Prose & Poetry

welcome home, starling

you are safe now

torrid torrid, tori amos

torrid torrid, tori amos

tori, little tori biding her time, harnessed the natural fury of adolescence,
the tortured grape makes the finest wine, sixteen scented candles alit
playing methodist hymns, secular shubert, baltimore pop, a flower aflame
but seeing the light with joni, patti, kate, little richard - a choir profane
 
and prayed with poppet for the day to move to glorious l.a.,
and then one morning she herself was up there, up on ventura, ready and hot
and they dragged all her ragged screams and frail fractured chords up the sepulveda pass
and damned them, transformed to plastic pop-synth for that brainwashed mass
 
wearing success, striking a pleather vest pose in a joyhouse of artificial banshees,
a megalopolis of architecture hair, glam-sweat nights through raccoon eyes
and so it was placed in this grimoire: a request released, a request granted
until a cop stole her underwear, she became disenchanted
 
that the big picture was proved saccharine and synthetic,
that the white grand piano spoke her false name (and learn in this, young one),
that the tremors and faults shook under her knee-high boots
until palm trees pirouetted and curtseyed all along sunset, hidden stricken roots
 
now she pivots, twirling under griffith park, dizzying her glitched compass,
remembers her eastern roots, nights of talking to cats like a proper witch
with that same spritely voice, muttered the ancient potent words
that talented all the nightmares away, kept those fractured truthful chords,
 
kept the eyeliners and sorcery, kept the home in the hills,
kept the link to our timeworn sorority, and stepped closer to her muse
and if you find yourself alone and away and surrounded by artificial flakes
shine with your sisters, and mother earth, and start your own little earthquakes
 

 

Jake Tringali lived up and down the East Coast, and then up and down the West Coast, and now back in his home city of Boston.  Runs rad restaurants.  Thrives in a habitat of bars, punk rock shows, and a sprinkling of burlesque performers.
First published in 2014.  Journals include Catch & Release, Boston Poetry Magazine, Indiana Voice Journal, and thirty-five other fine periodicals.
Now go enjoy your day.  Rock on.
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The Temperature of Skin

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