asheville writers

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Altar

Published October 4, 2017 by April Fox

Let’s make a little altar here

from the things that we collected

while we walked.

Let’s make a little altar

from the broken sticks,

the colored leaves, the tiny

stones

that pressed between our palms

like everything.

Let’s make a little altar

from the love notes

and the bits of songs

the promises and tears

the handprints on the glass

in the back seat of the car.

Let’s make a little altar

with the shadowbox we made

from torn up paper, old receipts

the endless coffee cups,

the rain.

Let’s make a little altar

from the nursery rhymes and fairy tales

the hangovers and lazy days

the emptiness behind the

captive audience, the rapt and

awed, the onlookers, the fans

the stick figures, the empty heads

the arms that circled close, the

time

the blackness left behind.

Let’s make a little altar, but this time

let’s keep it out

where we can see it

keep the floodlights on

the spotlight keeping lit

all the things that we’ve collected

tucked away

and dusted off

on a holiday like nothing

Let’s make a little altar

from the darkness

left behind.

Funhouse 

Published March 11, 2017 by April Fox

Today seems like a good day, she thought,

to post a written affirmation 

in the third person

of how she saw herself

Words borrowed from someone else and 

filtered 

through a hazy layer of optimism

angled just so

to avoid showing the piles of

shit

in the background 

and viewed through a

funhouse mirror

Nails in her feet cropped out and blurred

with tilt shift

just to be safe

She is

an all-powerful

homage 

to herself, a poorly-lit

selfie

captured in words

and garbage
Such a beautiful sunrise

frames her silhouette 
And she will rise,

regurgitating self

another day. 
*For fuck’s sake, please don’t take this seriously. 

2016

Published January 3, 2017 by April Fox

Funny all the cracks that made your surface

interesting, once upon a time have filled in now

with dirt and grime and no amount of scrubbing

can restore them

Leonard Cohen left us blissful

mirror-gazing at each other, dancing

long and slow, until the end

until the end and we were

cavernous, and gaunt like insects, exoskeletons

the mismatched eyes were watching everything

and slit the throats

of all our memories, bled them dry and left us screaming

hey Ophelia

Please come back

home.

Vultures

Published November 30, 2016 by April Fox

Plastic vultures,

pale and fat

shiny beaks spitting out

the phrases that they’ve learned

from television,

Cool Kid Slang

the mating call

of the

desperate-

circling, waiting

for the chance to pluck the eyes out

of the children

they were never meant to have.

 

Spot Light.

Published November 27, 2016 by April Fox

In the hallways, we shared stories

of the darkness, passed folded

slips of paper

palm to palm, like contraband

secret payment for the ticket

to get in

We hid in corners, trading

tales and malcontent,

pound for pound, tracing scars and

licking salt

away from skin

The cracks behind the wall

bled our secrets through.

We drowned our boundaries in coffee, sat up until

our eyes bled red and the words

we spoke were smooth

against our tongues

The moon outside the window

was a spotlight

shining in.

Skeletons 

Published November 4, 2016 by April Fox

It used to be we kept them

locked up tight, bound and 

gagged, jaw bones chained

to the floor and filthy rags taped

over the holes

where the eyes once waited,

watching. 

Now we buy them brand new

Pick them out of catalogs, customized

with all the latest

diagnoses, all the fancy

damage upgrades

Shabby chic

for the narcissist soul

And we dress them up in

costume pieces, gaudy beads and trendy things that scream 

I have my shit together 

but for these bones, here-

See my bones?

We walk them on parade, 

let them strut out before us

slapping all the other people

in the way-

There is no room for your bones here

Look at all my splintered parts 

cast from latex

and gummy resin. 

Mine are the only ones. 

And in the back room

in the closet, padlocked

tight

The skeletons who know the truth

are chewing through their bonds,

prepared to speak. 

Dean Ween Interview for Songfacts 

Published October 5, 2016 by April Fox

“If you’ve kept up with the man over the years, you know that he’s a skilled musician and a clever lyricist, and those traits shine on The Deaner Album. “Tammy” written by anyone else could have been just another mullet-rock scorned-man-on-the-road revenge song, but Dean Ween spins the story with a lyrical prowess that rivals the likes of Elvis Costello and Tom Waits, but with that touch of crude, not-quite humor that leaves no doubt as to who wrote it. “Charlie Brown” is a beautifully grungy one-man show, with Dean playing all the instruments on a song that no doubt strikes a chord with anyone who has ever been at the end of their figurative rope; it’s the universal lament, with a mature stroke of hope at the very end. “Exercise Man” is straight up Dean Ween all the way, fast-paced and snarling, backed by the Meat Puppets’ Curt Kirkwood on guitar and full of the kind of pure snark we’ve come to expect from the man himself.”

Read my interview with Dean Ween here, wherein he talks about his new album with The Dean Ween Group, and a bunch of other stuff including his mom’s killer profiteroles. 

http://www.songfacts.com/blog/interviews/dean_ween/

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