megan-milligan
American
Megan Milligan moved from Oklahoma to Las Vegas in 1992. Poetry has been her calling since graduating from Cheyenne High School in 1993. Megan has been involved in the local poetry scene for nearly 15 years. / / Together with Mark Snyder & Lucy Botwick, she co-hosts Word UP!, Las Vegas' longest-running weekly poetry reading, since 2002. Megan has been published in several journals and the upcoming "VIVA: A Vegas Poets' Anthology", due out November 2011 at the Vegas Valley Book Festival. She also serves as secretary of the Las Vegas Poets Organization, a nonprofit group dedicated to promoting poetry in and of Las Vegas. / / She describes her poetry as the "musings of a Desert Rose," the struggles of love, life and being a survivor.
Painting shades of intimacy
On a blank, white canvas.
Imagining vast landscapes of emotion
On an artist trading card panel.
Sweeps of technicolor with a broad brush
In a fine-line, black and white portrait.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
In the midst of your hurricane,
Look me in my eye
For calm waters.
Drop your anchor.
Rest your prow on my shores
Choppy waters, no more
Waves of discontent, stilled.
We ride this storm together,
No matter where the winds blow us.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
Tripped up, halting words
Of unspoke feelings, unsure,
Deaf, snoring, unheard.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 12:30 PM UTC
I hold my doll,
Fluttering eyelashes
Curly black hair
Cewpie face
Francie I think her name was.
Hold up in my room
Tender age of three or thereabouts
Sense of terror
Vastly blown out of proportion
To my chronological age
Cover Francie’s ears
As sounds of rage and terror blast
From the living room.
Crouched behind my bedroom door,
Father in a drunken state
Railing at Mother again.
More than a score of years later,
Who knew the pickled apple
Wouldn’t fall far from the tree?
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 12:29 PM UTC
You wonder why you can’t crack
The combination lock to my heart.
You wonder why you can’t steal
The treasures safeguarded inside.
You see me through the hazy fog,
And you reach for me.
But your hand passes through the mist,
Holding onto nothing.
And as fast as I come, I’m gone.
I’m a nomad.
I live off the land.
I change with the hour,
Switching directions without warning.
Forever a wanderer.
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 12:34 PM UTC
HANGING WITH THE GALLO(W) BROS.
Coked out
Strung out
Flipped out
Had my share of friends
Blow their brains out
But still I went back out
And hung out with the Gallo brothers
And the drunks and the druggies and the homeless and the insane
Downtown at two in the morning.
Little did I know,
The Gallo Brothers were leading me to the gallows
Dead woman walking
Hanging out with them,
I was killing myself slowly
Too cowardly to flat out pull the trigger and get it done with,
I just squeezed it a bit
With two, three, four visits a day
From the dynamic dastardly duo.
Sometimes we hung out at Sutter Home
I remember the plastic thunk of bottles
In my purse on the way there.
The glass-laden Gallo Brothers sometimes made a bit too much noise
When stealth was called for,
So no one else would catch on to what I was doing.
So no one would catch onto the feelings I tried burying,
The demons I tried to drown,
Who were squeezing the life out of me
Feeling horrible, unworthy
Always going back on my misery.
Tremors, delirious
Delirium tremens
So shaking I can’t even double-fist
A single can of soda
I reached for the only help I’ll accept
I grabbed on tight to their hands
Even though my body turned it down
Rejecting, ejecting
Spewing, spitting their help
Back in their faces
“I wish I knew how to quit you”
My body told them
But the Brothers were a violent lot
Beating me into submission
When my mind was under their influence
Sometimes I’d do the craziest ****
For friends who didn’t know better,
Didn’t have my best interests at heart
Were -bent on my personal destruction.
Talk about peer pressure!
Doing, saying things I normally wouldn’t!
They made me go against the grain of everything decent and good about me.
Some friends just aren’t worth having
I learned that lesson the hard way
Cutting ties with the Gallo Brothers...
The hardest thing I ever did!
But... the only way to keep Dead Woman Walking
From becoming Dead Woman Hanging around
at the morgue instead of the Gallo Brothers’ house.
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 12:32 PM UTC
I. Shining Armor
To all those would-be knights in shining armore:
Make sure you have a goodly supply of silver polish on your person
Because this woman is sick and tired
Of all the tarnish she keeps running into.
Really.
Fakeness gets real old, real quick.
I ‘m looking for a man with manners, grace, respect and class.
Not someone who’ll ultimately turn out to be an ***
I’m not looking for too much I think.
In fact, I’d given up looking at all
Because the lot of them weren’t worth the flesh
God poured their sorry souls into.
Then, you came along,
Swept me off my feet with your Leo hurricane-force personality.
Fire sign burning through my resolves and inhibitions
Until there was nothing left
But trembling and desires and hidden fantasies
But I thought I saw something behind that solid wall of sexuality
A dark knight in shining armor
Intelligence in every timbered vibration fo your baritone voice,
Smooth like Barry white,
**** I thought, you are the whole package!
Family man, gentleman, talented artistic man
Man who said women were to be respected
As they were God’s gift.
How many men, afterall, would walk you to the bus,
Stand in front of you
So the sun didn’t glare in your face, facing west.
