Amanda Gohl
METHODS OF PROTEST
—Amanda Gohl, Sacramento
—Amanda Gohl, Sacramento
on his walls
creased posters of dark
figures,
mouths covered by
bandanas,
informing me that Capitalism
is Doomed; Capitalism is a
Pyramid Scheme;
Xenophobia Kills; and to Hella Occupy Oakland.
socialist, leftist
titles
on every book in the
shelf.
taunting patches
hand-sewn to clothing
with dental floss.
the newest tattoo
the length of his thigh,
business man in suit,
hung from a tree,
briefcase
still in hand.
he smokes pot and
I lose his eyes,
vacant eyes
fading back
into a vocal room.
_________________
I CAN’T SLEEP TO THIS
—Amanda Gohl
he says the freeways sound
like the seas.
background music
to my every move.
no matter where I stand
in this city
I am surrounded
on four sides
a box of roads,
and these roads
are boxed in by
more roads
and more
more
always more
out to the freeways,
which contain all the roads
on four sides,
another box.
the sea can be heard
in two sounds,
back and forth,
rocking chair tracks,
motion to honor
the material itself,
moving
and returning to what
is.
the freeway has just one
sound,
onward.
constant hurtling
forwards
inspiring a rhythm
to get going,
the pursuit
the goal of inertia,
never returning or
pausing
for what’s true.
as I hear it,
this is what surrounds
me,
what is making me.
_________________
WEIGHED ON
—Amanda Gohl
the length of an entire
fallen tree to choose from,
and he sits right next
to me,
hand on my thigh,
unwelcome.
big view of
water pouring white with
anger,
and below
where it calms again,
the mist of seven bands
of color
distorted and whipped
around
rocks by wind.
enough to make me
forget his presence.
I never felt it
to begin with.
just the weight
of his body.
__________________
CHILD-LIKE
—Amanda Gohl
I am nothing more than a
collection of senses,
and he encouraged it. Skin
pressed against wet earth and grass,
and skin pressed against
skin
underneath large leaves
twisting like a mobile
above our rest.
Scarf to his nose.
What are you
smelling?
Campfire and hair and
sweat.
I thought I could wash
it away in the lake when I swam.
Seventy-two miles of
shoreline.
I took up such little
space in the water and
lost my breath to the
cold of it.
I thought I could wash
it away.
Strange comfort
in the smell of his
sweat
still in my hair.
_________________
THE MERCED RIVER
—Amanda Gohl
—Amanda Gohl
we fill our bottles
from rushing creek
water,
that guiltless path
allowing a view to the
bottom
along its entire
length.
deer slowly grazing
through
make us stop what we’re
doing,
stare as if in worship.
even the colors here are
true,
primary and to the
point.
a young bather runs
across the bridge,
wet footprints slowly
fading,
beginning with those
farthest away,
evaporating heel to toe.
trash
is packed up and taken
away from this place
to cities or landfills,
bits of land
decided not good enough
to be preserved.
_____________________
Medusa's Kitchen celebrates a week of Firsts (our SOW) by posting Amanda Gohl for the first time ever—welcome, Amanda! About herself, she says: I have no true hometown,
thanks to a military dad, but spent ten years growing up in North Dakota. I
escaped from there in 2005 with everything I owned in my car and drove to
Sacramento. Since then I've been working odd jobs and attending school with an interest
in Sign Language Interpreting. Although I've been writing casually for as long
as I can remember, it's only been within the past couple years I've recognized
it as something I have to do.
Amanda also has a poem in the new issue of Rattlesnake Press's WTF. There may still be some free copies in The Book Collector (Home of the Snake), 1008 24th St., Sac., or you can purchase them through Paypal for $2 each on our website: rattlesnakepress.com/wtf.html If you were a contributor and you haven't gotten your copy of this or any other issue, just lemme know at kathykieth@hotmail.com
_____________________
Today's LittleNip:
One after another
croak the frogs—
a poetry contest.
—Anonymous
_____________________
—Medusa
Amanda Gohl