Opalina Salas

(Breakfast with Mama Killa)

A butterfly cut of crimson
Folded over
Lap napkins of skin

Rivulets burgundy
Pinstripes of sin
Sangre sacrada
Red clay pottery
Chipped
On painted
Lips
Smeared
In open palms
Licked off fingertips

She plunges her moonlight
Inside the vacancy
Pulling invisible
Limbs
From
Scarlet walls
Ghost tremors
Of heartbeats
And tiny toes
Kicking away

As so she pulls the waves
From the sea
She pulls the life
From me
Breaking the fast
With a deluge
Of regret
Aimless semen
And
Scrambled eggs.

Hark! What light thru yonder bedsprings breaks?
It’s morning and the mockingbird is pecking it’s smeck under
dripping dew
Glistened blades of cerulean
Shimmering night crusted sleep
Crackles open
Newborn day
Gasps into nicotine stained lungs
Prism sun dappled your sleeping
Form
Wondrously makes me squint in delight

This poem was commissioned by our Poetry Editor in September, 2013. Opalina was offering to write poems for spending money, and MH responded:

        OK, interesting!
        I would like 2 poems:
        Subject 1 – whistling in the dark
        Subject 2 – squinting in the light
        See where ur mojo takes you… mh

        This is one of the two poems she delivered.

Teardrop stalactites

Water crest
Cascades
Marimba tones on unseen terrains
Your hollow heart echoes these refrains
As I whistle in the dark
In lieu of calling your name

This poem was commissioned by our Poetry Editor in September, 2013. Opalina was offering to write poems for spending money, and MH responded:

        OK, interesting!
        I would like 2 poems:
        Subject 1 – whistling in the dark
        Subject 2 – squinting in the light
        See where ur mojo takes you… mh

        This is one of the two poems she delivered.

This is one for the insincere bitches
For the party guests celebrating nothing
For the amplified mediocrity
And the mandatory love slot machines
The slow motion syrup dispensers
The honey coated strings and things of manifest
Of seriousness, deliriousness
Debacles of forced strangeness
And new shit the new shit the new shit I wrote
This one is for the good old boys
The keepers of keys to imaginary worlds
Promises and rock star manifestations
Celebrations of specialness
With tasteless layers of cake
Spread out on wasted tables of disgrace
This is for the depressed spectators of life
Sucking the cock of the microphones like
Transgender concubines
Whirling turbines of the inevitable
Inevitable cycle that will crush itself
Empty spectacles
Word receptacles that will chew and spit you
Back out into bastardized versions
Of yourself, no self, himself out of herself
Never recognizing the softness and purity that
One could encumber themselves gently on
Like swaying clothes on a line on a spring day
Whether they may or may not come to this
Hard conclusion it is delusion to think that anything
Pure should come of this now
No not now
When the wind has been taken from the pure sails and
When soul has been plucked nay torn from the chests
No, breasts of us…see the rest of us
Had stock in something different
Something better than the regret that has split asunder
The plundered sunlight that only a woman
A real woman can bring to the world
One milky pearl of a word at a time
Generation gap set aside
I will no longer stand alone and reside
In the subservient role of your back handed
Remarks, the snide comments or exclusions,
The condescendence and pats on the shoulders
Or the gushing oh the over-the-top gushing
The spirit crushing feeling we get after hours of
The settling in that we are not accepted, merely
Tolerated in your cartoon character parade

If we’re not top heavy or we are too emotionally heavy
Or if we’re big girls who wear our big girl panties
Or we’ve got the brains and we know how to use them
And we’re not afraid to use them, it’s your own delusion
That makes you think you can mistreat us underhandedly
Then go back to your dens and puff on your tobacco filled
Dicks yes this still exists in our own arena or at least in
My world it seems to, I don’t know why.

This is not for the sincere loves
For the funeral that celebrates everything
For the whispering brilliance
The fast and furious vinegar wells
Bitter sour oranges marinating
nothing undone
Of humor and health
Meditation of simple norms
And the old nourishment the old nourishment the old nourishment I lived
That one is not for the misfit
The minion with the locks to the real unknown
The void of common man pacifying
Mourning of the bland
Without Delicious Shit
Stacked on muddy floors of gracefulness
This is not for the jovial participant of death
Spitting the vulvular confines of open air like
Humanoid wives
Stationary wells of the obvious
Obvious linear renewal
Abundant day to day
Speech dispersing that will suck and swallow
Into the original
Of everyone, myself, herself into himself
Always unaware of the hard and debase
Many who couldn’t unencumber others brashly under
Unlike rigid nakedness circling a fall evening
I will or I will not go away from that
Soft question and realization to act that one
Unholy thing shouldn’t become
Yes now
When the stillness has been given to the unholy nets
And the receptacle has been birthed, yes glued to the guts
Yes back of mine, blind to the masses
Empty of anything similar
Anything worse than the intent that hasn’t been complete
The given moonlight that only a man
A false man can take from the unknown
Many dirty stones of silence all at once
Peers embraced
I will sit together in transience
In the dominance of my forthright thoughts
The genuine litany and inclusions
The exhaustion and slaps on the face
Or the loathing the underling loathing
The uplifting numbness I never receive before minutes
Of moving that I am accepted
Not tolerated in reality’s solitary march

If I’m not bottom light or numb
Or a little girl devoid of maturity
Or If I’m unequipped and cannot act
And I’m fearful of it’s uselessness
It’s my own reality that doesn’t create action for caring, and openness
The come to my open fields and drink from my empty vapory vulva
No this ceases to exist in the outer world
Or at its fullest in the unknown
It doesn’t seem to
And I know why.