A glowing halo surrounded your head.
My angel, mon amour
My knight in shining armor.
II. Tarnish
Fast forward to today.
Man up,
Or move on out of my life.
I’ve waited a long time
For someone with manners, grace, respect, and class.
I’m not going to waste my time
Waiting on as ***
Not that you’ve been one, mon amour,
But I’m starting to see a little tarnish on your shining armor.
I try to be up front,
Give you the 411 on what’s going on
Is it too much to expect no less out of a relationship?
Honesty, communication
Lay everything on the line so no misunderstandings.
Maybe I’m setting myself up,
Blinded by the shine of your armor
And your promises spoken.
Soothed, hypnotized by the timbered vibration of your baritone voice.
Smooth like Barry White.
Okay, one more time, I will trust you.
On your knight’s honor,
My knight in slightly tarnished armor.
III. Tinfoil
I’m looking for a man
With manners, grace, respect, and class
Not someone who’ll ultimately turn out to be an ***
And you crossed that line.
The shine is gone,
And no amount of silver polish is gonna wipe clean your tarnish.
You see, there are two things I hold sacred in relationships:
Honesty and keeping promises,
Both of which you failed miserably at as a man.
Yeah I set myself up for a fall as well,
Expecting no less than what I put in myself.
But what good is being together
If you’re the only one putting for any effort.
A relationship is supposed to be give and take.
Not giving and giving and giving and giving
And getting nothing in return
But a bad player’s broken promises
And a broken heart.
Gum stuck on the bottom of my shoe
Has more integrity than you do.
You lied to me.
You put things off.
I would’ve had more respect for you
If you gave me straight talk about flings
Or things like “This isn’t working out”
Instead of sweet talk that left a bad aftertaste in my mouth like saccharin.
The only part of you that ever told me the truth
Was more than happy to stand at attention
And speak volumes
Without saying a word.
And speaking of “not speaking,”
You know what really takes the cake?
You didn’t even have the ************* *****
To tell me yourself.
I had to find out from someone else.
Some say more shall be revealed.
Boy, were my eyes opened to the fact
That sometimes a knight in shinign armor
Is sometimes just a ****** wrapped in tinfoil.
So, to all those would-be knights in shining armore:
Make sure you have a goodly supply of silver polish on your person
Because this woman is sick and tired
Of all the tarnish she keeps running into.
Really.
Fakeness gets real old, real quick.
IV. Press Seven
Seven.
Seven is my lucky number.
It helped me to slam the door on your sorry ***
And a chapter in my life I don’t care to re-read.
How dare you
Call up one day out of the blue
And drop a message on my voicemail.
The second I heard “Hi, it’s (insert name here)”
DELETE!
Seven dumped your *** faster than you dumped mine
Through a third-party representative.
I don’t want to hear any “Hi, How ya doin’s”
I don’t want to hear any reasons
Or excuses
Or glossing-overs of what you did.
I wasn’t kidding when I said
Fakeness gets real old, real quick,
And that goes for ***** like you.
I may be a big woman,
But I’m not the Big Easy.
I’m a woman of respect
And dignity.
So don’t bother e-mailing me.
Don’t bother calling me.
Delete me out of your rolodex
And go trolling down Fourth Street
If you want nothing but ***
****
Never did pressing 7 to delete you
Feel so ****** good.
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 12:31 PM UTC
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.” (*)
Puts me in mind
Of a man who embodied our eternal, sometimes fruitless search
And why the heart is a lonely hunter.
John Singer, you silently sang,
Of heartbreak and devotion to someone
And the eternal search for those elusive qualities
Those missing puzzle pieces we all look for
Happiness
Acceptance
Love
Always seem out of our grasp
Like a puddle of water
On the sunbaked, summertime highway of our lives
Traveling
Always looking for something
Hunting for anything
To let us know we’re human
We’re loved
But still our lonely hearts search on
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.” (*)
The heart is a lonely hunter.
Staring out the window of the bus
Thinking about the ones I love
And wondering if it is all worth it.
I wish I could’ve sat down with you, Mr. Singer,
And compared notes through pantomimes
Written words of your struggles
Maybe I could’ve understood you better than others
Deaf and mute, you
Couldn't communicate with words,
Couldn't hear what other said,
Instead you communicated with looks of compassion
Serenity,
Composure
Masking a single-minded devotion to one person
And you let others who lean on you
Attaching what meaning they may
To the nonverbal cues you say to them.
When some of it wasn’t what you really intended.
Believe me, Mr. Singer.
I know all too well the misunderstandings
That come up in the name of simple love
Or the search for it.
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.”
You think you have something special
But does the other person really understand you?
And when others need you, and vice versa,
They fail to see behind the wall masking
Your true heart
What you’re really trying to tell them
And even with the powers of speech and hearing
Would you still have made yourself understood?
Misunderstanding, it’s so easy
Words are woefully inadequate
Because people will see what they want to anyway
They attach their own meanings to the words you say
Mister Singer, I can understand why you blew a hole in your chest
Sometimes that gaping hole is more preferable
To the gaping hole left by a broken, misunderstood heart
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.
