Fossil Fuels by Jessica Dawson

Fossil Fuels

Poetry by Jessica Dawson

Originally published by Verve Bath Press in a limited print run, Fossil Fuels is Jessica Dawson’s first collection of poetry. Introduced by her husband in a sweet and cynical tribute, the book captures the intimate lyrical confessions of a writer who seems unsure of the value of her confession, while at the same time certain that she must put them to paper, no matter. Now available for Kindle or in PDF form for e-readers, its charm has transferred beautifully in digital format.

   

Opening with a marriage proposal that is immediately rescinded, Fossil Fuels draws the reader in with its playful irony and imaginative language. The irony, however, is quickly stripped away as we are taught “Lessons in Fickleness and Erratic Behavior,” and has all but disappeared by the time we learn “There Is No Substitute for Patience.” What we are left with is bold, direct, and unapologetic. Halfway between folding/and taking over/the whole goddamn world, Jessica explores her hopes and fears with vivid imagery and storytelling that is relatable to all of us. Challenging archetypes, she chisel[s] down/to the basest versions of ourselves. With a strong, yet tender voice, soft as footprints even in the vinyl unease of the landscape, she assuages our fears and allows us to wonder what it would be like if hummingbirds/were the size of dogs—makes us believe that we’re all…substitute stars.

Michael Gentilucci, Editor, Slurve Magazine  


More reviews below!

Jessica Dawson is a modern-day Wendy. She lives in California with Peter Pan, a baby bear and a future supreme court justice. She’s ecstatic to see her first book of poetry now e-published by Verve Bath Press/ Words Dance.

She has had poems published in Thunder Sandwich, The Hold, Passenger May, killpoet, Words Dance, remark., The Seed, MEAT, Triptyph Haiku, Lit Vision, Mastodon Dentist, Nefarious Ballerina, The Montucky Review, Red Fez and Slurve Magazine.

Influenced by Richard Brautigan, William Carlos Williams, Rumi, and a desire to never be try to be Sylvia Plath, Jessica Dawson’s writing is a lyrical confessional. She abhors self-promotion but requires an audience at all times. She reads the dictionary for fun, speaks only in degrees of sarcasm and enjoys owning her children in Scrabble.



Jessica Dawson’s opening line in the opening poem in Fossil Fuels is, “Dear Sir,/Let’s get married.” It is a playful beginning to a collection that is rough, sweet, funny, challenging, open and, best of all, written with wit and daring, straight from the heart. Dawson does not quail at the difficult subjects, the troublesome emotions, the “hard decisions,” as one poem is called. She is a brave, keen writer and it shows in almost every line.

There is also a sensual warmth underneath her smooth method. “I dreamt I was an alligator/all teeth and hot, wet breath,” one begins and moves through affirmation (“and I was alive”) to an ending that is dramatic and carnal, a virtual celebration of consumption as an exaltation of life. In poem after poem Dawson, with sinewy lines and piquant metaphor, makes this kind of declaration work.

In “Upon Discovering my Husband’s Porn Stash,” she manages to be achingly human and vulnerable and still maintain the “poet’s eye” distance necessary to make the poem a success. In “There’s No Other Way to Play an Instrument,” she says, “His notes were bunches of lilacs,/were handfuls of river stones,” an oxymoronic triumph of sense and sound. That poem ends “like if hummingbirds/were the size of dogs,/or if dogs discovered lightning,” which is a concluding line worthy of James Tate or Heather McHugh.

Overall, the collection delights and dances and mourns and shouts and sings and rejoices in what it is to be mortal and cerebral and receptive and observant in these difficult days. At times it is quiet and peaceful and at other times full of vigor and brilliant clamor. “Just add more oxygen” the final poem says. The reader may feel that Jessica Dawson has done that, given the air a new quality, illuminated some things that compel us to notice even the atmosphere we all swim in. This is a ravishing and enchanting chapbook.

