Michele McDannold

by Horror Sleaze Trash on January 18, 2016

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Michele McDannold has an extensive collection of flannel and rubber chicken heads. She recently settled (haha) in the Northwest region of Indiana, following a short stint on the mean streets of Atwater Village in the city of Angels, California. Epic roadtrips all around, the Magical Jeep takes poetry everywhere. Michele was the Editor-in-Chief at Red Fez Publications for five years and is currently the editor/publisher at Citizens for Decent Literature Press, heading up the “This Is Poetry” project. Her first full-length collection, Stealing the Midnight from a Handful of Days, is available from Punk Hostage Press. The next one will be called pics or it didn’t happen, because well..
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show me
this climate to another
time zone
does the news
& weather report
wreck your hair a different
product placement
at 3am
last week we played
telephone
and the strings
they seared
to your lover’s eyebrows
and i
lost in the skydrive
lost in the ether
of words at trainstops
pics or it didn’t happen
pics or it didn’t happen


———–


at the buffalo
good morning in the still dark
edgy shadows
damp remembrance of yesterday
reporting live from the
drop-in motel
where a combination of
roadside picnics
comforting if not serene
& sad domestic situations
occur
simultaneously
expired honey returns
to her room with
package in tow
maybe it’s work
maybe it’s the kind of work
polite society wouldn’t speak of
i keep watch out of the periphery
wonder if the chinese take-out is okay
without refrigeration
it smells like an
alcoholic’s wet dream in here
on the margins
but this space in the middle
where it’s all warm without a single fuss
where it’s all your scent and mine lingered together
on the bed sheets
where the effectiveness of a single yessss
causes the bedside alarm clock to crackle uncontrollably
it’s probably responding to some bizarro frequency
i forget your name
i forget mine
it is
the best


———–


easy does it with that fire
when he brings me lighters
the non-stop air
is good
setting of alarms
is good
in the mid-day
blues playing
shade drawn
afternoon of him,
life is good.
i barely made it to
presentable,
chores
and nervous energy.
all wasted at the door
as he steps in.
this is the life now
and soon
dinner somewhere
with just the right
breeze
& lighting


———–


if i told you
you wouldn’t believe me
so i just poem it
where the sound of
to blur
the voice
reaches cataclysmic
rendering
you know the one
over crackled phone
over a shallow breath
of yet uncalculated risk
if only the lines
curved right
at the
dial tones
a confession
straight ahead


———–


origin of casual
(burn this one)
the poem where he
meets her
on a bench
at a place
we will never
learn to pronounce
correctly
the walls
drenched in
gasoline–
a lighter
he hands to her.
here you go,
sugar.
burn this one


———–


how to decide if something is triggering
the sound of a dog slurping water
is triggering
the accidental taste of grit,
triggering.
Aqua Net hairspray
& grape kool-aid
ruins me
for days.
the crisp
pronunciation
of
names that begin with
the letter C…
fuck, man.
if i had to sit in his lap again
all four years old and trembling,
blacking out in the worst parts–
this will both torture and comfort you
in years to come.
well it would not do me any worse
for the detached i have come to learn.
but i love you anyway
and all the
mundane
sights, sounds and smells
that get me on a regular basis /+
a lawnmower in the distance,
the blackened room,
the smell of fresh, boiling
water




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