Britt Warner is a published poet, songwriter, singer, novelist, journalist, and artist from Southern California. She currently resides in West Hollywood and performs with her band all over the greater L.A. area. Her first full-length record, "Return To Me," will be released in Summer/Fall 2011.

Five Poems (July 20, 2011. Issue 29.)

Digging Ditches

I fantasize about digging ditches.

I picture calling my boss on the phone
to tell him I'm quitting
and his shocked reaction when I explain why.

I would trade in my non-descript sedan
for a beat-up Chevy truck, circa 1987.
I can see the shovel sitting in the back.
It has a long wooden body that
will give me splinters if I
don't wear work gloves.

On the truck's front bench seat,
there's a plastic red canteen
filled with red Kool-Aid and ice.
I can hear the ice cubes knocking
against the sides as I drive down
bumpy dirt roads, unpaved and dry,
the dust rising up in clouds
all around my red truck, heavy-duty
tires grinding into the red earth.

I remember this place.
The surroundings are familiar,
and I realize I've returned
to the land where I grew up.
Not much has changed in the
time that I've been gone.
Same mountains, same trees,
just a little bit older.

At last, I've reached the end
and I pull over to the side,
parking against a field of
yellow-flowered weeds and foxtails.

The driver's side door groans as it opens;
Its hinges have grown cranky and rusted.
The sound of it slamming closed
is strangely gratifying.

I reach into the bed of the pick-up
and grab my wooden shovel,
but didn't think to bring any gloves.

At the base of a rock face,
I plunge the metal spade into
soil that is neither soft nor hard.
The steady repetition of digging
creates a soothing hum within
and every muscle in my body grows warm.
Striking, pulling, lifting, tossing,
the hours pass unnoticed but for the
sweat on my skin, drenching my clothing
as the afternoon sun beats down
with unwavering intensity, its red rays
burning my olive complexion red hot.
My arms begin to throb with fatigue,
protesting that they are too weak
to go on, and I notice I've
hit the six-foot mark.

It is then that I know what
purpose this ditch will serve,
and why I yearned to dig it.

It is here that I shall bury my heart,
here that I shall bury my spirit,
here that I shall bury my soul,
here that I must lay to rest
all of the beauty and love I once possessed,
now dead, lifeless, ugly, decaying,
and I must dispose of the evidence
before the stench hits the air,
before others catch wind of the truth.

Into the grave, the corpse of all
that's been murdered is placed.

The splinters in my hands begin
to sting and throb as I slowly
fill the ditch back up with the
dirt I'd just dug out.
I listen to it pelt down upon
my still, unmoving dreams,
covering and concealing the
knife wounds, the tears,
the protests that had fallen on
cruel, deaf ears, and the red, red blood.

With the flat side of the shovel,
I pat the earth down, flattening
the awkward mound in an effort
to disguise the disruption of the landscape.

I pick some dandelions growing
wild nearby and blow their spores
absentmindedly over the surface
of the covered ditch, hoping they
might be inspired to grow in this spot.

I pick eucalyptus leaves and scatter
them across the grave, their fragrance
rubbed into my splintered palms.

I place rocks here and there,
arranging them just-so, finding solace
in their smooth, cool forms.

I stand back and survey my work,
my eyes burning and bloodshot and red.
The killer is still on the loose,
free to continue taking innocent lives
as he sees fit, and I now
mourn the loss of my own.

It is a quiet, confronting funeral,
seeing as how I am the only
guest in attendance, lacking the
foresight to invite anyone else.
Footsteps fall in the distance, and
turning around, I notice that a
select few knew to show up anyway.
They offer condolences, vengeance,
gifts, but their presence is
all that I need or desire.

I leave my shovel, my truck, my death,
and trust these stars to guide me home.
The red moon cries all the tears
that I can not, and I never
fantasize about digging ditches again.

