Creations

Poetry Feature: Leia Hannum

by Hilltopics

Evening Drive

To the Q-shaped Pothole on Pacific Blvd,

 

Sometimes I wish you were still here.

I know I swore blood when you careened my sacred vehicle,

but it’d be nice to see a familiar face,

’specially this time of year.

 

Last night, I drove a man and a

boy, who whispered,

“I could just devour

those crinkles in the corners

of your eyes.”

 

I dropped them off at Bubba Gump.

 

That was after the city stuffed you silly

with concrete (took ‘em long enough).

cranking down the window now I guess I feel a little sad passing by,

But no hard feelings, right?

 

You’re not missing much, anyway.

Recently there’s been a kind of stink,

I think it’s coming from underground. Real sweet and rotten,

bathing the streets and smelling like an unwashed—

 

—HEY, California asshole!

Stop your staring,

it’s just a taxi cab.

 

 

West Texas

I rest,

a place        pickled in heat.

Cars pass close and

make no

 

sound.

 

Luxury eco yurts—

ten cents a night.

 

I take my key from the legless receptionist.

 

Lover’s Landfill—

a hotspot on Sunday.

 

Samsung Galaxy windpipes              rattle like               fluid-filled lungs.

 

In air cream-thick

 

past cars                     glowing nigh,

 

tumbleweed on, traveller.

 

Weed,             tumble by.

 

 

Have to Pee

Boy oh boy oh boy do I wish

I could buy another bladder

from the black market or maybe Amazon Prime.

I might piss my pants (yet again)—

Four in five economists agree that

there’s a scarcity of space

in my bladder sac.

I could buy a diaper,

but no one would like that.

Could stop drinking water,

but I’d die, probably,

in two or three days.

Don’t want to be called Piss Boy again.

“Here comes Piss Boy!”

Here he comes.

 

 

Conversations

Flaming lips,

They named a street

Dante’s Inferno,

or was it Flaming Lips Lane?

Somebody (on the street)

had Erykah Badu’s phone number.

 

Gonna buy a plant

and see if I can keep it alive

this time around.

 

Can you make soup

with a two-week old pumpkin?

If not, can you shellac it

with glue

instead?

 

This man from San Fransisco

wasn’t actually a smoker,

but every New Year’s Eve would say

that he’s a smoker

and tell the room he was quitting

for tax purposes.

 

And the first thing he says is

“It’s not my weed!”