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:: Lia Yaranon Hall ::

Submit your original poetry to be displayed in the Penman Lounge on freestylevision.com

I am a fake librarian, a real graduate student, a wannabe acrobat, fallen trapeze artist, aspiring yoga teacher, and bicycle fanatic dreaming about the lives inside and outside of New York City. I am currently investigating the art of tea and trying to love everyone all at once. Although my mother often accused me of being hard headed, I still consider myself highly impressionable. After watching a corny bike film, I got the idea to wash one of my bikes in the shower, which resulted in clogging my drain major New York grime accompanied by bleach-resistant black grease streaks on the white tile. I like this kind of contrast—it resembles words on a page. I like to read and write too.

:::12:02:08::

::: Currency :::

“Money is a kind of poetry.”
~Wallace Stevens

A kind of currency. Lingua franca. Electric voltage to jumpstart a body or fry it to a crisp. Everything is bark. Words. Mots. Palabras. Pesetas. Copper. Argent. What a verbal illustration. Tip dessin vert. Mint species. Poetry is green olive and foliage. It will buy you a lover. Keep you in debt. Make you use bills for scratch. Jot your bliss. Spend it. It is vibrational. Tonal. Clinking in your pocket. You’ve got some. Everyone hears it. Wants it. “Just keys,” you say. Honestly. We’re bound by an imaginary trust to compensate for a world we could never afford. A cent is more magnificent in its power than its form. The opposite is true sometimes too. Shells. Buttons. It attempts to replace all things it cannot be. Tender to feed children, who will always hunger. We want it. We want it until our change is perceptual. We see trees different. We learn the value of patching a deflated tube inside a tire on the shoulder of an empty highway. No promises, but to leave a memory imprinted on the grooves and creases of palms and fingers. We exchange notes on a history of dead men and wonder. Is it a means or an end to suffer? I drop my heaviest coins into the mouth of a washing machine to shake the debris from the skins that protect me. Spin. Slide on a magnetic strip. Data. Plastic. Rarely seen or held. Easily drained.

Written by: ~ Lia Yaranon Hall

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