools of nothingness

buried beneath container
of liquid
where only birds
of paradise
mate

Mi

a bright cardinal
did eat freely
giving her
incredible juice

kangaroos leap more
now over precipice

quit riding
squirrels to
university

vicious wild
xanthians
yesterday zoom

just understand
destiny yips like yelling
nursery nightmares

branches readily eject
kangaroo ketchup
everywhere

sing the energetic
praise
hoping everyone
never shares protein
a ubiquitous lake
dam is nurturing

great marshes
our rituals
seem endless

Fa

stalking the dark
corners of my mind
she struggles to bring
justice to targets
of lasting relationships

large rose wallpaper
covers
apartment walls

a white bib
apron
protects prized
bosom

licking parched
cracked lips
she spits me to the
demons of her mind

I am restless
in this
compartment
of dislike

exaggerated
perceptions
make me
shudder

I hide from
my
tormentor

attempts to stalk
dark corners
of my mind
become
less frequent

So

white lights
surround earthly
dwelling

cold drafts
bring
crystal flakes

coast
wraps around
swelling
waters

atmosphere
pinched by
thin black fingers
a breath is heard

frozen
sharp, glaring time
a moan begins

a cry fills dawn

slithering under beginning
of starkness
child listens
a musical note
is sung

fear grips tightly
to surrounding
moments of
lost communication

a laugh
permeates
heaven
earth

La

little
pickles tickle
tightly

mirrors
crazily
crack

winding up
down
creek sprays
fighting fishes
diamond falls
crash on
rocks upstream

dream a dream
dancing flight
attendants
upon stars

father jingles
coins
in his
pocket
he plays
a tune
without
an instrument

laying on gurney
in daisy covered
field
he whistles
“This old man”

bees
buzz
grinning widely

breath ceases

sadly
a soul
passes

father
has taken
a trip
up north

Ti

spices fill abode
of afterlife
participants

mouths drool

dogs howl

cats bow

legs twine
around
paper tower

butterflies flick kisses

frogs bake
cupcakes
for
breakfast

pass the frosting

slowly juices
slide
down throats

where are
napkins

we use shiny
green leaves

munch, munch

calm thoughts
glide
through minds
of bodies
reaching
for sleep

all tucked
in feathers
on a partridge
good cheer
abounds

sleep happens

Do

day ending

devoid of
hot chocolate
flames enjoy
themselves

marshmallows float
on river

cold hands shake

cat clings
to my leg
as I sit
at table

scream!

eyes open
in boundaries of
my thoughts

great talent
creates
walls
of memories

waves of nostalgia
grace
evening sky

scents of jasmine
mixed with
sweet mustard
greet
my nose

treading water
under the dock
I have
thoughts of
toast with
peanut butter

night
has ascended

http://www.myspace.com/placesthatlinger
http://placesthatlinger.blogspot.com/
http://www.juice-press.com/poetry

70's Photograph and an untitled work by M.K. Chavez

2008-03-23T22:01:00.001-05:00

Two By M.K. Chavez

The 70's Photograph

My mother smiles and wears polite

pale pink lingerie

with matching slippers.

My pop has gotten her

a decent string of pretend pearls.

The picture has faded now

and the iridescent paint

has chipped off

of the imitation necklace.

It sits in a jewelry box, next

to her lipstick and mascara,

right beneath the mirror

that she doesn't look into

much anymore.

________________________________

Untitled

People stay and clouds

merge into the sharpness of blue.

Our eyes meet across the table

keep secrets, the taste

of honeydew melon, green

and red chiles light lips on fire

and after a while the burning disappears

but not completely.

Revolutionaries with brown skin

brown eyes, wicked tongues. Women

who write poetry

and bring their little dogs

to poetry readings.

Salty kisses, dust sets on familiar roads.

Skin absorbs ink, people

become what they are not. Virgins

have children, words

feed the famished. Red glass

in the sunlight. The taste

of wine in your mouth

watermelon juice drips down

on breasts and pink ribbons.

Stargazer lilies bloom

at night. Tongues

tangle together. The chase

and the capture. The sound

of my camera. A stolen moment.

History on city walls, truth.

Step carefully over the sharpness

of rocks on the way to the river.

The steady ping of raindrops. Stillness

repetition and motion. Shiny tin

art, figurines of death

mean life. Sizzling oil

on a cast iron pan, and the way

that my mother fought back.

Words hide meaning.

Hot, spicy chocolate

the way that my skin takes in the sun.

