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

Erasers

Your vibrant exterior

often vandalized and

bruised pink

Erasers.

 

Your vibrant exterior

often vandalized and

bruised pink

is seen as enticing

Your ability to feel no pain

when you shave yourself,

and your lack of empathy when you

seize a mistake prove

you are a force to be reckoned with

 

I called upon you to help

me rectify my error

expunge my black spots

and save me from

my dark blue;

I knead you like

I need you

 

You’re symbolism

for trust:

diminishing in size

with every

mistake until

pencils rest, like fallen timber,

at the bottom of my

bag with their

erasers chewed or sheared off–

so I can’t take it back

This poem means a lot to me. I wrote an earlier version in 2014, and revised it for my poetry class on the two year anniversary. My first draft can be found here. It’s the poem that made me realize my love for writing, and now I’m on a pathway where I can do what I love. I’m in a good place.

With love, Alyssa

 

Prompt: “I can’t support you anymore”

It takes two to mango

In everyone’s favorite creative writing workshop a few weeks ago, the one I feverishly plan on being on the eboard next semester for, one of four prompts was: Fiction- “I can’t support you anymore.”

While I did not write a piece of fiction, I did write a haiku. Disclaimer: it’s not based off someone I know, from as far as you can tell, at least.

Bags

I can’t support you

When you eat mango pulp from

Hefty, black trash bags


 

Please, spin me a tale of someone you can no longer support, and write, possibly in haiku form, why you can’t support them anymore.

With love, Alyssa


Photo by: Watercolor Artist Susaleena, Susaleena.com. Her paintings are hyper-realistic and vibrant.

September by the Bay

I still ask myself, was my hair actually akin to Lombard Street?

One drummer

Plays in his one-man golden gate garage band on an askew street

Cymbals echo for several blocks

 

My father yearns to question tourists, though

If he says

“I am like you,” it

Nullifies my memories.

 

1.  A man hiding in the bushes, unaware of his own scent

Cannabis and salty air,

Startled me as I ate

 

2. An ambiguity between legs and

The trees of Muir Woods that only

Made me question my vision–

Was my hair actually akin to Lombard Street?

 

I am not like you

 

Mom made me stand in every cell in Alcatraz in front of

Decaying walls like sunburned skin

I can’t bind myself to this history, and to suns that bleed like molten lava

With love, Alyssa

Upbringing

I turned nineteen today and finished this poem in the car while on my way to celebrate with friends. Growing up is a daunting task, but so is growing apart from who you used to be and who you used to visualize yourself as whilst aging. I don’t perceive myself so poorly anymore.

Upbringing

 

I thank my roots

For growing from

Imperfect weather patterns and learned helplessness

Where

Obviously is too harsh a word

      Obviously you should try harder

      Obviously your feelings are hurt

Well,    obviously, not everything is written on my bedroom door

And     obviously you should find a synonym

 

Ask me what town I’m from

I’ll tell you

I’m from

Toilet lids,

A strategic game and

Arriving early

All of the above in urgency

 

I’m from movement

Sometimes lack thereof

See me in

Potential and

My mother’s face

Chewing on words instead of sustenance

Find me as vexing as scum

In your open wound

But far less noticeable

Hear me

I’m from a loud voice

Presented as a miniscule sea shell with the ocean

Inside it

 

My grandmother likes to mark her

Grandchildren’s heights against

Her wobbly basement door

One poignant

Fight from falling off

Its hinges

Every time I stood

Against it

A ruler and a pencil scuffled my hair

And once my eye

And the

Thought of one day growing up

Worried me, though

 

What petrifies me

Is growing        apart

From all of’s and from’s,

And obviously

This

With love, Alyssa