My work in a nutshell

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Email me at lfletch4@wvu.edu
two-part discussion from a Tuesday

(You've always been my friend.)
See his eyes?
Is it clear yet?
(You'll always be my friend.)
He changed himself.
He's ready now.
Rebuilt.
(I know you're still my friend...)
Childhood trees.
Tire swings and curling bark.
It had to be chopped down
sometime. By someone.
(No matter what, we're friends.)
He gave her the job.
She built a barn
from rusty nails.
She threw the tire into a ravine.
She made herself a desk plaque title.
(As a friend, as a friend.)
Erosion played itself out.
Summer vacation cottage
can't stay a barn forever.
He knocked it down. He did.
Someone, sometime, had to
pick up the pieces. Start over.
(We're different, we're friends.)
We're not separate anymore.
Two whole parts, one good time.
I always wanted a porch;
he wished for a foundation.
Now we can relax, together.
A porch swing like a tire
so long thrown away.
(You've always been my friend.)

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wet centerfolds

an empty tub
conspiracies drained away
soapy inferno
yellow bathrobe croquet
crack the mirror
pace on a soaked bathmat
wash my feet
brush my hair, rub my back

Small stuffed tokens
of falsies or love
Watercolor flowers
stained from above

a gurgling throat
ingenuity steals my gut
faded record sleeve
with my life in its ruts
tear the blanket
let the blinds become useful
pet my arm
at least you can be truthful

Faint dead roses
mean nothing to you
But rusty nails show
that rainy skies turn blue

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new Skin

collapsable, like a pup tent

oh, puppy that you are

We become a pile of sheets

giggling and falling off the bed

Like sleepover-obsessed teenagers

doing makeovers, playing Truth or Dare

You fear of my fear,

of my fleeing the game

So I put you up to it, I call your bluff

and laugh as I see your thoughts

Question my giggles once or twice,

then just join the teary laughter

It's healthy

We both know what to expect this way.

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Not Enough Time

Girl facing a mirror
widening her eyes, examining herself from different angles.
Fiftysomething woman
pulling at her crow's feet, smiling hard and pulling, squeezing into her prom dress to hang herself.
Tortured soul
mumbling obscenities, devouring rich ice cream from the carton, clad in a bathrobe, answers the telephone chirping a greeting, not realizing the irony in her voice.
The old woman days ago, hair tightly curled, examining nutrition facts at a store. People glance away, children stare but stay silent.
Hanging, whiny high-pitched crack from the ceiling as she swings.

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reliance

stay down along the carpet
(I'm low, stay low)
three inches of leeway
so I become a cat
flattened, my burning stomach
scraping against rug
pull myself finger by finger
clawing fibers, tearing boards beneath
(shut my eyes tight)
rationalize raising my head
(how I want to rest my face against the floor)
never look up again
but it's just a wall
it's just plaster
NO, no, there's more
eyes flutter, mine
my cheek against carpet, facing wallpaper
two inches above me

I shoot up -- a shock --
two sets of hands touch my face
it's just a mirror
just me
Me.

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past tense

It's so dark outside
that my windows look black
I talk to paper. Gives me power.

(Fresh carpet smell in a well-aged van)

Ten eyes under a dashboard
Three are all I need.
Fingers on the headlights
Cast shadows over highway weeds

A naked silhouette
A woman in sixty degrees
Summer sundress waving
on the antenna, taking the breeze
How naughty, in a field
on a school night, off the road
That never won itself a name
but whose shores we now corrode

(dreams never sounded like this
even gravel speaks like ghosts)

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Feminism

I want you to have a lot to say
I want it to all be about me
Remember how I cleaned my room?
That was me, dammit; I'm clean now.
My cobwebs are gone. Uncluttered.
I cut my hair not too long ago
Can you see my face better now?
You say you want me, but that's not enough
How do you want me? How often? How long?
I want you to be dirty and perverse
Tell me how beautiful I'd look in lingerie
Describe to me my ass when I walk
Try to explain the little things I do that turn you on.
Write me anxious sexy poems
Tell me romantic twisted tales
Let me be your first at something.
Tell me everything about your past
that you wish you didn't have to remember.
I can be your counselor.
Redecorate your eyes to see my frame.
Accept me. Let me be over the top.
I'll suck the consequences.

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Jesus Mary Mother of Christ

Jesus Mary Mother of Christ, man, can't you see that behind you? What, is your rearview mirror outta whack? It's right on your tail! Scaling your ass! Can't you feel the hot breath on your neck?!

Holy Shit, don't turn around, man! Trust me, you know who it is. My motherfucking hell-god, she'lll suck your brains out! Fucking Medusa, man, if you turn now, now, you'll turn to rock-fucking-stone!!

Can't you see, man...just don't turn...Dammit, you sonofabitch! You'll NEVER TURN BACK AROUND!

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DUI

a girl on the dashboard, shaking and reflecting the sun
driving west to find a new gun
moving fingers slowly off the stick,
put her in cruise
let my feet rest beside the girl
hula dancer, plastic skirt
Plastic love.
forget her --
flick of the ankle and the clay falls off the dashboard
The girl tumbles to the passenger seat
She hits your knee
"What was that for?"
"She was blinding me."
A moment of silence. I slap the radio on, AM weather from the left channel, faint bluegrass on the right. Conflicting signals.
The cigarette lighter is gone.
Driver's seat slides back, feet rest across your thighs.
"Watch the road!"
Grab the doll, dancer
Turn back to the dashboard.
Roll down my window and let her plunge into highway weeds.
A whoop. Lean on the horn.
"Calm down!"
You lean forward to pick clay from above the hazard lights.
Everything's back to normal, but cruise is still on.
You pat my hand. We drive.

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Beautiful Hands

If I were to cover my hands in dirt
let them endure the filth of years
Would they rot, wrinkle and peel
the feeling of ancestors in my palms?
When I squeeze my fingers, ball them up,
my fist is less than sore from age
Arthritis is a thing of television ads
for they have only seen sixteen springs pass.
Sure, they have shoveled and written,
been scratched, cracked, and bitten
Protected by youth, a choice never made
pain un-induced, a distant crusade.

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