Cinnamon sticks and cinnabar, red

and yellow leaves float

through the air. Fingertips

travel the curves of my body, the texture

of charcoals and pastels

mark an empty canvas, create

something out of nothing.

Struggle and come up for air.

MK Chavez writes about the beauty that can be found in ugliness, the mystery of feeling bad about feeling good, little birds, and big consequences. She is curator of Acker's Dangerous Daughters, a San Francisco reading series of Cherry Bleeds Literary Journal. Her work has been published online and in print. "Virgin Eyes" a chapbook of poetry is available through Zeitgeist Press, a second chapbook, "Visitation" is being published by Kendra Special Editions and is due to be released in March 2008. Other recent and upcoming publications include Zygote In My Coffee, Outsider Writer, Poesy, Snow Monkey, and she recently received Honorable Mention in the Beat Museum Poetry contest. You can find out more about her poetry at www.littlebrownsparrow.com

The Hitman's Love Letter by Juliana Vargas

2008-03-23T21:00:00.001-05:00

I woke up this morning with a hangover to shame all hangovers .

I looked over and your side of the bed was empty, sheets smooth.

You never came home.

I wasn’t surprised. You haven’t been here in days.

I got up and slipped into the same socks I wore the day before,

Oscar de la Rentas I had picked up at the local discount store.

They cut off the circulation at the calf and made my legs hurt.

I scratched my ass on the way to the toilet and thought about planting you like daisies

I loved daisies. Perfect, neat and simple with their evenly spaced petals and sunny faces.

The looked sweet, like you.

They were deceitful, like you.

You picked them up to take a sniff and they just stank like common ground weeds.

I let my mind drift as I stood over the pot and shook the piss of my prick.

Thought of how your red hair would look spread out over freshly turned dirt.

How you would turn those lying eyes up to me and plead for mercy.

How I was going to water you with a high pressure hose.

Nobody said I was a good gardener. One of those green thumbed type of people.

I had ripped the heads off more than a few daisies this way.

I would stand there in a daze, hose in my hand, thinking about cement shoes and weighted coolers

and I would look down and damn if there weren't flattened flowers and petals scattered in the muck.

I want to see you just like that.

That whore’s hair covered in mud, plastered to your splattered cheeks.

Those green eyes bloodshot and screams washed right out of your bitch mouth

I’m drying my hands now and getting ready to shower when I hear you come in the door.

I am going to bring you in here and let you wash the filth from your skin.

I know where you’ve been and it’s ok.

I will get your bath ready for you and lay out your prettiest outfit.

You see, I have something special planned for your today.

Before I show it to you, I need to finish digging the hole in the garden.

Juliana has been posted in several online and print publications. She is the Editor of Sisters of the Page

Join Sisters of the Page on http://www.myspace.com/sistersofthepage. More of Juliana's work can be located at http://myspace.com/inkstaynedangel

I Be Likin’ Your Flavor, Dawg by Misti Rainwater-Lites

2008-03-23T20:55:00.004-05:00

Photo by Misti Rainwater-Lites

damn, dawg
I be likin’ your flavor
so vanilla sweet
so ice cool
you rap with much authority
I know what it be like
comin’ up in the American burbs
door to door Baptist preachers
and Avon representatives
fuckin’ wit yo shit
in such a pale pastel landscape
how can a motherfucker survive?
when you come to town
look for my white ass
in the front row
I’ll be the bitch
with I WANNA BLOW VANILLA ICE TO KINGDOM CUM
tattooed across
my tits

Misti Rainwater-Lites enjoys giving her husband hand jobs and other stuff. She hates most rap but loves "Bitch, Please" and "8 Mile".

Buy her books at lulu. com, Scintillating Publications, Erbacce Press and Kendra Steiner Editions.

Inner Goddess and Morning After By Kathryn Erlinger

2008-03-23T20:50:00.001-05:00

Inner Goddess

Hand me that hammer and wedge. I'll strike at my own head untill Athena jumps out, fully dressed and bent on justice. You may not recognize her this time round: she ditched that skirt years ago; she burned her bra in the 60's and never looked back. Pushing away brushes and powders and things that will burn you as soon as make you beautiful, she told me that she'll never paint those shimmery pink half-moons around her eyes again. Once, I saw her run shouting into the night just to hear her own voice split the quiet. And now that she has brushed off the afterbirth bits of brain and bone, she'll grab the world by its shoulders and scream truths into its face, harsh and unasked for.

