Emma Geller is a poet, singer, and actress from Boston, MA. Her passions include cinema, listening to Elliot Smith, and drinking too much coffee. You can find out more about Emma on Instagram at em_me_line.
Anne drives. Right foot presses gas pedal hard hard as a pair of ruby lips smashed on red wine stained chin bleached out collar. I sit behind. Blackberry vinyl resin sticks to hairless legs holds me stiff as a cross as she weaves her nineteen-sixty-seven crimson Cougar in and out of cars yielding to her yellow roar. Anne’s tongue laps up virginity until it is dry. I want to be her kind.
Red dress wears her femaleness the way a thin line draws a silhouette. Not a child or woman ambiguous and shapeless I see words as words inscribed in my body’s mind. The rev-rev of Anne’s liquid laughter turns high beams on high mixes with air excavates sound from my lungs. Inside a voice surfaces begs me to slip on the costume of brave Anne still haunted.
Her marble eyes grow greener. Anne tells me I must learn to create my own room my own audience muster every chalk in my bones let the words find me until nothing is left but my sex before the opposite of the poem the opposite we both know hides like a seed grows like vine inside a gravedigger’s pocket.
Crimson Cougar halts at the Ritz. We sneak inside order martinis stingers two-for-one and knock them back. Poets dressed as salesmen waiters homemakers surround me cat strut the aisle. The podium is taller then I remember as words crumble in my mouth fractured bone letters ash silent.
Anne waves. Tosses my pages into choked up air. I have not done my hitch my half. Part of the road I am asphalt not whole. Back in the Cougar the seat rubs under my thighs shame fills the blanks inside. Salty smoke swirls around Anne as she cures herself first last time. To fill Anne’s dress I must grow I must burn burn to render the madness. I want to be her kind.
1976
In quiet acceleration you drove. Left behind sprinklers Kool-Aid bare feet racing to sirens mating cats in the alley. You left a house filled with curtains wooden spoons your name.
You were dark mother always squinting something awful through your eyes. Bruises disturbed your inkblot face credibility for the insane. I was seven buck teeth towhead hard to feed insomniac.
That night you gave up motherhood crawled into my room after mixing cigarettes with men wearing perfume for the whore polluting the air.
You swayed above me. Beads of sweat on your neck glistened a string of white lights around your tree. Cherry flavor wax candy lips sucked dry by whiskey fumes kissed me once for goodnight once for goodbye.
Through my pillow I could feel the garage vibrate your Nova engine rolled backwards asphalt still chewy from July’s heat. Echo of an echo your life faded into slumber haunted my mind’s cave preserved for harvest bloom.
You left three dead kittens tied in knots placenta thicker than my hands could pull apart. We buried ourselves next to the robin who fell dog who hung a tail from a goldfish appetizer.
Night is never good to me. Under the covers static electricity my only light betrays my shame.
LIKE JESUS
One sound grunts from a toddler’s tongue. Swells like an awkward penis held by lithium shakes. Pickled lips struck howler’s position four-legged bitch dog not human.
The idiot regurgitates chunks of verbiage. Shrapnel circumcises baptizes tongue drags across hot carnal skillets.
Ashen lint hair snapped from calico dust follicle colors of bone taste inside her nostrils. Words gestate a call leap forward and back wade in the bog.
Whose alphabet hangs from vocal cords fixed in amber no one knows. Under ice thicker than the bed shared she is buried edible quiet aluminum.
Plastic doll eyes stare at you and them matted copper frame against blue sky. The idiot feels your blades vibrate glide shave figure eights. Fingers point sharp steeples poke her loose rippled bacon skin swat that ass good to make fire.
Floppy head cocked at the sun you pretend to hear music belonging to the salvation of fake tears sacrificed Jesus burns black winged smudges form a V heading south somewhere beautiful.
POETRY & NONFICTION My work has appeared or is forthcoming in the following publications: Words & Images; Uni Southern Maine, InSite Magazine; Boston, Stolen Island Review; Uni of Maine, Lullwater Review; Emory University, Fugue; Uni of Idaho, Prairie Margins; Bowling Green State Uni (2010 & 2022), Askew Poetry Journal; California, Alchemy Literary Magazine; Portland Community College, Eunoia Review, The Parliament Literary Journal; New Jersey, Creative License; Georgia Perimeter College, 11 Mag Berlin; Germany& The Bitchin’ Kitsch; Colorado (2021 &2022).
My poem 1976 placed 2nd @ Lullwater Review, and was a finalist for the Rita Dove Poetry Award @ The Salem College Center for Women Writers. My poem Drive won the Rosemary Cox Poetry Award @ Georgia Perimeter College.
My short story Prick placed as quarterfinalist @ ScreenCraft Cinematic Short Story Competition.
