Tag Archives: francesca lia block

Roadkill

Image

i)

Get stuffed

Stuff it down

This stuff

Dress it up

Hang it on a wall

Forget that

It’s not real

It’s not alive

Can’t feel a thing

Touch it

It’s not real

But look how life-like

Struck so sudden

Like a truck

He came out of nowhere

Like a door

Flying

Shoes lost

Glasses gone

Blurry

All the way home

ii)

Raccoon splattered a few hours after we said hello

Earlier in the night

I was okay

I was all right

Smash like a truck

Snap Splat

I saw your pelt

Hands still

Little paws

Still intact

But your innards were left so far behind

Shining black

Street light

Missed bus

Mad girl taking snaps of a dead raccoon

Howl and heave

Along a dead road

I cried for you raccoon

You and me

Guts smushed

Inside innards out

Forgot to look the other way

Street sweepers will come back for you another day

Who will come for me?

iii)

And just when you think there’s no way you’re coming back from this one

They puff you right up

Stuff you

Fill you

Prop you in a fancy pose

Stitch your smiling face back on

Glass eyes stuck

Look how life-like

Look how real she looks

But not really

Claws

Skin

Pelt

What she was

Is gone

Faded

Forgotten

Black stain on the pavement

Hymen spilled on his childhood mattress

Thumbnail torn in the hinge of her trailer door

Bobby pin rusting at the bottom of their backyard pool

Fill

Stitch

Glue

Twisted in the memory

Hardened by the stuffing

Fur still soft

But not alive

Making me want to cry

Empty painted eyes

So many dead things hanging on these walls

I will never be the way I was

Taxidermy can’t fix this

My insides out

Still on the road

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Human by Daughter

“Underneath the skin there’s a human/buried deep within there’s a human.”

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by | June 8, 2013 · 2:38 pm

jessa’s [sic] foundations.

hello everyone,

I’m Jessa Marie Mendez, and I am thrilled to be a part of the Kindred Collective! Bios are so hard for me, I tend to have that “what the fuck do people want to know about me?” moment, you know? Do I go quirky, or do I write just the facts. I don’t know. I sometimes refer to myself as [sic]. I am a freelance journalist and writer; my literary heroes are Francesca Lia Block, Junot Diaz, Sylvia Plath, Mark Z. Danielewski, Neil Gaiman, Charles Baudelaire, Stephen King and many, many more. I have an awesome blog of awesomeness, aptly titled jessa is somewhat damaged. One of my stories is in the Love Magick Anthology, edited by Francesca Lia Block.

My foundation is a concrete slab with bones buried within. It has poufy hearts with initials of past lovers etched on its surface and cracks from earthquakes and other assorted natural disasters. There’s gum matted to the curb. My foundation supports many buildings, depending on where you are on the block: a massive skyscraper; a little vintage boutique with antique brooches and two dollar cigarette pants; a bakery with vegan cookies and sweet cupcakes; a library with zines and fashion magazines from all over the world and tons of books with yellowed pages and cracked spines; an abandoned factory building where artists house secret performances.

Spooky, by the way, drew a tarot card for me on New Year’s Day: The Ten of Pentacles. Apparently, this card stands for passing down family traditions. Two days after Spooky drew this card, I received a video of my father singing. My father died when I was a small child; I had no memory of his voice. (I maintain that Spooky is a witch!) I cannot post it here because it just feels too sacred. I did write a poem about it, though, and I can think of no better expression of foundation than describing the beauty of his voice.

el voz
like honey
like wine
bitter and sweet
truths emerge from the hollow of your throat
like butterflies
in your sweet song
i hear the cries of my sisters being born
i hear the sighs of separation
i hear every “i love you”
slashed away by a cruel hand
there is no strain,
only pain
only love
only regret
only wishes
unfulfilled
my heart swells
a big red balloon
ready to burst and bleed
your voice is not merely musical
it is music
the genesis of every sound that has ever filled my ears
the measure by which every other song shall now be compared
from my mouth emerges the first strangled cry of birth.

[sic]

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