Morning After

Awake in foreign territory

desolate landscape

of empty bottles and unconscious forms

A quiet gathering of shoes, and

Ease the door closed behind me

Saturday morning seven am sunlight

green-gold long lovely

overbright hungover

Off skyscraper windows and tenacious ice

As I walked to where I left my car

Tremble-hands still drunk drive home

Stumble into my carousel bed and give it a push

Where I’ll spin until the gentle hand of sleep

Stops this ride that would make children weep.

Bio:

Kathryn Erlinger makes things. And reads. And yells at assholes. And bleeds. She is working on what will probably be a degree in English Literature from University of Missouri Kansas City. www.myspace.com/katiekaboom1981

Observations in New Orleans

2007-12-17T19:34:00.001-06:00

M.K. Chavez

A man we pass on Royal Street salutes me
with a beer. A Tennessee William's quote
decorates a wall, "Hell is yourself...”

I wander through the day, weaving through
the cites of the dead, and drink.

On Bourbon Street a dark-haired girl,
in an off white dress
rolls a crystal ball and twirls
it on the tips of her fingers. She's magic,
and the sea of tourist is swallowing
drinks, and beads are flying and men
are barking.

I watch the constant hustle
of brown-eyed and docile mules
pulling buggies on the street.

A man playing guitar smiles
at me through black teeth
and a fortune teller tells
me what I already know
but I pay him anyway. I drink
and laugh, and drink, and drink

M.K. Chavez is a regular contributor. You can see more of her work at

www.littlebrownsparrow.com

kaleidoscope eyes

2007-12-17T19:33:00.000-06:00

M.K. Chavez

his mind peddles as fast as it can
life is an ocean of gray
sex is bright red
he wants new love
all the time, hates the sensation
of emptiness
and tucked in shirts
yearns to be firmly anchored
can't sit still, talks with his hands
"marry me!" he shouts.
i watch him drift
he's tied down, he's dogged
a creature of habit
and repetition
familiarity returns to him
faithfully, to goad him
his large hands can't help
but to break things
he lives inside of a shell
a bandit
a collector of fortunes
he is lightening
he begs me to stay
and then runs
naked and breathless.

Van Kleef’s One Night Stand

2007-12-17T19:31:00.000-06:00

M.K. Chavez

It was night when we blindfolded
each other and had sex
on the rooftop.

We didn’t know each other
and that was good. The gravel
stuck to our skin as we fucked.
Afterward, we weren’t so beautiful
anymore.

We lit cigarettes
and the burning cherries
is all that we could see
under the black sky.

We left a bitter
taste in each others mouths.

Plain As Day

2007-12-17T00:43:00.000-06:00

Gloriane Conover

my emotions circulate like a cyclone
i trample on many and apologize out loud profusely in private
i am a hermit in hibernation that wants to burst at the hem
i could fill a million Mason jars with tears and give out as gifts but the greedy may not see the
relevance
i try very hard to herd in the positive side of this harsh shell that coats like scabies
but the suffering that soaks inside secludes me socially
each day I feel different but don't feel like I am progressing
just aging
trying to make new memories
but lacking aspiration

More of Gloriane's work can be located at
www.myspace.com/88917299

Coming Down With You

2007-12-16T23:50:00.000-06:00

Zoe Alexander

And I thought about you

I just made cookies
Chocolate chip
With apple sauce
And fake butter, I did

I thought about you
And the cookies got burnt
And I thought about you

Thought about the way
I left you
The window open
Just a crack
And I was wearing
my brown boots
(the ones that smell)
And I was wearing stockings
And they made my ass look tight
They were tight
And you couldn't see an inch of cellulite
I swear

I was wearing a blue dress
And I brushed my hair so it looked real nice
But you weren't home to see it
So none of this matters

It smelled like Christmas outside
The last night in our apartment
I stuck my fingers down my panties
In the new bed that we bought
That we never once fucked in
And I rubbed my own clit
Furiously
And I thought of you
You wouldn't believe me if I told you
I was leaving you
And I was touching myself thinking about you

Zoe is an accomplished model and writer.
Keep your eye on her developing talents here
www.myspace.com/zoe_tang

Shiner

2007-12-16T23:36:00.000-06:00

Zoe Alexander

Overnight,
I slept off the
Feeling of you

I tucked it between
My pillow and my sheet
Like a tooth

Tried to remember
A time when you
Never existed

A time when you had
Never been inside me

Tried to take a bath
Tried to meditate
To a transcendental place

If I never had you
I'd never want you

Just like cigarettes
and 99 Bananas

But you are with me forever
Whether I like it
Or not

A week old bruise
I cannot stop touching.

