midnight - riley echo
I wanna make you feel safe.
A little bit of my tallboy dribbles
Onto my thigh, but that’s alright–
My misery might be your muse, I say
To no one in particular. I’m so sugar-sick
I can hardly see you, whoever you are.
I’m sensible enough to feel the tired
Seeping into me, stubborn enough to stay
Until after the sound guys pack up.
I wanna do it my way.
Pink and purple-blue-grey swallow the City
skyline–drown it, almost–in cirrostratus, And I think
about how if this were a slice of
Life anime, I would be small and wide-eyed waiting
For you up on the roof.
But it's not so.
Bow in my hair, hands behind my back–
Of course I do what I’m told, but
Don’t stick around to watch the ash.
Dead Man Walking - FASTCASE
There’s that Lady Bird quote that goes:
Do you remember the first time
You drove in Sacramento?
But do you remember the first time
Some dirtbag you barely know–if at all–
Drove you through Sacramento?
We pull up before Golden Bear closes up–
Which could be anytime, really. I like the free
Floating and the college radio crackling J-pop
And cynicism that’s too young to hurt anyone for
Real, a performance. A plea that the audience won’t
Tell on me, pull the veil back. Speaking my language.
The cooks at Pieces throw garlic confetti onto a piles
Between making beats on the patio. I’m dropping a tip
Into the jar at the counter, plastic beer pitcher,
Half-filled with standing water so nobody tries any shit.
So when we park your friend’s car, he
Pulls out all the stops–
A full pint of Henny and a tablespoon
Of chaser, god's so funny!
You just know that off the top of your head?
You look at your lips in your compact,
Then at me, then back–
Because you’re a baker, huh?
Goddamn, to be able to peel old jobs,
Old loves, old roles, old shows off my
Face without leaving that trail I started
Years ago. The thing is that
There’s something for everyone, and
There is a city that is plenty alive,
Even with your foot on its neck,
Even vice versa.
I’m not measuring in imperial,
So much as in masochism.
Peach - Labrats, dogpatch, & WIDDA K
Babygirl, I wanna take you to Sam's Hof Brau.
I wanna forget I ever deprived this body of anything,
Of you, of pork and gravy and gin and hellfire and adoration.
Just a big enough city for the light pollution to swallow the sky,
But it’s all good–I’m watching the Wellbutrin shooting
Up through the tube in the drive-thru drugstore,
Next door to the bottle shop, the one with the sign talking about
The two things it isn't: dry and clean.
It’s hard to give the ultimatum of “if you love me, listen to it build.”
When all anyone wants is brevity and abrasion, and, sure–
I wanna do all that, but I also wanna sway a little, here and there.
Lungs that can’t keep up with a heart that can’t keep up with a brain.
I want to be loved so badly, that ambiguous adverb.
Romy Rhoads Ewing is a writer, editor, and photographer from Sacramento, California. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bullshit Lit, fifth wheel press, BRAWL, HAD, Querencia Press, Nowhere Girl Collective, Y2K Quarterly, Anti-Heroin Chic, MEMEZINE, UC Davis’s Open Ceilings Magazine, and more. Her debut chapbook, please stay, was published by Bottlecap Press in 2024, and she was selected as a guest editor for JAKE's Winter 2024 sub call. She loves a good DIY show and wants to thank High House, Cafe Colonial, Naked Lounge, Torch Club, and Golden Bear for making her who she is.
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