Four Poems by Amber Ridenour

APARAGUS AND BROCCOLI

For luck with men, I lit the mattress
with a cigarette, and was surprised
when I burned out.

Possession was 6/7ths  of my drawer
of underwear, a rolodex of once-sheer days
replaced by weight on skin, an arm
hooked ‘round my neck.

He said asparagus would throttle broccoli
if they had duels inside a cage. I said nobody
wins in cages, vegetable or no. Just look
at how we kiss.

Heart-decals dangled from the chains
of  keys that rattled in my lock. It opened.
Why was I surprised, each time?

The closest I could get
to beauty was a carnival
where no one went.

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL ALLEY MAP

Past bottle-littered backalleys
of self-taught adolescence painting
on a mouthy pout and scuttling
ennui into drunken teenage form past
parkbenches slumped creatively
on corners counting off each flatbed
Ford past traintracks where Zima bottles
cracked to glinting bits and brittled
from between the rails past
Burnside street where love-affairs
with tattoos near turned literal
in garbagepile kisses fueled by ink
caffiene and nicotine and the wife
no wiser than the semi-trucks
drove past 2 sets of playground toys
where midnight mouths
of men were tried for size
and vainly searched for proper fit
past shopping carts ripped off
from Safeways shoved downhill
for racing speed past these small trails
that mark the metatarsals scapula
and epidermis blurred and winking
like a flimsy bulb illuminating
long-parked cars and alleys worth
ten times the words to count
a picture with

CATHEDRAL

Climbing over pilings
was not enough. Wrong side

was what I wanted
of the tracks,

my boots mucked
to the ankle, sand and bone.

Nothing of romance
in water. Thunder

of inverted cars
above my head like karma.

And whose is it? I have worn
the boots of men I loved

to let them go. One
by one, my bones freighted

the sand. Still floated,
somehow, with the buoys

as steel arches pirated the sky
like scissored lovers.

I don’t know what
the river will claim next.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Breakup poem, subtle percussion poem, exploding freefall poem
Trashy soliloquy poem, excuse for bourbon poem
Poem making fun of another poem, rip-off poem
Minimalist Duchamp finger-up-nose poem
Music freejazz and piano crashboom poem
Brick smashing academic glass poem
Trompe l’oiel poem, tromp flowers poem,
Entropic entelechy poem, semi-used-up poem
Postcubistmodernimagefluxus poem
Post Myspace poem, detonate friendship poem,
Shit     puke     booze as subject matter poem,
Poem that doesn’t matter poem, don’t say poem,
Meta-     Ars      and glory poem,
Portbottle pass-out poem, broken pencil poem
Shitcan poem, bleachout poem
White out       black out        X-out poem
Erasure poem, exposure poem
Wordfuck poem, unpoem,
(the subtle yearning quiet)
end poem

About the author:

I am the co-editor of The Night Bomb Review and Night Bomb Press. Some of my poems have been featured in Gumball Poetry, 580 Split, Quill and Parchment, Slightly West, Blown Out: Portland’s Indie Poets, Mirror Northwest and Lexicon Polaroid, as well as KBOO’s “Talking Earth” program, Smallpressapalooza at Powell’s City of Books, the TV series, “Now What?” and regional library readings. I live and write in Portland, Oregon, and sometimes publish chapbooks under the pen name Starlite Motel.