Author: Ghada Khalil

Ghada Khalil writes poetry and makes experimental no-fi sound performances and mixed media collages. Her piece ‘The Incomplete List of Phobias’ is published in theNewerYork Press Book IV. She has an M.A. in Media Studies from New York University. Find her at www.ghadakhalil.com and @_GhadaKhalil_.

Pink Lies and Made-ups

I kiss your lips in the blizzard, I cover
your eyes with something
soft. It snows in apartment 2.

I cooked nothing. I have peaches, nectarines
and peels.
Inside the peach, an apricot,
inside the apricot,
a cherry, then, a seed, a kernel, then nothing, nothing, nothing; infinitesimal –
[To see your breath].

The only party we go to is a poem you wear snug while I stand still
with a peculiar hairdo
parsing your getz. There is no definition
for getz in the dictionary. It does not have any meaning yet.
It is a made up-word. Aren’t they all pink lies and made-ups?
Suggested meaning for getz – death the lie.

The party is in the foreign room #12 where
everyone is alone,
unknown & the kisses are at dispersal ranges. Your own absence glowing
on the one giant horn – you are trying to hide – on
your stubborn forehead.

Icebreakers, party ideas:
Flap forearms for a year in the giant glass words bubble in the lobby or
Sing a high pitch tumultuous nasal air flow in the stranger’s sleeve for four days.

Cranberry bubbles bursting on the stove,
in a pot with one cinnamon stick, a cored Granny Smith and
raw sugar. Sugar is festive.

Then, there is the reading, the poem on the left is the strident turbulent frication
of consonants of strangers and the one
on the right is the poem inside
the nothing, inside the nothing, inside the nothing, inside the kernel, inside
the seed, inside the cherry, inside the apricot,
inside the peach and there are also the stories we eat at dinner
told by other mammals.

Count with me: how often
do we crossl*
over the same floor?

Over the southbound river on the left
of the small town?

Over the
poem without vowels
of somebody alive, dead or both?

How often does a Dabidou*, the luck bug,
follow you like you are
the honey of the whole world?

While a vacuum sifts through
the kitchen salt, everybody
wants a sting of luck. They look in the dictionary
for that luck bug’s name and they don’t find it.

Time Travel Camp

We were all from somewhere else, foreign,
from sometime else,
childhood ballooning in our bellies
after every familiar taste. No milk teeth left, The foreign place
was everywhere, on any map, in every kiss.
in every place of residence. in the storm and in the spring.
We know now what a storm is; clouds rain over us.

We set reminders to remember; Don’t forget to water the plant.
Don’t forget what is left after the day is over; the faces of strangers
after they are gone, the silent litter on tracks without
trains; on platforms without passengers.

Like mediocre clumsies we snorted air, Air is the
common name for atmospheric gases
, readily available
in hallucinating reality –
Air is heavier than you might think. You laugh at the corner
where the clown stands ridiculing normality while he breathes.

Our portraits un-solemn in files and forms,
King Georges IV of every kingdom, is eating
us whole, organic and free for dinner with all poems we
made, ate, regurgitated and ate again.
He lived long time ago. So we did.

The kiss everybody wanted is all lost in you, like a small candy &
you are a candy wrap but you think of yourself as a dull newspaper.
I am here, still, waiting for you to start dancing,
to drag my pethood by the loose unwinding leash around my neck to the cyclone
put neatly in a glass box for show and calm. The windup key
is right here in the gore of my back. It’s a Sunday
Chopin’s music box. Now we know what a Sunday is; it is the
day before the day we all go back to money.