Corey Mesler, Author    


The luxury of sparse, yet poignant, writing is not a commodity most writers get to have at their brain-tips. Fossil Fuels is just one more example of Jessica Dawson’s natural tenacity for such a style. It is lush in a sparing way. Conjures up stunning and surreal imagery that is subtly imprinted with fierce emotion. You can almost feel Brautigan’s ghost chuckling to Jessica’s song. It’s confessional, while not seeming to be. Blended in such a way to make you forget to notice what is being done to you. A culling song crafted with the sweet, sweet poison of ink. It puts you down.

But, instead of waking up with one less organ, half frozen and dazed in the oversized commode of a stranger’s nightmare, you realize you’ve just had the enriched experience of entering someone else’s realm, loving every second of it. She plays in the muck of her own sensibilities and spreads it out on the pulp of our imaginations. And that. You can’t teach.

The sleek speech starts on page one with a letter/prose poem looking at the future, in the tense of Now, never once stopping till the end poem that reverts us (and her, it seems) back to spectacular base. The last five lines of the last poem are what planets are made of.

This is a book of three parts. Moveable parts that stick to the teeth and eyes. The first section, “Mouth Full of Gunpowder,” is a journey in itself. The pieces moving through a universe of emotion that sorts through life’s pursuit, whether it be love, the self reckoning of purpose or the outcome of snooping through your lover’s porn. This section of poetry slyly reveals the skin as an undergarment, falling away in controlled fever.

The second part, “Belly Full of Twigs,” fits its title. It’s placed in the gut of this chap and mixes classic Jessica images with the soft tones of a moment as it’s consumed. It is the surreal. Form and content collide during these pieces in the strongest section of the chapbook.

“One Good Pack of Matches,” isn’t catharsis. It isn’t the third act of a play but it is the end. For this book at least. These poems slowly unroll the carpet to the chap’s end with a growling piece that properly leaves us wanting more. On sum level, Fossil Fuels reads like an extended vignette. A distinct voice throughout while still retaining a diverse methodology in the use of form, style, organic symmetry and cosmic sensuality that is innate in Jessica Dawson’s work.

So, once again, Amanda Oaks and Verve Bath Press have showcased a stellar writer. The press has a knack for finding superb artists and then going on to create a collaboration of style and substance that produces lovely items. This chap is a fine example. Fossil Fuels is a great buy and an important work for the increasingly populated landscape of small press poetry.

Jason Neese, Editor, kill poet    


This is the death of dying.

So says Jessica Dawson in her poem A Response to Rumi’s The Seed Market, from her poetry collection Fossil Fuels. It’s an aptly fearless announcement from a book which acknowledges in both title and content the depletions we welcome and readily survive. In Rumi’s poem a falcon appears for no reason, in Dawson’s the proclamation is made to say more vulture than falcon, really. Words mean. It is here we are pleaded with to have purpose, be vulture.

Dawson is not afraid of gender. In her opening poem, Dear Sir, she is both addressing and blind copying the reader on the memo. In her second poem, Lessons in Fickleness and Erratic Behavior, she says and then sir, you’ll be well on your way. In the same poem: Abandon fly-fishing…think about it fondly, in theory. Dawson understands the need for a line that does not choose, but accepts an additional in theory.

Many of the poems have the speaker looking upon the back of another, or imagining doing so. Lines like twenty-some years it took for his back to become a wall cast Dawson as one positioned behind things, a keeper conditioned to still them, while also understanding the necessary act of committing last things to memory. In the introduction, Brian Dawson states that ‘New Confessionalism is alive and well’ and I would agree and add that it is summoned, here, from the most sustaining of muscle memories.

The creativity on display in the book is thankfully not showy, but is also not hesitant. Whether Dawson is dreaming of being an alligator and calling a flamingo leg a rubber tent stake or merely waking blinking in code, breathing in diagram or calling us all volunteer rainbows, substitute stars- she is always next door, present, making of our locale a show woman’s world.

The finest poem here is titled Upon Discovering My Husbands Porn Stash, not because it divorces itself from the others but because it marries if only by common law what the book has lived with long enough to say it’s more the amputee ache / of my fingers / when they leave his skin / and the feeling that I’m in this alone.