The Single Twenty-Something Female

Heels click-clack
upon pavement,
echoing sharply
off the stucco structures
on a quiet city street.
Her footfalls
betray intoxication,
an inconsistent rhythm,
the beeping of a keypad
as she struggles to
punch in numbers,
signals sent to a person
who will receive her drunken call
with annoyance or indifference
or who won't answer at all,
loneliness greeted
by a pre-recorded voice.

Leave a message after the tone.

The buzzing in her ears
is deafening above the
silence of her apartment
as she returns to the reality
of a solitary existence.

Everything is just as she left it.

Several hours of
inebriated laughter and
meaningless conversation
have not changed her life
in any significant way.
She remains unaltered,
but for the poison
coursing through her veins.
The whole world is spinning
as she stands motionless,
a passenger dispassionately
along for the ride,
fearful to discover who
might be at the helm.

Ink-N-Iron

Strangers covered in tattoos pass
within a festival of classic hot rods.
Exchanging smiles of shared appreciation,
they recognize their common thread
and are strangers no more.

Hair dyed garishly, caked faces,
lips painted fire engine red,
clothing inspired by an era
that existed before they were born,
they are a walking homage to
that which is past but not forgotten.

The few in attendance who reflect today
stick out like beacons of technology,
outsiders but not outcast, as they, too,
are surely present to enjoy
the art, the cars, the music,
the connection.

Beer and smoke and sunshine
lull wayward minds to remember
that every lost object can be found,
every former trend will make a comeback,
and every life that came before our own
will live on in all of us in perpetuity.

We are unwitting reincarnations,
damned to imitate the ghosts,
which is why we can't articulate
the emotional response that is conjured
at the sight of a classic automobile.
It's a symbol of who we were in a past life
and who we yearn to be again.

Crooked Joy

His teeth were crooked,
which he attributed to a childhood spent
gnawing on wooden toothpicks
to quell the hunger in his belly
caused by his single mother's inability
to provide enough food for her children
amidst poverty.

He was self-conscious about his smile,
constantly expressing his
desire for dental work,
always grinning close-lipped
to convey many different emotions:

wry, amused,
sarcastic, angry,
loving, happy,
wistful, reflective,
lustful…

He had developed
the skill of
manipulating
his mouth
when he spoke
so that his teeth
remained concealed by his lips,
even during the most passionate
of verbal exchanges.

When he laughed, though,
when he was struck by
an occurrence
or comment
or sight
that he found to be unbearably funny,
every single awkward tooth
revealed itself
from within his open mouth
on full display.

To see him slip up,
disarmed in the moment,
forgetting to be self-conscious,
was beautiful to behold.

Wayward,
asymmetrical,
imperfect,
I came to associate those teeth
With the mutual reward
won every time
he was filled
with unadulterated joy,
and all the better
if I could be the cause of it.

Christian Intellectual

Thick contact lenses glaze his eyes
like frosted window panes,
impossible to peer through,
revealing not a glimpse
of the resident within.

His impenetrable self-loathing
damned him to
five years of celibacy,
a crippling porn addiction,
and searing migraines.

He has regrets.

Flakes of dandruff
cling to curls that
spring back to life
an hour after he attempts to
flat-iron them into submission.

The tasteful spritz of
expensive cologne is for her,
the strange, shimmering creature
masochistic enough to persist in
the futile quest to invade his space.

They will hug and her lips
will brush against his neck,
murmuring that he smells good.
He will note that they fit, the contours of
their bodies melding seamlessly into place.

And then he will push her away,
spurning her advances, panicked that
her silver lining might envelope his dark cloud
and suffocate the cold bleakness
to which he has grown accustomed.

She is sunshine.
She is rich, silken melody.
She is sensual touch and
lustful laughter.
She is not to be trusted.

His unseeing eyes will her to retreat into the horizon
until she is little more than a speck,
cast away beyond the outskirts of his psyche,
no longer an immediate threat
to the sanctity of his misery.

Heaving a sigh of relief, he returns to
his self-loathing,
his celibacy,
his porn,
and braces himself for the next migraine.

He has regrets.