Hell On Heels poems by Alicia Young coming soon from Lady-Lazarus Press

My book, Hell On Heels poems by Alicia Young, is soon to be released by Lady-Lazarus Press. The cover art was done by Los Angeles artist Billy Burgos. Preorders will soon be taken. Copies of the book will also be available at my upcoming performances in Los Angeles at Beyond Baroque on July 6th at 7:30 and at the Avenue 50 Studio on July 8th at 2 pm.

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Hell on Heels poems by Alicia Young

This is the cover of my forthcoming book, Hell on Heels poems by Alicia Young. The painting was done by Los Angeles artist Billy Burgos. The book will be available at my upcoming readings in Los Angeles. July 6th at 7:30 pm at Beyond Baroque Literary and Performing Arts Center and at the Avenue 50 Gallery on July 8th at 2:00 pm.

Coming soon from Lady-Lazarus Press! Preorders will soon be taken.

paradise must dwell within us before we may dwell within heaven

i have taken

to walking at night

through the backfields of my life

 

drawing ink from the well pond

surrounded by a chamber choir of

minstrel toads

 

tenor and baritone balanced

the bass has a loose string

my smile shapes into nirvana

as i am

a lover of imperfect things

 

in this place where i wash away the blood

from gruesome playground injuries

i know myself to be a reality

an unfolding lotus blossum

 

the drones buzz around me

urging me to assume my place as queen

at the risk of being beheaded

 

fear be damned

i have nothing to lose but regret

 

when the world has given all of itself

to nocturnal things

i seek the sage counsel

of the elders who placed the pomegranate trees

in eden

 

they tell me to command the fireflies

to float upward

becoming stars

knowing it is i

who determines my fate

 

avalon built in one night

to be burned again tomorrow

 

the planets revolve in the palm of my hand

when i consider the algonquin princess

from whose ancient earth-mother chromosomes

i sprang

 

greek gods conspire to please me

nectar sent from mount olympus

i am humbled with acceptance

 

my feet no longer feel the ground below

i float over the river styx

 

hummingbirds fly with lanterns

hanging from their bills

filled with luciferase glow

 

all of this majesty

so that i may

find my way to heaven

before the gates are closed

a kentucky suicide

twenty-nine year old

mother of three

stair step children

all under the age of seven

laboring under the weight

of her fifth month of pregnancy

with the fourth baby

came home from work one night

and shot herself twice

once in the head

and

once in the heart

yet it matters not

the numbers don’t add up

or that her commonly unlawful  boyfriend

was never charged with the crime

because ’round these parts

they call that sort of death

a kentucky suicide

the planting season

this time of man
i find beautiful
with
free range chickens
clucking old eighties tunes

resplendent
as father time
winds his watch
further into this new century

green onions growing
past drop biscuit clouds

the just before sunset light
setting the roses on fire

french holly hocks
teasing lavender moths
with their glow

the poppies are plumed triumphant
in their shameless display of fuschia

as i stoop in the garden
hair and earrings
falling toward
this gift
the earth

i smile peacefully
knowing this grace
will lead
to nothing less than stars

mother’s day

if our moms deserve a day
there is no cutsie tootsie
hallmark homage reason
why

because motherhood
it isn’t about spring flowers
pastel colors
or a sweetly sung lullaby

it is for swollen feet
stretch marks
torn flesh
and everything
that vomits
in the middle of the night

the thousand dollars loaned
to the child who will eventually
quit college

and still be loved enough
to be baked a pie

the gods of a good friday night

our bellies full

of lemon pepper chicken

mashed potatoes

and string beans

eaten by candle light

gregorian chants

and the laughter of children

we sit back upon a pedestal of pillows

headboard leaning

a silver tray

in the middle of the bed

bearing bourbon

with one glass meant for sharing

we decide on an oliver stone film

smoke filling the room

we sacrifice ourselves to

the gods of a good friday night

his hand wanders to her thigh

she slides herself into the dress shirt

he is still wearing

until her breasts cover his chest

saying

tonight baby

stay inside

dinner with death

as an undertaker

you grow accustomed to death

respect his place within the layers of being

certainly fear him more than most

 

over time we realize how random

his judgement

and unreasonable the damage done

by his heavy hand

as we drain the blood

and our innocence along with it

 

how tenuously our human cells hold together

yet the way we fight to go on

despite the inevitability

of ending

 

questioning the point of all this suffering

 

as you place the receiving blanket in the coffin

 

or put the last curls into the eight year old girl’s hair

 

the motorcycle crash was a closed casket service

but his mother decided before we placed him in the hearse

she had to see his jawless face

 

someone’s nana covered in bed sores

who lingered too long to suit her family’s liking

 

the suicide who dealt with his wife’s affair

by removing the back of his head with a .45

 

you learn to have dinner with death

sharing a bottle of scotch with his dead sockets and wicked grin

in the hopes that laboring over his body count

will keep your own bones

from owing coins to the ferryman

 

and at the end of the day

as you’re cleaning up the embalming room

back turned to the finished work of a life on the table

sterilizing trocar needles and scalpels

the sounds they emit

as the gas escapes

 

somewhere between a moan and a sigh

coming through the vocal chords

 

you hear the last sound their voice ever makes

fruit flies

how embarrassing
our last visit was for you

the day of my arrival
i was the only house guest
you were expecting

such care you had taken
plugging in electrified air fresheners
and shoving piles of an unwashed life
into closets

steps climbed with heavy baggage
in tow
we opened the door
to find you had other visitors

a thousand minuscule problems
flittering about
you blushed
blaming negligent grocery clerks
at the local atlantic and pacific trading company

forensically damning that
last bunch of bananas
purchased

behold a ballet of fruit flies

i proclaim
them to be my favorite
laboratory specimen
drosophila melanogaster
to lighten the mood

neither of us laughed

my knowing a new generation is reproduced
every 24 hours
i fill with fear
hypothesizing about how long
you’ve been ignoring the obviously failed experiment

painfully aware
the sweet rotten stench
they were clinging to
was not the produce
but your soul

for sleepy little boys and silly monsters…

walls become darkened forest
of imagination
with green
saddened eyes

sleepy little boys
and silly monsters
make weepy noises
as crickets dirge chirp a lullaby

kitchen window
opens itself into a storybook
allowing the sweet scent of
childhood memories
and fire flies
to drift in mind

roses and violets entwine
hanging their blossom heads
as rain begins
forming a climbing archway
to pass through as we
carry tears in tea cups

leading to
this final place
where the wild things are

thank you, maurice

goodnight