Carol Guess Poems







The girls undress over the freeway. So much skin and speed at once, bangles tangled in a tee. You should be happy you’re seeing this, but you spilled coffee on the passenger seat. You’ve never had a passenger. There’s a story you tell: someone buried alive. The pedestrian bridge walks its own plank at night. You drive under the girls; the girls don’t mind. They’re jacking dials to pirate radio, listening for sabers and buried treasure. from under the highway inside a warehouse a bench train station gas gauge rain





Outlaw Station


My mind was a movie that kept us both company. Trailers showed spoilers. Depending on which friends we asked, one of us wanted to downsize her feelings. I just wanted lights out to last. Birds flew south and you became Ralph. I begged Ralph to drop the italics. You made me promise to alter my syntax. Sometimes I suffered from static attacks, numbers New Government crunched into nibs. Free radio broadcast from rat traps on Key, clandestine wireless tuned to torn sheets.







Carol Guess is the author of six books, including Tinderbox Lawn (Rose Metal Press, 2008) and Doll Studies: Forensics (Black Lawrence Press, forthcoming 2012).



Archived at





Copyright respective authors and Konundrum Engine