Emergency Meeting Area
Evans & University
As it flashed around the corner,
we squat in a concrete blast out, burning blueprints.
We are constructing a secret society of art, now fireproof &
far from inspection & we will dig it 10 feet underground &
we will be mole like, scraping our attachments to canvas, mural, midi, & screen
into the lowest subterranean culture the city can’t reach.
Low culture, lowered into the dirt
where it grew from; organic & gamey
like the dirt stuck between your teeth
after ripping a beet from the garden.
The freshest nitrate, butane, & planks are all there under the rental
something – anything that the tenants want, & developers roll out as long
it’s the building down the street.
As long as we don’t interact too much.
Santa Fe Arts District
How slowly it calls
out to me from behind helium lamps & tempered glass galleries,
the reflection of dead memories; I see their vapors tonight.
Here, in this empty alley with stale graffiti; I recall spilt paints. In my mind’s eye:
crimson, gold, and teal. The cabs never stopped at this intersection, the glass is always
in the pavement. I can still feel my feet shake on the ladder down to the underground &
the Tecate in my teenage veins running from DPD.
The suitcase typewriter in the horded thrift store window
I kept passing is now gone, like
vaporous manifestation of this space on this day.
What would the traders have to say about the red-earth trading path today?
The answer could be in Santa Fe, but where is the enchantment?
This reflection wants the gold & spirit it left
as it flashed around the corner.
Aleeya Wilson is from Denver, but she is getting her Master in Fine Arts in Poetry at the University of San Francisco. When she is not reading or writing poetry, Aleeya enjoys spending money on “fancy” food and cocktails. She still is getting used to wine. You can read her tweets on writing and pizza at @awils165.