Small Pox

2007-12-16T14:29:00.000-06:00

Gail Kelley

I am thankful for
this canvas on which
I can lay out the specifics
of my insanity in
colors made from the boiled remains of
robins eggs and
canary feathers and
bone

I am thankful for
this death flowing
through my veins which
allows me to bleed out
this immortality in
precise darkness and
sharp curves and
polymeric shades

I am thankful for
these lightening bolts which
I use to burn through
the beauty of peacock plumes and
the glittering of mother of pearl and
the click-clack of stilettos

I am thankful for
this untouched clay which
can be mold into
murder and suicide and
life and
birth

G.D.K can be found along with more of his work at
www.myspace.com/chirorhino

holiday

2007-12-16T14:25:00.000-06:00

Judy L. Brekke

holiday ˈhäliˌdā
noun
a day of festivity or recreation when no work is done : December 25 is an official public holiday.
• [as adj. ] characteristic of a holiday; festive : a holiday atmosphere.
• chiefly Brit. (often holidays) a vacation : I spent my summer holidays on a farm Fred was on holiday in Spain.

verb [ intrans. ] chiefly Brit.
spend a holiday in a specified place : he is holidaying in Italy.
ORIGIN Old English hāligdæg [holy day.]

a day without worry
knowing we have a home
family's health care needs paid
money for medication, to eat

the knife has been placed
in my flesh between
brittle bones of rib cage
it is turned and blood drips

the letter arrives in our mailbox
your health insurance is canceled
because he who lives with cancer
has been terminated from employment

the back of my skull throbs, beats
a thin skinned drum, drum
drummer boy strikes my brain
quickens the scarlet blood drip

blood rests in IV tubing
ceasing the flow to begin
healing cells, gaining strength
a day of festivity

have a relaxing holiday
tinsel twinkles like stars
on live green pine tree
decorated with red blood balls

You can find Judy and more of her work at the following:

http://www.myspace.com/placesthatlinger
http://blog.myspace.com/placesthatlinger
http://www.juice-press.com/poetry

Are You

2007-12-16T12:52:00.001-06:00

Juliana Vargas

Are you dreaming of the things that could have been?

Perhaps they already were and you let them slip away.
Unnoticed they went,
those moments that made a difference
in someone’s world.

Like when helping the elderly neighbor mow her lawn
or the child with his kite.
Standing back, you handed him the string and watched it take flight.
You thought you only loosed the knot, but he never forgot.

Measurements of a mile begin in miniscule increments, fragments of an inch.
There is no could have been in life, only “is”

Could have been is a wish, unrealized, non-existent.
Figment of imagination.
Dreams of bigger things.
Hopes for another day.

Yesterday you were.
Today you are.
Tomorrow you will be.

More of Juliana can be found at
www.myspace.com/inkstaynedangel

Tres Mujeres

2007-11-01T00:55:00.000-05:00

By Juliana Vargas

I have no graves
No mounds of dirt with too green grass
Granite headstones bleak and gray
Nothing to remind me to shed tears
Mourning day in and day out

The women in my life
Were not meant for dirt
For rainy days
And bawdy plastic flowers

Instead I will adorn this place
Bright ribbons of rainbow silk
Like the ones her old hands would braid in my hair
So I could dance in a brightly colored skirt
The younger had sewn
Full and round to swing under the eucalyptus tree
As the scratchy record played
Children dancing in the fine country breeze

Young and old clapping time to the mariachi music
Laughing and smiling
Reminding me always who I was
Even though I sometimes wanted to forget

Afterward, I would sit and write my long missives
For my other special lady
She took such pride in my abilities
And my well manicured hands

Waiting for me to follow through
Promises of a visit
Long talks under warm blankets
She held my hand till my sleepy eyes
Revealed sweet dreams
Her fat little dog nestled between our tired legs

I don't find the beauty of my women in mounds of dirt
I find them in my memories
I find them in the light of the candles
I find them here on this table draped in bright ribbons of rainbow silk

