Sonnet Man

(A response to An Ache, Exploded, over a year later)

 

Sonnet Man touched my body.

Haunts me still

 

He’s unkempt & greedy,

whines like a siren—the creature,

unlike the warning bell I

desperately needed

He crept his satyromania into

every conversation, injected

his guilt-complex into my cerebral cortex

 

He’s powerless now, a cyber ghost

wandering his screen like a nomad

 

Sonnet Man,

it hurts that I can’t say your name

& I’m never feeling evil enough

to place the blame

You left alive

I stumbled away in pieces, ravished

Let’s count the wounds:

A red palm from when you slammed

my hand onto your jeans

(not just once, not twice,

not three nor four nor five,

but eight times)

& a black/blue/purple brain

 

I can speak about it now,

can’t hurt a memory’s feelings

 

I won’t rest until you remain

unknown to women.

I lick my wounds like an

undernourished animal

as the first step

to the rebirth

of my divinity

& amour de soi

 

Sonnet Man, I ask you—what’s

the point of being a monster

when you have no teeth?

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2.16

Act I

Considered plucking the rose from

my chest and littering the sidewalk

with it;

Other women brought

bouquets so I no longer feared

I’d be singled out at the gate

 

Voorpret intensifies

 

When the sun was no longer

suspended in the sky:

women hopped fences and

a man asked for extra tickets

while my head shook like

a blurry photo,

whips back and forth

in the cold

Wind a nemesis I faced for you

 

Act II

After circling around the sun

together four times, I finally

see you face to face

This moment is

eternally ours,

only

 

Act III

Hell’s Kitchen brings tears

Your octave continued to spill

over my ear

Now I wander around like a

wispy dream,

I close my eyes and

see the memories they’ll

never know

when people ask me, I say

when people ask me, I say

 

I’m stealing his eyes

in an assemblage of bodies

familiar faces

They don

charcoal outlines &

coruscate teeth

 

In awe of you before me

Two types of feelings

engulf me like twin

serpents,

sinful, entwined:

 

  1.  We’d be better separate—

A match &

gasoline

 

  1. It’s all in frame,

an involuntary fantasy,

a supercut

We move like oil paintings

our lines blend into each other

our strokes brisk

Sugarcane byproducts mess with

our organs

The clock reads 0:00—we

burst & we start over

primal rush

People envy us—

we steal their glances &

hoard them in the limited space

between our torsos

The supercut concludes

when we study each other,

parallel, drawn-out stares

 

These warm nights with you are

wild, and meaningless

“December” – Spenserian Stanza

I stand at winter’s edge and plead for sun;

December

I stand at winter’s edge and plead for sun;

New England days of wintry light conceal

what warmth was present—now just slim to none.

The clouds do swell and all the lakes congeal,

cadet blue-sky that brings me no appeal.

The coldest winds of December relay

a sense of despondence that’s not ideal.

I perch on winter’s edge like birds of prey

and use my beak to plead for beaming warmth of day


I normally hate poems in which I have to rhyme and follow specific guidelines, but this Spenserian Stanza, written for my English Epic class, was fun to write.

With love, Alyssa

An Ache, Exploded

An Ache, Exploded

 

Smutty, sweet, exploiting heart

planted an olive tree in me that

 

won’t die until we’re one-thousand & nineteen

Pray for verticillium wilt when

 

a whipping disorientation festers, a sickness

climbs into my hippocampus

 

You persevered like a seed against

my visceral doubt & so the personal decayed

 

Now I wake up feeling ugly, skin

like boils redder than dawn

 

It shrivels up like wet band-aids

where prehensile fingers commandeered

 

Lacerated to the bone

Toss me neosporin, a tourniquet

 

Lick your lips when you’re finished &

perch on the backbone of no-woman’s land—

 

—a landscape of sulfur, eddied around grass,

the blades piercing me hot

 

He told me to

think the whole thing null,

 

make a martyr proud.

 

With love, Alyssa

Open Mic Night in which I Took Gold Out on a Date

My bio (to announce me) was: “Alyssa Vigorito is a sophomore majoring in English and minoring in Digital Journalism, who writes with the purpose of unsettling the mind. She is a chicken noodle soup enthusiast and your good friend. Her poem “Take Gold Out On a Date” is about a whimsical nothing.”

Yesterday night  I was one of several speakers at the English Honor Society’s (Sigma Tau Delta, or ‘STD’. I can’t wait to be part of STD haha) open mic event, in which students could share poems or prose. I designed the poster for the event as well.

This’ll be brief, no anecdotes or anything, as I have to read and write a critique on submissions for my publishing class. Here’s what I wrote and read:


Take gold out on a date

 

take gold out on a date;

don’t ask him why fools are on his tail,

attached like parasites sucking golden

blood through their silver tongues;

do ask him when he turned to Midas—

a compliment;

buy gold a $14 mojito

empty bottle requiem

another round;

kiss gold in the Penn Station Auntie Anne’s

golden pretzels twisted like our

lives—a Jenga masterpiece

cadence of the footsteps

another round;

plan a tattoo about how he’s all you see;

fall in love with gold in the same manner

we shower: what was once claustrophobic

is an act we wish to

savor—

in torrential downpour or

remaining drops

With love, Alyssa

Valentine’s Day

Here is an unfinished/unpolished clipping with love xxx

I’ve been working on a poem that’ll intersect at the variables of ‘love’ and ‘color’. It’s not finished- it won’t be until my deadline in one week.

Here’s a clip for all lovebirds who may be reading:

“kiss gold in the Penn Station Auntie Anne’s / golden pretzels twisted like our / lives— a Jenga masterpiece / cadence of the footsteps / another round;”

With love on today of all days xxx

With love, Alyssa

Text Message Poem

A poem composed of texts I have received or sent, all from different people.

Texts With Friends

 

Another leaf tucked behind my ear

Will he see that at 48 Duncan?

 

there’s no one behind me

Mom is sleeping.

 

I’ll take a dark and stormy if they have

 

Jail break…

Are you crazy?

I’ll drive some of them over the bridge

How opposed to riding in the trunk of a car are you?

text-message-poem

With love, Alyssa

The Drive – Villanelle

The drive was the very worst

The Drive

 

The drive was the very worst,

Under canopies of trees it was evident

our quiet conversation was clearly coerced

 

Flowers we nurtured together died of thirst

and left behind petals soaked in malevolence

The drive was the very worst

 

Our roses died yet we still tried to nurse

all but one, who remains desolate

Drive it to the hospital, you coerced

 

You hit redo like a car in reverse,

hit a tree stump the size of an elephant

The drive was the very worst

 

Windshield cracked like an outburst

yet I never voiced my sentiment

until now—confessions coerced

 

Our roses died yet we still tried to nurse

all but one, who developed an impediment

The drive was the very worst

My silence, thereafter, uncoerced

With love, Alyssa