My essay, Unfolding Creation: How Chantal Akerman Ignited My First Film, was published by Michigan State University’s writing, rhetoric and American cultures newsletter, Agnes Films.
SCREENPLAYS Like the Moon placed as quarterfinalist @ The Script Lab ‘21. In the same year, LTM made the top 50 list @ Cinequest Screenwriting Competition.
EXPERIMENTAL VIDEOS My first experimental video, La Flamme, screened at London International Short Film Festival October, UK and was awarded Best International Experimental Short Film. Other screenings for La Flamme include: Paris Independent Film Festival, Chhatrapati Shivaji International Film Festival, Filmideo, Mediawave, Magmart, Bideoromo International Experimental Film Video Festival, Film Vault Presents and Traverse Video.
The Music Taken with Her, my second video, screened at Kinosmena Short Film Festival, Russian Film Festival, London International Short Film Festival, and Pugnant Film Series. My third video, Self-location, had its debut at London International Short Film Festival and screened at Film Vault Presents.
I gotta get back to LA With my new old car, Rusty of empty beer cans And dentine wrappers Stuck inside paperback Shakespeare third acts of Endless stabbings of villains And fatal flawed heroes, Losing its whiskey-soaked Pages in the back seat under Dusty memories of what I Should have been,
Where I was drunk in sober life, Longing for a buzz At Bukowski’s San Pedro Dream house, writing his mad And beat poems till the end Of no unglad post office pension And cat lover mysticism, in his Punchdrunk of barfly skid row Flophouse craziness, undone By death but never dying,
Where the clarity of smog Induced sunset blvd call girl Lust sings sweetly of soft Inner thigh promise, where Miracle mile tattooed legs in Thought are cold in the youth Of Echo Parks murky water, Rowing Chinatown boats to Groovy back lots at Paramount, Before rushing to the next Sexual conquest, trying to Find the perfect end line for My new spy novel,
When purple evenings And mid-August moons Woke me to cobblestone Depression remedies with vodka Inspired early morning shots Of Silver Lake blue dawns Before shooting scenes With the ghost of sad and stoic Clara Bow, angel now of No time silent film heaven And my invisible love on Nights when the streets Were empty of women,
Where Chavez Ravine Evictions and cries of no home Latino heart of holy Mary Became my drunken home Team fans’ dodging of old Sadness with ballpark beer, Cheering riot of blue until Fernando came with his Mythic screwball, throwing No-hitter pop-ups, shutting out All hate of gringo heart with His quiet ways, Seeing the lie of countries, Like a vision suddenly widened,
Where I couldn’t be a hippie And pet a stray dog’s lonesome Head without crying for eternity, And tears of noble failings drifting In high places, letting go Of ancient hate, but Haunting my own living body, Seeking forgiveness from whores And whiskey and penance In hangover mornings not Knowing where I was or how I got there.
I gotta get back to LA To remember the song of the Prophets who sang to me During all lost years of drunken Fucking in the cheap hotels Of Santa Monica boulevard doom Washing ashore on the fancy Beaches of Marina del Rey Where angels kept me warm, Wrapped in wings of love, Whispering softly that I was An angel too, fallen but not Forgotten, for LA is the city of Angels in truth and only angels Are there living, breathing, walking The streets, making movies And playing baseball, Selling tacos downtown, The best you can eat This side of heaven.
Another great lineup this month! I’ve got some new voices and poetry from regular contributors in there as well. I didn’t get any art submissions. Thought I’d at least get a few. If y’all have any art or know any artists, send it/them my way. I’d love to start featuring some artwork. Send all writing and art submissions to cajunmuttpress@gmail.com with a bio and photo. I’ll get back to you soon as I can.
Keep your eyes peeled for the next book release! A chapbook by Will Mayo titled Perfection is Failure. Dropping in a couple of weeks on June 14th. Last month How do you recycle a Siberian tiger? by R. Keith was published on May 24th and is still available. I’m working on the cover for The Mourning Hour by Frogg Corpse at the moment. I’ll announce the release date soon. I also have books by Aleathia Drehmer, Dusty Jaggers, David Alec Knight, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, and a few others in the works. If you’ve sent a manuscript and haven’t heard from me yet, please be patient.
Below is a link to the Cajun Mutt Press bibliography, and this month’s featured writers. As always, huge thanks to the writers and readers! I love y’all.
I hoard yesterdays as though they might aid today or take some edge off tomorrow, faintly realising I am living less, all those minutes and hours of the past eating through the finite time left before me.
Faintly realising and yet still gathering them to me, as though they are warmth and I am cold to my very bones.
Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales. His play ‘Wall’ was part of Druid Theatre’s Druid Debuts 2020. His debut poetry collection “Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge” was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection.
He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.
Cajun Mutt Press 