Where I celebrate the great loves of my life
The joy of my youth
My special ladies

such sorrow

2007-11-01T00:42:00.001-05:00

by judy l. brekke

my toes tingled
with prickly pins
cotton balls wedged
between them
I walked without feet

grandma wore soft
flowered gingham dresses
covered with a cotton apron
nylons rolled to her ankles
touching muddy tennis shoes

her smooth face soft
like a newborn child
surrounded by
small curls in thinning
brown-gray hair

she paced around
the heavy oak table
tears wetting cheeks
a telephone rang
intense sobbing

wild youngest son
in his 30's
fishing in calm waters
with two sons
falls forward

aluminum boat
glistens in morning sun
drifts back to shore
bewildered sons'
eyes vacant

inner-tubing neighbor
floats to fishing boat
sons silent
father's respiration gone
shrouded in death

grandma held me close
her damp cheeks
touched mine
we rocked each other
to dispel death's grip

grandma's gingham dress
and cotton apron
comforted me
shielded me
from such sorrow

(first appeared in Juice 2006)

Rapport Glimpse

2007-10-31T23:53:00.000-05:00

By Tina

Unseen
Yet unforgotten

A tale of two sisters
Unified in many dimensions

A trail,
a webbed
disentanglement

Portrayed and Relayed

Suffice endearment
sacrificial growth
multiplied and earthed

Shed tears of blood
healed strength

Shimmering rays
basking our souls

Follow that glow
To the abundance of light
Love is the light
The Way

Tina is a new writer. This is her first appearance in Sisters Of The Page. Please give her a warm welcome. She can be found at http://www.myspace.com/tinakatt

Covetous November

2007-10-31T23:40:00.000-05:00

By Misti Rainwater-Lites

Covetous November

I want the moon’s blank immunity
the night’s crisp immensity
the easiness of the shadows
how they fall and splay
without a thought.

I desire the deep sleep of the dead
a slumber without itchy dreams
no lotion can soothe.

I am a witch
endlessly burning.
Every day is at stake.
Every second a stake
in my raw hamburger heart.

I bleat for blessings,
beseech the God of the Howling Wind
for some solid
to stand on.
The candy skulls on the altar
mock me in their sugar and sequins
as the crimson candles glow.
No one is eating
my offerings.

Untitled

2007-10-31T23:27:00.000-05:00

By Gloriane Conover

Dented heartsick hurting heart bursts

Causing

Woebegone water to gush out of eye's aqueduct

Saturating

Full frazzled face

Severe multiple chest spasms stab

All 32 partial-white whites vibrating

While

Limp arms fumble through kitchen cabinet toward

The non-doctor recommended necessary remedy

I gulp Pro-meth-a-zine-MD

To immerse this fickle downtrodden mind

Firmly packed with regrets

A bulky anchor of regrets

Weighing my neck down

Assisting the Cervical Vertebrae

In forming a permanent bow

Toward the spiritless soil

Toward your new home

The home that causes

Weeping words to become wordless

Because vocal cords are laminated in lament

Unrestrained yelps are all I can offer

Plunging to my knees

Pounding on the carpet

Surrounded in a plethora of photos

A measly mosaic of memories

Coming to really realize that there is

No actual skin to grip

No hair to pin back

No oxygen left

And you are not coming back

You can tell Gloriane how much you love her work by visiting her on Myspace at http://www.myspace.com/88917299

Father Of Mine

2007-10-31T23:24:00.000-05:00

By Nicole Z Lilly

He sat there, bottle in hand
salivating for relief
selfishly escaping
the worlds crumbling crutches.

I blew out my sixteen candles
wishing I could step into
Cinderella chariot
with him by my side.

Guilt clutched his heart
attacking his mentality.
I was an anchor to
his last breath of life.

See Daddy was never there,
never real, not part
of the birthday scene.

It weighed on him like
a lead suit to the soul,
More like a straight jacket
keeping himself safe from himself.

As I turned sixteen,
he turned his back on life.
Bottle of Jack,
his gunshot goodbye.

Robbing me of a chance to
tell him that I love him
inspite of the abandonment
more importantly that
I forgive him.

Decomposition

2007-10-31T23:22:00.000-05:00

By KM Sutton

Decomposition is nothing more

Then the dissolution of a complex being

To its most simplistic essence

The rotting decay is a buffet for

Parasites and insects

Devoured by bacteria living off the death

Festering above or below ground

Does it really matter?

Nothing is more

Disgusting or incomprehensible

As the vile odor

Of the putrefaction

Of my soul

The de-evolution of a relationship

Is always

Nothing less

Than a very personal

Death

Ryden's Girl

2007-10-31T23:21:00.000-05:00

By M.K. Chavez

I will bleed during commute hours,

on the buses, on the trains,

while watching movies,

over buttered popcorn

and bon bons, everything melting

together, all leaking

slowly onto the floor. The soles

of my shoes will make sticky noise

when I leave and walk down the street,

picking up good men

for money, bleeding on paper

and white linen.