And if you think that you are only
A shadow in the wind
Blowing around but when
You let somebody in
They might fade away.” (*)
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 12:28 PM UTC
TANGLED NECKLACES
Some thing are easier said than undone.
My necklace tangled in your coat buttons
As you held me to you.
My heart tangled in yourself.
Once I tied myself up in your knots, it’s ****** hard for me to unravel.
A complex Celtic knot of emotions
To rival the grandest illustrations in the Book of Kells.
Some things are easier said than undone.
Part of me prayed it’s a sign.
Maybe some higher power sought to bind something of me to you
For love or words of encouragement and healing for you,
I don’t know the purpose
Because it’s ****** hard to extricate myself from this.
And part of me doesn’t want to
Even though you said otherwise
As I untangled my necklace from you.
Some things are easier said than undone.
Slow to warm up to anyone
Quick and fierce to burn for the one
Slow to bank, if ever,
I never give anything less than my whole heart
Once the wheels are set in motion.
Anything less than me, it’s just not in me.
And some things are easier said than undone.
Now maybe it’s not meant to be
But I can’t be
Anything less than 100 percent with you
Honesty and caring with every fiber of my being,
It’s part of me like breathing.
Always in for a lamb, in for a lion
I’d be lying if I didn’t say
That wasn’t what I wanted to hear.
But you were honest,
And I thank you for that.
But some things are easier said than undone.
Now, I would rather Chance and Fate
Cut my heart and bone to the marrow,
Than drown in a pit of fire and brimstone
And lost chances and regret over you.
The good little angel that sits on my sleeve
Can heal as easily as it gives itself once the wheels are set in motion.
But still, I’d wait for you, if there would be a chance
Because some things are easier said than undone.
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 12:25 PM UTC
OPEN LETTER TO THOSE WHO SAY GOOD RIDDANCE TO AMY WINEHOUSE
“Good, one less crackhead to deal with.”
“Drugo *****
“She was a bad influence to all.”
“Why is everyone sad that she is dead?
She never cared about her own life
so why should we care now that she is dead???
She brought this on her self, oh well! “
“Good riddance you Mr. Ed lookin, Lady Gaga wanna be, pill poppin ******
These sad, sad, comments
About a sad, sad life
Full of privilege and God-given gifts
Thrown away on a whim and a dime
Sadden me.
Dear friends,
You know me,
But I suppose, if you say good riddance to Amy Winehouse,
By that same logic, you should say, regarding me,
“Good, one less alcoholic driving our streets.”
If I died in my car accident more than 3 years ago.
Wait, what is that I hear?
You say I’m overreacting?
I’m different because I got the point?
That somehow I’m better than her because I “learned my lesson”?
********
I’m no better than Amy or anyone else in that same sinking boat,
**** up a creek without a paddle,
Just because I cleaned up my act.
I’m only luckier than them,
Because statistically only 5 percent
Make it out the other side,
Without backsliding.
The other 95 percent,
**** rolls downhill without stopping.
Ultimately, they only have 3 choices:
Jails, institutions, or death.
And I’ve already made two of them.
Now I have to keep in mind that
Unless you walked in an addict’s shoes,
Or the shoes of an addict’s loved ones,
It might be hard for you wrap your mind around a couple of paradoxes:
“How could she let that slide? She had everything?”
“Oh, she could’ve quit anytime she wanted, so she chose to continue being a ******
“She was only a selfish bitch She didn’t give a **** about what she put her family or anyone else through.”
Let me enlighten you to the plight of the addict.
Yes, I will give that,
We have choice over that first drink, or drug if that’s what’s up.
But chasing that first high is like the search for the holy grail,
Or searching for that *** of gold at the end of the rainbow.
I kept following the path,
But the quest for the gold extended in perpetuity,
And my chalice remained empty.
I guess in a way you could say suffered
From battered wife or Stockholme Syndrome.
Drinking kidnapped me,
And held everything I was hostage,
I had everything, the job, the house, the love, the family,
The art, the poetry
But nothing became more important
Than the man who kidnapped me.
His needs, his wants became my own.
He spoke for me, he spoke through me.
I was him, and he was me,
And everything else bedamned.
I lied for him,
Stole for him,
Tricked my loved ones for him,
And in the increasingly rare moments of lucidity,
Interspersed between run-ins and blackouts and bottles of wine,
I tried to run,
But he would grab me when I made a break for it,
And drag me right back in.
While friends and loved ones who grabbed onto me with everything they had
Stood helplessly by as I willingly walked back to him.
A person has only so much strength,
So much will to resist.
And eventually, you only have enough reserves left to just exist.
It’s all you can do to stay alive,
If you can call it a life.
Yes, I was eventually one of the lucky 5 percent.
But there’s a word I operate by…”yet”.
Nothing is set in stone.
I could wind up right back where I started on that Monopoly board.
Don’t pass start, don’t collect 200 bucks.
So, until you have walked a mile in an addict’s shoes,
Or the shoes of an addict’s loved ones,
Judge not lest ye be judged.
Because the next hammer to fall just might be on you.
By the way, rest in peace, Amy Winehouse.
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 12:22 PM UTC