Wannabe Heroes
by Amanda Chiado
Jolene kills the girl
by the log ride where bursts
of water droplets float,
and spatter the onlookers.
You can smell the cheap
hotdogs and oily fries.
Teenage sweat weighs down
the air. Bumper cars smash.
All of the girls have big hair,
bangs hard and tall as waves
on a California shore
the dead girl will never see.
Rumor says, Jolene kills the girl
by the bright Ferris wheel
where much of the girl gang
plants her first kiss
fifty feet in the air.
Albuquerque is a starlit quilt
smothered by dark clouds
that roll in without welcome.
Jolene’s friends don’t know
she has a switchblade.
She’s hidden it in her Aquanet
dream. The dead girl starts
with her fists, even gets a first
punch in. The dead girl has twenty
dollars in her pocket. The blade
enters her femoral artery. The circle
of girls cheer, for the wannabe hero.
We don’t know enough about anatomy.
Two groups of girls are yanking
each others hair out. The dead girl
doesn’t live long, and a boy somewhere, loves her.
The dead girl has a name. Michelle.
The dead girl smells like cotton candy.
She’d won a stuffed bear for her sister.
by the log ride where bursts
of water droplets float,
and spatter the onlookers.
You can smell the cheap
hotdogs and oily fries.
Teenage sweat weighs down
the air. Bumper cars smash.
All of the girls have big hair,
bangs hard and tall as waves
on a California shore
the dead girl will never see.
Rumor says, Jolene kills the girl
by the bright Ferris wheel
where much of the girl gang
plants her first kiss
fifty feet in the air.
Albuquerque is a starlit quilt
smothered by dark clouds
that roll in without welcome.
Jolene’s friends don’t know
she has a switchblade.
She’s hidden it in her Aquanet
dream. The dead girl starts
with her fists, even gets a first
punch in. The dead girl has twenty
dollars in her pocket. The blade
enters her femoral artery. The circle
of girls cheer, for the wannabe hero.
We don’t know enough about anatomy.
Two groups of girls are yanking
each others hair out. The dead girl
doesn’t live long, and a boy somewhere, loves her.
The dead girl has a name. Michelle.
The dead girl smells like cotton candy.
She’d won a stuffed bear for her sister.
Whiskey
by Amanda Chiado
When your parents debate the Loch Ness, your father
Straightens his yellow tie and quotes Mike Tyson.
Your mother hums while your father grunts,
Counting reps of 12 with her dumbbells.
He shouts from the window to a boy in red.
“The natural place for a man is in the land of his boyhood.”
Your mother’s eyes dart around like a zippy fish.
“Run,” he yells. “Down chain-link alleys, chase wild dogs
With big sticks, kick the ugliest one in the ribs,
Run, claim every dirty corner between here
And Johnny’s Liquor, run-wild, step on the cracks
That break your mother’s back, inhale & never smoke,
Steal, burn it down in whiskey streets, tumbleweed brown.
Steal your neighbor’s mail, meaningless letters
From your elderly neighbors, rip them into confetti,
Run far away, throw rotten eggs at old passing Chevys
And Buicks and run, kiss girls with Aquanet-sticky hair
On abandoned Saturday playgrounds, run and sweat, stuff
Electric colored Taffy into your linty pockets, run
From the sirens, daydream about your babyhood,
Throw the red ball and shatter the clean window, run,
Be broke & broken, shoot off BB guns and knock
A little nest to the ground because your uncle is dead,
Run like blood, touch the real gun, just once, to know
How cold its chamber is, run like your being hunted,
Compare the smallness of the bullets to your fist-
Shaped heart, outrun your skin into the field and drop
Like a fly whose life is measured in shit and minutes.
Let your body become the crime scene, Peter Pan,
Become aware of time. You will never, ever be the same.”
Your father falls to the ground. Your mother believes
In mythical monsters and home made lemonade.
She stirs that jug of sugary yellow tornado-quick
Until her knuckles ache around the wooden spoon.
Mike Tyson says, “Everybody wants to be a beast
Until they have to do what beasts do.”