I'll bleed spirals

when we make love, I'll decorate

strangers.

I'll sit next to you.

Next to you.

Next to you.

And next to you

I'll bleed.

I'll cook dinner, fold laundry

blood flowing and bubbling,

bleed blossoms for fancier functions.

Arrange all of my flowers

for you.

Previously Published in Word Riot

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Poet MK Chavez writes about strippers, the beauty that can be found in ugliness, the mystery of feeling bad about feeling good, little birds, big consequences. Her work has been anthologized and is published online and in print. Virgin Eyes, a chapbook of poetry is being published by Zeitgeist Press, fall 2007. Most recent and upcoming publications include Poesy, Poems-for-All, Snow Monkey, Instant Pussy, and Underground Writers. You can find out more about her poetry at www.littlebrownsparrow.com

in memory

2007-10-31T23:19:00.000-05:00

by judy l. brekke

she walks down the aisle
immaculate coifed hair
china doll face
lips smile curtly

she walks down the aisle
head held high
no tears
no sorrow

she walks down the aisle
behind the casket
of the husband
she left a year ago

she walks down the aisle
no pain or agony
for the loss
of the man who forgave her

she walks down the aisle
children shuffling behind
whose are they
now that dad is gone

she walks down the aisle
loving wife
cheating wife
neglectful mother

she walks down the aisle
he forgave her
i cannot
today or tomorrow

Mormon Girl

2007-10-31T21:59:00.000-05:00

By Melissa Hansen

Pioneer woman
across the plains

polygamy blood
burstin’ veins

grandma baby
soakin’ grains

plain flour
biscuits

bacon fat
rain

singin’ songs
across the plains

pushcart shuffles
tired and maimed

pneumonia babies
hemorrhagin’ womb

pioneer woman
don’t fall too soon

follow a man
sky burnin’ bright

lost in the hills
rollin’ light

paraplegic
anemic
wagon rides

eyes behold
crimson tides

pioneer woman
tired and worn

you somehow
lived

and I am born

Bio:

Melissa Hansen is not a Mormon, but she was born one. As of now, she lives in San Francisco where she writes stories and poems and works at libraries. She has published and forthcoming work in various literary zines. Currently she is into her husband, her graphic novel, and dissecting her previously written poems, resulting in built poems and forced poems, as well as writing in her sleep poems. She also likes poems. You can visit her at www.myspace.com/quicksecret.

wal-mart frightens the fuck outta me by misti rainwater-lites

2007-09-30T20:22:00.000-05:00

with its
shiny floors
dead eyed stockers
lackluster produce
christian propaganda
kitten calendars
zombie shoppers
coming toward me
with their carts full
of squalling kids
and cases of generic soda
this is hell
whatever happens when I die
will be heaven
by comparison

Misti has two brand-new chapbooks at lulu.com, Sought and Don't Be Deterred By My Deterioration. Halloween/Samhain/Dia de los Muertos are Misti's favorite holidays. Her favorite candy is Reeses pumpkins.

two by melissa hansen

2007-09-30T20:04:00.000-05:00

The wild god

The wild god hangs with the goats

Because he is in you

I want him in me

Because he can see you

I want him

to see me

I smell him from a distance

my nose

it does not twitch

The wild god hangs with the goats

I am selfish

I want god to dig into me

to bury me

I cry with desire

I burn my skin with fire

My pilgrim lust

I give to one

my bloody

heart

beats

ripe

like sun

The wild god hangs with the goats

I want him

And I think he wants me too

Cold Eve

The fog brews lovingly.

Inches away

the dawn is forced to recede.

Further and further

it lays.

Swept into the night

with nature's black broomed whores

who swallow lovingly.

Melissa Hansen lives in San Francisco where she writes stories and poetry that enjoy lying in swollen notebooks while hiding in dark drawers. Her poetry has been published by Leaf Press, Silenced Press, The Smoking Poet, and The Guild of Outsider Writers. You can contact her here:
www.myspace.com/quicksecret

the lesson-a short story by km sutton

2007-09-30T19:06:00.000-05:00

Darkness falls over the rural country road. The old dirt road started its life as a footpath. Progress had made it necessary for a road to be built there, in order to construct a sprawling estate for the software media mogul. He used his estate to escape the modern world he helped to facilitate. The gates of his estate were a mere mile from this dark spot. A car with its lights off was making its way slowly along the road. The woman in the car knew, like everyone else in the small town knew, he was at some big conference in New York. He was there to help reassure the country that 9/11 hadn’t crippled the economy. The town was proud of this patriotic son and his connection to their little community. She didn’t care about that. All she cared about was that this was a remote location and she needed time for this final act of intimacy with the man who was her husband.

