Lina ramona Vitkauskas has authored Shooting Dead Films with Poets (Fractal Edge Press), Failed Star Spawns Planet/Star (dancing girl press), and THE RANGE OF YOUR AMAZING NOTHING (Ravenna Press). She is the 2009 recipient of The Poetry Center of Chicago's 15th Annual Juried Reading Award, judged by Brenda Hillman, and was nominated by Another Chicago Magazine for an Illinois Arts Council Award. She has been featured on Chicago Public Radio and her work has appeared in The City Visible: Chicago Poetry for the New Century (Cracked Slab Books, 2007), The Prague Literary Review, Van Gogh's Ear (Paris), The Chicago Review, ACM, Aufgabe, Drunken Boat, and many others.
To dusky chalk legs,
to orgasms under trenchcoats,
to the execution of lively girls,
to the return of the green native:
let go of my hair.
To black holes
which are not portable,
to Ariadne's dismantling,
to my seahorse hair lifting
fondly the color of your lining.
I am your pasture girl,
your pleasure brigade,
Gestapo. I have honed hollers
and branded the freezing coals
to your chests:
so show me your motherfixer
and I'll show you mine.
IMBIBE THE CRANES ELECTRIC
By the crass flamingo,
let's once again engage
the firing squid. The
priest has been
floored by the metafloor.
People want their poetry in
a Ziegfeld Follies test tube,
(off to the laboratory with
social egg cream on it).
the champagne trail,
and wonder who will not rise,
if Caesar should not fall,
we together a Scheherazade blank.
This is the halfway part,
the stopping, the turning
of the season
turning against us.
Never met a man I didn't knife.
The menacing horticulture of woman
saw you shaking off the Medici dust
speaking to the national hysterectomy,
planning to fade into the atypical
grace as uneasy perpendicular love kills granite
skins. Let me be it. Let it be me.
You a linear, a moniker, a trachea,
a treacherous vamp open, undone,
your harness forgone. Fabricated against
the drowning boxer frozen.
Drinking at court, driven your act
into the grouse, running to me in segments.
So laugh at the fried aphids uncamoflauged
upon the withering leaf. So idealize
ruin in a sensual haze of recognition.
Appall me as I have myself. You've
learned to live upon the lines of
distraction and radiating vice.
We are two women killed by
the anthers of dissatisfaction.