Straightens his yellow tie and quotes Mike Tyson.
Your mother hums while your father grunts,
Counting reps of 12 with her dumbbells.
He shouts from the window to a boy in red.
“The natural place for a man is in the land of his boyhood.”
Your mother’s eyes dart around like a zippy fish.
“Run,” he yells. “Down chain-link alleys, chase wild dogs
With big sticks, kick the ugliest one in the ribs,
Run, claim every dirty corner between here
And Johnny’s Liquor, run-wild, step on the cracks
That break your mother’s back, inhale & never smoke,
Steal, burn it down in whiskey streets, tumbleweed brown.
Steal your neighbor’s mail, meaningless letters
From your elderly neighbors, rip them into confetti,
Run far away, throw rotten eggs at old passing Chevys
And Buicks and run, kiss girls with Aquanet-sticky hair
On abandoned Saturday playgrounds, run and sweat, stuff
Electric colored Taffy into your linty pockets, run
From the sirens, daydream about your babyhood,
Throw the red ball and shatter the clean window, run,
Be broke & broken, shoot off BB guns and knock
A little nest to the ground because your uncle is dead,
Run like blood, touch the real gun, just once, to know
How cold its chamber is, run like your being hunted,
Compare the smallness of the bullets to your fist-
Shaped heart, outrun your skin into the field and drop
Like a fly whose life is measured in shit and minutes.
Let your body become the crime scene, Peter Pan,
Become aware of time. You will never, ever be the same.”
Your father falls to the ground. Your mother believes
In mythical monsters and home made lemonade.
She stirs that jug of sugary yellow tornado-quick
Until her knuckles ache around the wooden spoon.
Mike Tyson says, “Everybody wants to be a beast
Until they have to do what beasts do.”
Glorious Rain
by Amanda Chiado
There boots are muddy & reckless
rain goes on & the mud is wet, &
sticky, unforgiving, clingy, hopeless
& they are gathered round the well
on the highest hill at sundown though
it looks more like midnight, of what
the flowers call the glorious rain, but their
boots are muddy, all of the men & one
woman too, bouquets of rain waterslide
down the hill, rushes thicken the mud &
the men’s hat’s are sopping & the lady’s
mascara collects like black cluster clouds
under her gemstone eyes, not one of them
can see her in the heart of the well through
the hammering of the rainfall, & their hands
slide over the rope & they’re frantically yelling
to the girl in the well to hold on & their voices
are eaten by the sounds of the thrashing
rain & their boots are muddy & the girl
in the well is wearing a white dress, a dress
as white as all good things in a heaven
my daughter wants to know about & her
dress has little lace sleeves. The girl is so
far down & their boots are so muddy.
rain goes on & the mud is wet, &
sticky, unforgiving, clingy, hopeless
& they are gathered round the well
on the highest hill at sundown though
it looks more like midnight, of what
the flowers call the glorious rain, but their
boots are muddy, all of the men & one
woman too, bouquets of rain waterslide
down the hill, rushes thicken the mud &
the men’s hat’s are sopping & the lady’s
mascara collects like black cluster clouds
under her gemstone eyes, not one of them
can see her in the heart of the well through
the hammering of the rainfall, & their hands
slide over the rope & they’re frantically yelling
to the girl in the well to hold on & their voices
are eaten by the sounds of the thrashing
rain & their boots are muddy & the girl
in the well is wearing a white dress, a dress
as white as all good things in a heaven
my daughter wants to know about & her
dress has little lace sleeves. The girl is so
far down & their boots are so muddy.
Amanda Chiado is the author of the chapbook Vitiligod: The Ascension of Michael Jackson from Dancing Girl Press. Her poetry and flash fiction are forthcoming or appear in the Visible Poetry Project, Fourteen Hills, The Pinch, Barren and Entropy. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart & Best of the Net. Amanda is the Director of Arts Education at the San Benito County Arts Council, is an active California Poet in the Schools, and edits for Jersey Devil Press. Read more and connect with her at www.amandachiado.com
