Excelano Project presents…Lords of the Fly: April 2nd & April 3rd
Posted by Chloe Wayne | Filed under Announcements
Excelano Project presents…Lords of the Fly
Spring 2010 Show
Penn’s premier spoken word collective is having its spring show this coming weekend! Do not miss your chance to come out and see the sickest display of filthy poetic awesomeness in the western hemisphere!
Tickets on the walk every day starting Monday. Pick em up early because they will sell out!
April 2 & 3 @ 8pm
Dunlop Auditorium
$8 on the walk
$10 at the door
$9 ONLINE
The End
Posted by Chloe Wayne | Filed under Poetry, Print
to my best friend:
i know one day you will unlearn the algebra of his face. on nights when insomnia jackknifes its way across your eyelids, you will unfeel the cold in its blade.
its been three years. you’ve been trying to find a wrinkle of rainbow in your bruises, a rainbow you swear he put there back when he’d look at you that way. eyes clinging, he is chewing gum.
and sometimes your footsteps lose themselves in translation, but i know you’ll leave him. i know you’ll find your eyes again. you used to sing from the green melting into your pupils, there were mockingbirds there. you marooned them on a question mark two years ago. they’re silent, but i hear them smiling. breasts bursting like banana trees on fire and a song in undertow. they haven’t died yet.
In Lieu
Posted by Chloe Wayne | Filed under Poetry, Print
Not sure where to begin.
I could tell you how I saltwater traipsed
across you. Shimmering shoreline of a man.
Afraid of sidling past your limbs. Sinking in.
I could tell you of cardboard boxed daydreams
graying under floorboards of doubt.
I could tell you how I tiptoed.
I could tell you of the casualties.
How I’ve seen one too many woman
bend her bones for your kind.
Cracked Corinthian columns,
pockmarked spines.
I could tell you of a Saturday afternoon stroll,
my Fifth Avenue vertigo. Seeing swingsets
in unassuming sidewalks.
How your eyes were auburn dust bowls.
Mine, two Georgia sun-blackened
farmers fleeing.
Adhering to street signs,
avoiding stoplights–
their speckled hearts bungeeing
into puddles of green,
I could tell you of falling like that.
I could tell you of trying to keep composed,
of being daughter to a six foot brick wall.
How I’m still mortaring the cavities.
How in ten New York City blocks
I unlearned the difference
between walking and flight.
Heels trampolining into concrete.
The flailing of a footstep.
Itch
Posted by Chloe Wayne | Filed under Poetry, Print
I
miss you.
Imagine
you lay sideways,
with crossbows for brows,
thin flint projectile eyes.
My heart, mosquito bitten
patch of me, rises to surface.
Rhythmic itch. Seven day swell, this week,
I think about you. Fade under skin soon.
