Chelsea DeRose

negatives from Mms. Nahima's Photography Handbook

(after Kristy Bowen)

aperture:          provides controlled light. As travelers,
we tripped upon the broken bicycles of Amsterdam. The
shout of city trams, the sweat of homeless.

exposure:          accurate, or essential. As futile
as nightfall (burning-in). Symbolized a need for
large numbered groups and maps in pockets. Her
earrings danced alleys (notes promiscuity) to shift
affairs more precisely. How are we willing to
sit?

film:          latent. A pawn in play with relics, oh
it strolls in museums, opened in a novel era.
​
hyperfocal:          depth. as futile as daybreak (reflect).
Maybe concentrated on the distortion. The fisheye.
Her tour’s guide of the countries.

lens:          coma. We are foregoing all our own
memory. The bridges snake cobble stones, while
vino cures the mouths of the cafe, the half scones,
the menus filled with tips.

shutter:          motion. I’ve been jumping trains again.
Bullets slide along tracks of latitudes, dotted with
docile hostels.

zoom:           distance, or simply departure.
​

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dead man's float

seaweeds seem to be in motion again
surrounding hallways                    filling up on algae

marbles moaning as they roll down backs
of chairs                    calling out numbers

on chalkboards                    while sound waves
through eardrums          adding cushion for five minute solos

–can you hear them singing?

atop herrings necks          stretched across the table
it takes one                              with a ruler to find its heart

sweaty          and blood leaking          from gull’s feet

it’s time to rewind          it’s time to remind                   passerby
to leave some for the rest of us                    it’s time to rest

pull conch shells over my eyelids                    let cattails
live in my windowsills                    scratching the broken bell jar

–I don’t want to sit

salt stains the fins in the corners of my mouth
slide the ocean over the moon                    I soon will be able to fish

count crabs in my stomach as pelicans bellow
–below! below!                                        urchins fill my bed

scratching the wind blown                    red skin
and suck on the ends of my hair

tendrils of seashells          cover the carpet
making it hard to walk on water

build a styrofoam boat                    to sail
on out of here

–it will not always be this easy

sometimes sand dollars know best
sometimes it’s time to sleep

---

gamboling alacrity

drip Monet on my collar bone
and splash Renoir on my voice box
let me sing of Denver
through O’Keefe’s reds and skeleton blues
antique rust and Van Gogh
is an orange.

leave coattails of his yellows
and top hats of his greens around my ankles
let me swim
with Herman Melville
among the frigid waters
to lost luggage.

case my two lips with Marlin Brando’s
photograph I want to be infused
in leather
motorcycle mama
part Dalai Lama Tibet is open
for travel open for business.
jet fuel my stockings soaking up
the rainwater Dickens danced alleys
and Dickenson called birds
blue jay cardinal
sparrow flop
on the pavement.

below is just Illinois just how you left
her hover over the Hoover Dam
and jam band
across the Mississippi
but my heart is leaking
and loving Kentucky.

so pour in the medicine
and mix with the mint julep
cup passing
a past time
lost in translation
in missionary position.

dish out water with bath water
don’t loose the baby’s diaper
dangle among the clothespins
and ponder your existence
this is only a paroxysm
this remains nascent.

---

Idaho Cento

                                          
i keep you in a flower vase
a fenced in piece of nothing
in dead parking lots, waiting
for the ashtray to lead me astray.

under florescent lights
in that jonquil dress
all the billboards
are our best friends.

on the shadows of over passing planes
made of hay and cornhusks
the moon is rowing
and the devil is a railroad car.

like a stretch of future graveyards
pin your heartbeat up as i light
a fire underneath myself, the bonnet
wears a wire albatross

singing just a little bit.

---

lighting up the tilt sign

she is a sparkplug
red bellied and coiled

he is a mechanic
oil infused and callused

syringed and splitbodied brilliant
her ankles bound in feathers

her collarbone bends in filaments
with corsaged hemlines at her fingertips

revolver mouth and peppermint hunger
his motorcycle jacket did the rumba

his shoulder switchbladed in tongues
kerosened party guests eat black mamba

sutured and water bound in silence
their spines stretch over the crowd

their arteries hum hollow from violence
and whalebones point out the holy shroud


 

​
--
Chelsea DeRose