Alyssa Trivett


My Second Time Writing About This

Comedy b-movies ink-blot the screen.
Faces and names I can't mnemonic device remember
melt as the clock locks and loads numbers and seconds.
Every other living being is piled in their pillbox beds.
Lost souls scatter the world, like misplaced puzzle pieces
found under couch, years and two homeowners later.
You were sitting in the sitting room chair,
quieter than a church mouse.
I vacuum pushed myself up the stairs.
You couldn't even match strike one word off your
fire-burned throat, your head still wrapped in bandages
from the accident.
I didn't see you around again after that incident.



Technicolor Dreams

Technicolor dreams windshield wiper swipe me.
In the land of bedsheet escape artists
battling for best time,
vines leading up to my room turn
Van Gogh yellows.
All I see are empty palettes displayed
like broken clocks with IVs attached to them,
batteries, now, non-existent.
Movies prance on my eyelids.
I'm flipping light switches,
unreadable alarm clock numbers
make me think I'm outside of 711 drunk,
my coffee cup trigger finger grappling the bottle
of some psuedo-hipster energy drink alcohol combo
swirling in my metal-plated can for all of eternity.
My head roller-coaster slams at the bottom of the
seventy five foot comma drop.
And I wake up.



Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she listens to music and scrawls lines on the back of gas station receipts. Her work has appeared in VerseWrights, Peeking Cat, In Between Hangovers, and recently at The Piker Press and The Literary Yard. She has two cats, two dogs, and owns many coffee mugs.
 
 
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