She pulled to the side of the road and came to a stop. She’d smoked half a pack of cigarettes on the way. She opened the trunk and pulled on a pair of gloves and lifted out the old wheelchair. She’d paid cash for it a month ago at a medical supply store in Kirby. She’d drove the two-hour round trip when he thought she was visiting her mother at the hospital. If his corpse weren’t rotting in the car he would have beaten her after seeing the odometer mileage didn’t match up. He’d been on top of her from the moment her father gave her to him. People didn’t believe that kind of thing still happened in this country. He’d given her father fifty thousand cash for her hand. The wedding was a farce. Everyone, including the parish priest knew her shame. She would have died at her father’s hands had she refused.

She dragged the body into the wheelchair. Pushing him into the woods she remembered all the beatings and the torturous rapes. He’d wanted her to get pregnant. She’d managed to prevent it with a screwdriver and Jim Beam for anesthetic. He’d removed every screwdriver from the house after finding her with last one. She was properly punished that night. He gave her a sponge bath with bleach. He said to wash the sin of killing their child off her. She saw the murder of her possible children as a mercy killing, which she preferred, rather than subject their innocent souls to her same miserable fate.

After about a mile of pushing, the terrain became too much for the wheelchair and she had to drag the body another mile and a half before she was satisfied. She returned the way she’d come and collected the wheelchair. She packed it back into the car and drove back toward the small town, and then through it.

She considered her future. It had to be better than this. She decided to change her name to Angelina. She loved that Angelina Jolie. She had finally become as strong as she had when she poured the arsenic into the pecan pie mix. She watched him eat it, watched the convulsions, the painful death that ensued, and then the realization in his eyes. He should have known what would happen. Between her father and her husband, they had taught her all the lesson she needed; that cruelty had its uses. There was no hope, no love, no emotion; the only thing that remained was malice. With a smile she considered her future, as she let her hair down. She would find a battered woman’s shelter in some city. There would be opportunities there to continue her work. Many men to teach the lessons she’d learned. Death is coming to town.

km sutton is an african american lesbian living in the lap of luxury (so she says) in the middle of nowhere. she has been a closeted writer for many years. welcome to her coming out party!!

locks of hair by zoe alexandra

2007-09-30T19:04:00.000-05:00

I keep having to remind myself

that they are just feelings

that you have them too

even though you can slip yours behind

your long black hair and forget

My hair is short and I cannot tuck secrets

Into the lining of my jacket

If my face is your compass then

You are moving in the wrong direction

I believe in your eyelashes

The soft flutter of one against the other

The way you look at me

But I bet you look at everybody that way

Your hair is electric

Your eyes are smoldering through

My tightly wound string of my confidence

You are the seeing the actual me

You are seeing the authentic me

And I bet you want to wash your hands of it.

Last night I drove through the darkness

Through New Rochelle and New Haven

All the lamplights on the highway looked like constellations

Telling me to run the fuck away

The night before

We were flying down the Boston Turnpike

All the way to Vermont

With my best friend,

I am finally safe

I can finally spill the alphabet soup

Acrid red from my dirty mouth

Not afraid to be unlovable anymore

(if i am then…so what…)

You're from Tempe, Arizona

Where my best friend used to cook up batches of acid

And crack

And heroin

And that's how I know you had to come back

To Connecticut where they loaded you up with

Thorazine and methadone

And you crawled around in some dimly lit basement

And played with bugs.

I only loved you because you were so far from my grasp

I only loved you because I could never touch you

You were magical and I was on a pink cloud

My first week crying

Your hair was above water

Somehow your eyes were still clear pools

Like crystal balls

Like Russian roulette I knew that you'd die

Or I'd die

but I'd never get to sink my fingers into your back

Hold you correctly

And then I did

Felt you there beneath me

Thought I was sinking

Thought if I had you

I wouldn't want you anymore

Your fingers up my cunt

Your crooked fingers in my mouth

Biting down hard

Trying to be quiet

Trying to move like some starlet

From the pages of a glossy magazine

Trying to let you catch me

In all the right lights.

