Poetry: Selections From Alannah Guevara

Crybaby (cw: self harm)
all my life i was a little crybaby
mommy swam through my tears
& daddy drank them every night
& he used them to aseason carne asada
but my tears stained like grease
& burnt like acid
i tried to bleach my tear ducts
i tried to cauterize them
i even tried to pluck my eyeballs
like juicy, fresh tomatoes
but i only cried about the pain
i used to save the tears in jars
gallons upon gallons of salty liquid frustration
and id put all the dead things i found inside
all the words ive ever had to say floating like gas bubbles
one time I slit my wrists
& drained my blood
& replenished my veins with tears
& theyve circulated my body ever since

when my heart beats i feel like the ocean
buoyant and full of shit
i have recycled these tears my whole life
i am a waste management facility after the flood

Cosmic cowboys abound
No one here is happy
In the shoestring shadow cast
From promontory hills upon the dusty seas
Riders drown in the breeze and
Cosmic cowboys abound
Ride the lowline up from here to highwater
In half a week flat
Rattlers and the regular crowd
Ride Tuesdays for free
And if you blink out the window
Cosmic cowboys abound
You can cry bloody rivers on my shoulder
Nail me down to wanted signs
Braid my locks like I’m the trusty steed at your side
See here how I canter for you?
See here how I frighten?
Cosmic cowboys abound
Gristled Tejano chins nestle each other
Like pinto painted skies
Become nopales suckling
Swapping the same few drops back and forth
In the hot and heavy sun
Cosmic cowboys abound
In ghost town, Nevada
Close enough to Vegas that chlorine tints the air
Close enough to Nowhere that I can see some stars
Behind my eyes
Cosmic cowboys abound
In at least fourteen states
Hues of history waver
Western aurora borealis
Or ayahuascan thunderclouds
The difference between life
As a straightman and life while
Cosmic cowboys abound

Sermoney in the Amount
Under scrutiny of higher power, evangelize!
When Cash Money reigns down upon us
as re(dis)tribution for worshipping Wages, Holy Deceiver of Communities,
then who is to dispute the Almighty Debtor?;
Whose declarations speak in silver and copper tongues
in the holy gullet of a cracked pleather wallet puppetered by the Handout
that issues divine numerology so we may, in the end, know our worth.
In the belly of a coffer or in the belly of a lion,
we are absorbed just the same.
Food does not digest because it is eaten,
Nor are we bought and sold for being expendable;
Recall that even angels lie under scrutiny of Higher Power.

Self-Portrait | Reflections on 28
She collects dust in the cracks of her smiles.
She preaches with citrus breath and salted lips.
She oscillates between orthodox and uneasy.
She twitches to give herself away.
She enters a room in size man chunky boots.
She performs over 10 different characters.
She comes in flavors too risqué for general audiences.
She blisters within the house of god.
She cries often and without your help.
She pours passionate lava into Stoic molds.
She dreams of The Lieutenant’s impending presence.
She saves time with prepackaged praise.
She raises her rifle like she raises her pen.
She scries vodka to see the next hour.
She grieves because it is her path.
She moves in aethereal circles to avoid confrontation.
She thanks Blue Note for Idle Moments.
She glitches in and out of her habits.
She opines for better days.
She profits off her white blood cells.
She suckles sugar-coated magick beans.
She bubbles her drinks to bring light to her life.
She sighs into the small of her lover’s back.
She taps her fingers to the arrhythmic melody of memory.
She cradles death in both arms.
She recoils at a chance for immortality.
She lives in the peripheral of the eyes of the world.

Alannah Guevara is a poet-wife and vilomah. Find her published works by floating around in the aether (or in Revolution John, Isele Magazine, Toyon, and Rejection Letters). Alannah is the editor-in-chief of Hunter’s Affects: a lit mag for deadheads. Alannah is on Twitter @prismospickle.