Tuesday, July 8, 2008


for Chu bone white and smooth nothing less than hand-tooled perfection creating suspended animation time warp an extra sensory perception of youth. and we see results of her copulation with Ponce de Leon's dream the gleaming complexion to light the night in fog after hours spent under knives and screws potions, lotions and chemical reductions for Juliet's poison Aurora's cure twisted in languid states of living and perpetual prepubescence. Aleathia Drehmer 2008 Published by Eviscerator Heaven 6/08

War II

men will do strange things when faced with prosperity at no cost to themselves. they set about in secrecy pushing forward deviations, taking wills of others easily pushed into boxes left with darkness threats indoctrinated with fears in failing economies and good ole boy mentalities into boxes men slipping through shadows eyes darting blindly at voices thick with lust holes, warm and wet filled with greed, with certain entitlements. and the scraping of boots imbedded with foreign sands molten into glass cutting across metal, sparking reverberations, not easily forgotten. Aleathia Drehmer 2007 Published by Covert Poetics 7/08

War I

$21 billion seems a fair price in the cycle of raping that slides from the top down, a tumbling of dominos tipped with a quick stroke from the pen, each knowing how their hands touched the heads of 85,000 dead Iraqis, absolved from punishment as they sit back in the glow of burning fields, palms greased with crude, shaking hands on side deals. Aleathia Drehmer 2007 Published by Covert Poetics 7/08

Set Sail

“The world is such a wonderful place” he said, with voice trailing off into the collage of noises: bare thighs scraping down the slide, children’s laughter, dogs barking, frog song and low flying airplanes overhead. Yoshii sat with her body folded in half, knees pulled into breasts, on the wooden pylons skirting the play set, its borders creating a sea of woodchips and discarded toys. She sank her feet into it with silent delight, her eyes patiently following her son’s interactions with the American children; she somehow hoped for a better integration than her own into this land of excess. Her voice rang out in the high, clipped language full of intonations that kept him isolated like a buoy; the warnings shouted for safety, as he blindly followed the pack of cabin-fevered children all in a swarm of awkward legs and new teeth, while they chased the oldest boy on his bicycle. Yoshii thought for a moment of her own childhood, of the freedoms never tasted the way her son’s tongue has, and it filled her inside to see him grab this life with both hands, to put the world in his mouth and bite without hesitation. She readjusted the pleat of her limbs, her feet still submerged in the wooden ocean and bowed her head in thanks for the gifts of this moment. Aleathia Drehmer 2008 Published by Debris Magazine 7/08