Hello darlings—
I am honored that two of my poems, “The Enemies’ Disease” and “everything i do is beautiful”, have been published in Hunter’s Affects no. 1: Winter Tour 2024. (be sure to check out the soundtrack, too!) Thank you to Editor-in-Chief/One-Woman Band Alannah Guevara for everything. It’s a delight to be included, I hope you all enjoy reading.
love is real
Love,
Kate
I. Myth
Astride ice mountains, a mood
daguerrotype of the demoted
planet. Out in the cold swarmed by the wounded
healer, the hateful river and the river’s cousin
the serpentine of dreadful resilience.
Shunted outside the galaxy.
Still, we do not escape metamorphoses.
II. Home sphere
It’s the neighbors again.
Their drip annoys,
their curb appeal draws
your stomping boot. In This market?
Pluto’s loyal diamonds advise "Buy!-Buy!-Buy!
“It’ll never be so good again.”
Interest pays some and cuts both ways.
Class wars was a cute joke
but here are the keys—
It ain’t no fucking game.
Ain’t no fucking way.
You will see. You will covet
your lost privacy.
Your only solace the delirium
that you did not pay
to give it away.
Déjà vu: closing the blinds.
III. Sisters, brothers
When the real weight on you
is the knock that you are not at home
in your own body.
When the real work is to take
space. Terrifying, no? Say, No.
On your own behalf. That’s Enough.
When you act like it
will kill you to tell her
how you feel. That wall lies, BTW. No matter
if you built it.
When it’s not peace. It’s liberation.
Justification will only leave you
colder. Desecrated cemeteries envy you.
Now give over the keys
everybody go home.
IV. Sonnez les matines
When Elvis haunts me, his plaints his sad
When I make my baby a peanut butter and banana
milkshake to soothe those cutting teeth
and I finally feel the love for The King.
Power melted him. I hope he was earnest as I believe
he was. I pray—whether he is
an alien or dead—he is free.
V. Leave
This is what power makes of me:
a reach to god.
What offerings shall there be to Lord Death?
Hmm… Did I mention I’m not into wine?
Not this pale suburbia mama, no Sirree, sorry not sorry.
I beg your pardon, but haven’t You had enough?
Haven’t you been on the dole too long?
VI. The Secret Kick
Her hiss is a kiss
I'll eat it all up, please.
I may be a Sag
but I love me Thee Stallion.
This winter is unearthly beautiful
despite the plagues,
despite the genocide.
Must be some of that Snow, Tina.
Must be some of that pinkwash
heart glow that the shareholders could never
kill nor take. After all,
This Is Regeneration Season
for the next 20 years.
[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:
jukebox:
kate carsella 