strut your stuff, shut me out and then judge me
corrupted pathways of stuff meant to begrudge me
that anti-matter just doesn't matter
that catastrophic energy will soon surely shatter

i can't jump fast to be the last in line
heart pumps fast with the blast in mind
clock thumps past battles passed in time
blood clumps caste with a mass decline

strut your stuff, but hush it when you're near me
disrupted masters get mad but then fear me
the negative ions will be eaten alive
that's hazardous material where the beaten survive

ARE YOU THERE ELVIS? IT’S ME, MICHELLE
by Michelle Awad


My grandmother only
cries
in the face of death,
and even then,
it is shrouded in
laughter,
like her body is 
rejecting
the notion.



I have come to 
understand

that this

is hereditary.

Now.

An appointment card 
arrives

in the mail for you,

she breaks down; 
“Blue Christmas” plays

through the car stereo,

she breaks down; 
she doesn’t sleep, she thinks

she can hear you

moaning and coughing

in the next room. Yesterday,

my aunt asked her 
a question,
and she told her

she didn’t know,
to go ask 
you.


I remember your hands, 

as dandelion wishes, and

the smell of 
lawn clippings,
and
a stack of 
word search puzzle booklets

on your side table, but 

I never catch myself

talking about you

in the present tense.

It's something
I deeply wish
was hereditary.

Fold for life, unfold for death.
Conscience coming on strong.
What are your regrets?
These bones would be between my
fingers regardless.
All good fun in tow,
but now your ghost knows.
You had a show to live,
and yes you did.
I see my feet fall
within your prints.
All good to blame,
when I'm doing this.

My grandfather peels an
X-chromosome off his liquor bottle
skips it across the pool of my mother’s genes
until it reaches me
yellow cigarette stained walls
green ashtray carpet on his tongue
blue back room full of old guitars
black mechanic oil stained hands
sandpaper voice
watching Jaws 4
homeless woman on couch
feeds dog black coffee
brown belly dragging across tongue
Thanksgiving dinners
my brother plays “Purple Haze”
out of a reluctant amplifier
the old folks applaud
the colors are beginning to
fade
he
battling cancer his way
watching Jaws 4
dog now dead
homeless woman now
no longer homeless
back skin where left ear
used to be
old guitars pawned for
drugs
Purple Haze fades to
black as colors do
and they say
it skips a generation
and now when shades
of pink appear white
my tongue grows thick
smoke burns my nostrils
and
I can only think of
how terrible of a film
Jaws 4 is.

Our Synaesthesia is for free,
Music is the muse for me,
In my blood, you see,
Images imaginary,
Elvira Madigan wakes to see,
Mozart play Mozart lucidly,
Swooner songs sound so silly,
Old rockers croon so vividly,
Funny lyrics in my brain,
Sounding a little deranged,
(It is hereditary
In my family)
Yes, Synaesthesia is for free,
Smurfette's songs, so silly.