I'm in it for falling
rock zones
the promise
of blacktop driveways
for plastic high heels
on a pilgrimage
to the sea
for a van of tulips
that ends in deer-disaster for your kiss
in St. Augustine's
your southern beard
your painted tusks
for the gas station
man who calls to me mami, mami
and I shake it
a little for him for all those panties
I left in prospect park
for the dollar destiny of
my deciduous hair wet
and slapping
me in the face as I tell you
I'm in it for the free dive
the cliff chip the
dirty wings of birds I pluck
and tape to shoulder blades
for those last nights
anchored by a shot
and a sliver of,
will you dance with me
will you rendezvous
on the sink in the bathroom
when we tire of talking verse
and I'm in it for the time
I told you I'll move earnestly
from those nights like a woman
who loves her hair
is on fire
CAR SARGASSO: A historically notorious mistress of whim and gypsy-influence, Car, has poeted through the ages as the secretly most influential woman to write and sail and ship-jump between Balboa and Columbus. Much later in her career, Car gallantly matched the daring entrepreneurial aggressiveness of Revere, Adams and Edison with poetical propaganda for the New World, those first rustic colonies and the little known advancement of Revere's silver and art trade. (It is also from her body that Edison imagined the womanly shape of the first light bulb). Iroquois Indian cave drawings have even depicted her trademark dress, black Rapunzel hair and bright green eyes. To be inside the mortar of a firework as it explodes into hot ash and golden air is to be inside the poem of Car. Each line dares you to a tryst with their Dali-esque twists, melting clocks and brilliantine booming.
CHRISTIE ANN REYNOLDS is a native New Yorker. Her work can be read in Critiphoria, Sub-Lit, Houston Literary Review, and is forthcoming in Robot Melon and other places. Once a month Christie Ann morphs into Car Sargasso and gives private readings to unassuming attendees of The Poetry Brothel.