I quote much here from the book and could much more because the book speaks for itself, but also to itself. Its speaker seems unsure, modest, unable to agree that any word is final. How refreshing. Here is a final clue, and last quote, from the poem A Little Ditty:

Explanations are ghosts of guilt,
shadows of sympathy, and I have no use for them.

Barton D. Smock, Author  

   



Sober on a Snowy Day by Rebecca Schumejda

Sober on a Snowy Day

Outside cars tiptoe
through snow.
Aristotle’s on table four
and his soapbox again,
talking about how he
sees things, you know.
He says that prison
does that to a person,
makes them sober
on a snowy day.

He stirs air,
thick like old coffee,
with the tip of his cue
and launches off
into a dramatic monologue
about social injustices.

The men playing
on the next table
listen with their eyes.
Outside a truck
throws salt onto icy streets
and men wrapped up
in financial depression
walk past on their way
to the closest bar.

On the radio, Thelonious Monk
attacks piano keys, backs off,
then returns; his silences
are silly little tricks
that make Aristotle nervous.

Even though he’s on step four,
Aristotle sneaks out to his car
to shotgun a beer
and smoke a cigarette.
Back inside,
he uses the shadow
of his stick to line up shots.
When he misses,
he leans into the table
and whispers inaudibly
to his ghost opponent.

Once he likened his life
to a snow globe that
some stupid, mother fucker
keeps picking up and shaking.
I like that metaphor, I really do
like that metaphor.

                – Rebecca Schumejda
                   from Words Dance 12, Fall 2008 & her book, Cadillac Men.


We Sit Alone by Michelledion Matthews

we sit alone

in an empty lot
facing the mountains

it’s 2 pm
you’ll be back
at work soon
in your computer
hum key click world

but for now
it’s you
and i
and the mountains

on the el paso side,
you say,
the rich whites live
at the top in desert palaces

front yards carpeted
with sod and a cactus
or two just for kitsch

on the juarez side
the poor are outcasted
to the same height

magenta or rio linda
blue siding to keep
them warm and a dirt
yard to sweep in
the bore of summer

i ask you
which is better
we agree

mountains
span the dash

they’re bigger
than your desk
job, than the compliments
you hand feed me,
and the wife
who doesn’t know
about them

they are
far bigger
than you
and i
and this

                – Michelledion Matthews
                   from Words Dance 7, Spring 2005


so many/no time/too late now by Pris Campbell

so many/no time/too late now

They’ve already seeded a new generation,
those old lovers with the moon in their eyes,
hair tapping a Morse Code onto my breasts
and tie-dyes flung over the random chair.
We thought the sixties would be our time warp,
our tunnel away from our parents’ path, but
my lost spouse sleeps in his own room,
indifference, his new mistress.
No man touches me that way anymore.
Not with his tide rising and spewing.
Not with his kiss scorching the room like a comet.

My hands knit together,
a pinprick of blood stains chaste sheets.

                – Pris Campbell
                   from Words Dance 12, Fall 2008


The Reason You Are Not A Poet by Heather Bell

The Reason You Are Not A Poet

He’s yelling from the bathroom.
You move close to the door to hear.

He says,
I love your hair in my shower. I love your hair in my shower.

You exhale and realize
he will never be a poet, but you love
the way he called your eyes kettle drums one night,
for lack of anything else to say. The way he carved your
names into his kitchen table, misses his shotgun, could be
an advertisement for Ray-ban sunglasses. The way his graying hair
reminds you of Kafka, that he leaves kayaks in your
living room to dry. The way he says good morning
and good night and aches for you. He half nelsons
you into his arms, you laugh, you laugh,

and tonight you lean your head against
the bathroom door and you know

he will never be a poet,
but he’s got better things to say,
more love to generate
than Neruda ever did.

He will never be a poet,
but that is what you are here for. To let everyone know
his eyelids look like blades of grass when he sleeps,
his arms are branches, his roots
are you.

                                        – Heather Bell
                                                from Nothing Unrequited Here

Heather Bell graduated in 2005 from Oswego State University in Oswego, NY. Since, she has been published in Mannequin Envy, From East to West: BiCoastal Verse, Empowerment4Women, Ditch, ReadThisMagazine, Pomegranate and Killpoet, among others. She spends her time polishing boots, gardening, painting and looking brightly at all raw stars.