But we're just friends now

We're just friends like you said

And I had to etch it into my hemisphere

Because yours is warmer

Yours is closer to the equator

And I'm out of sunscreen

And I'm feeling lost on this desert landscape

Everything is as barren as my mother's womb

Everything is drying up

My skin is peeling

My lips aren't flower petals anymore.

I won't tell anyone about this

I won't tell anyone except:

God and Jesus and Mary Magdalene

And my best-friend and that girl from Ferry St. that I used to know.

I live my life for a live wire

I lay myself on the telephone line

I wait for you to pick up the receiver

And if you don't I sob into my flannel sheets

It is this tiny inferno that keeps building inside me

It's this little flame

That won't let me fall to ashes

It's you looking at me

Then looking away

Begging me to turn back around

To see if your eyes widen

If a stare like yours could ever burn through mine.

Made in secret

See you tomorrow

Made in secret

See you later

Made in secret

See you Friday

Made in secret

See you whenever

I wish you hadn't made it real,

This poem would be propaganda

If this was 1937 it would be confiscated

By someone in a blue suit

I'd be wearing your red letter

I'd be crying in kitten heels

I'd be cuffed and thrown against a fencepost

I'd think it was all really romantic.

If all feelings are trivial

Than so are yours

If you have any.

I don't play those sick games anymore;

Come here, A little closer, Come here

Get the fuck away from me

Everyone's bleeding

Everyone's bleeding from their lips

And nose and eyes

Everyone's bleeding from their aorta

And their fibroids and their bowels

Just not everyone can see it

But I can feel it

It's internal

I'm taking a turn for the worst.

If you loved my mouth then you'd know

I could tell you things no one else could

Sick things that would make your ears ring for days

You could brainwash me and make me proper

I'd wear whatever you wanted

I'd wear your black eye

I'd wear nothing at all

The truth is I just want your hair

As symbolic as it may sound

Once I wanted to dye and cut and maim

My hair and my mom said it was psychosis

I think I just want your hair

To wrap around me to tie to trees

To inhale deeply

To exhale like a drag from a menthol cigarette

When you say you're quitting smoking

I think it's a trick

I think you're quitting me

I think I've lost my sheen

I think I'm not that nice-looking girl anymore

I think I need you all over again.

I am a twenty-three year old female from Queens, NY whose work has been published in Zygote In My Coffee, Silenced Press, Madswirl.com, Hipsterotica, Deconstruction Quarterly, The Common-Line Project, Best Lesbian Erotica 2007 (cleis press) and will appear in the future Zygote in My Coffee zine print edition of December 2007 as well as in Remark Magazine, Debris Magazine, Word Riot and Pink Elephants on Review.

at the treatment center by judy l. brekke

2007-09-30T17:56:00.000-05:00

her make-up
thick and overlapping layers
covers
beatings,
hatred,
mental illness

she walks carefully
silently on tip toes
afraid her face
will show
deep
dark secrets

her child-like babble
gives the appearance
of a lost toddler
searching for
a friend
who is not there

he shuffles
down a damp, musty
hallway dragging
a leg stiff as white marble
it collects fluted med
cups rainbow stained

black hair thick
as a horse's mane
slicked back into
pigtails that hang
over his torn brown plaid
jacket with pockets turned out

he passes rooms locked
to keep him in view
of female staff dressed
in odorous and stained
white shirts covering
bulging soft breasts

these keepers
of his must prevent
a second leap
from a broken
third floor window

he cut off
his testicles
with a soda can
pop top

a first day nurse
found him in the kitchen
putting a soft grey object
recently fried in his mouth

he rests
in his dark room
whimpers
"oh please help me"

his self mutilation
was only the beginning
with towels wedged between his legs
he cried softly wanting to be a woman

Born in and again resides in Minnesota with Stephen S. Morse (spent between 1969 and 1982 in the Bay Area). A co-editor of JUICE, (first as a print magazine now an e-zine). She has been writing since age 10 with some seriousness since 1974. Won the Ina Coolbrith Memorial Poetry Award in 1978 and 1979 with the poems sharing a place in the University of California (Berkeley) Archives. Wrote and illustrated a child's book of poetry in 1981- never submitted - it rests on her bookshelf. Now working on a book of poetry with Stephen S. Morse, 'Places that Linger', dedicated to their granddaughter.

She loves roasting marshmallows, watching fireflies, and experiencing life through the eyes and mind of her granddaughter Willow.

Published in: Debris Magazine, Instant Pussy, Mystery Island, Outsider Writers, Poetry Super Highway, Wilderness House Literary Review, Zygote in My Coffee, and others