Of Note:

Heather’s incredible book (seriously, it’s stunning!) is being offered at a limited time low price, snatch up your copy!


untitled philadelphia love poem by John Dorsey

untitled philadelphia love poem

i.
locusts sing the blues
in the breeze laughter
that holds together almost
anything

ii.
as chestnut street crosses
over into dreams philadephia
sunlight kisses your
knees

iii.
a few blocks over
domestic urban warfare is
a motherfucker! she screams!
and screams! god spent
your vote on that
last pack of
ramen!

iv.
sitting in the window
dreaming poems for children
i’ll never have the
voice of god taps
raindrops against my chin
their meaning is so
loud that sometimes it’s
hard to remember
why?

                – John Dorsey
                   from Words Dance 9, Spring 2006


A DREAM ABOUT FIRE by George Wallace

A DREAM ABOUT FIRE

sometimes when i wake up i have a lot of questions.
what do accordions dream about? what is the noise a child makes
when his parents have lied? who ate the dawn?
have you ever dreamed about me?
in dreams we see things too clearly.
in dreams we are ass deep in the voodoo of night.
i was in a dream, i was ass deep in a prison cell called you.
i was sleeping in a vacant lot, wind was blowing our house away.
it was springtime, i could hear flames swaying in the breeze.
spring was a fire burning in the sky, it was
the impossible expectation of birds.
spring was an interminable traffic light.
it was the sound of my own parents’ wedding bells.
it was a child that is being punished unfairly behind a green door.
when i went to sleep i was a child behind a green door.
when i woke up i was a bouquet of smoky hands lifting myself up.

                – George Wallace
                   from Words Dance 11, Fall 2007


Stories by Dorianne Laux

Stories

Every sound tells a story. Listen
to the bee’s rasp and chisel, the gold wood
just before the bough is sawn through.
Listen to the man on the street
who calls you and your friend emeralds
before he’s swallowed back into the park.
Listen to water from the tap, its long journey
finished in a gush of song, to the old woman
wedged into a bench, her plush black cough.
The car alarm screams IseeIseeIsee
The train whistle moans IknowIknow.
A couple sinks down in the dining car’s
torn velvet seats- her bracelets clashing,
his silver tooth flashing– as the flatware
rattles and the windows groan in their bolts
and sashes, as the backsides of towns rumble
past dressed up in graffiti and trash, diamonds
of chainlink pinging back pellets of rain.

                – Dorianne Laux
                   from Words Dance 12, Fall 2008


Beauty is Quite Strange, 6 by Roxanne Carter


photo by Katherine Elizabeth

Beauty is Quite Strange, 6

women are beautiful in a house. they look out of windows, their bodies slide effortlessly between archways, their cheekbones clang on lighting fixtures. nothing will stop a woman from making a beautiful home, from becoming beautiful in a house, from becoming a house herself. her legs will protrude from the doors, she will wear the house like a cocktail dress, she will lift her cigarette daintily to the gable-roof window, where her mouth waits. now this is a dream. this is not actuality. a beautiful house, a man she loves living with beauty inside. she wants to see that his clothes are handsome. that he wears a hat, keeps his chin smooth, and carries a handkerchief, offering it to her when she sneezes, throwing it across puddles when she walks in her satin shoes. they’re lost in this picture, a depiction of a home, a very beautiful thing. a woman… for instance, bouquets of flowers, shirtwaist dresses, costume jewelry, cake tins. all of these make living substantial. her energy goes every which way… the freshly cut sunflowers and basket of newly fallen apples make a beautiful arrangement of the table. she’s indifferent to etiquette, and when she’s alone, she will eat in only her lavender slip, standing barefoot on a newspaper. she doesn’t care. all right.

in the dining room, there’s a beautifully set table. they had arranged it. they did this together. he exclaimed, we did this together. there are flowers, there are fruit. here is a charming table, and what will it do? it immediately released something in them to which they responded. beauty is important. a woman has a beautiful life, a beautiful home, she lives with her head in the attic and knees pressed against the furnace in the basement. so firm they blush. if it rains and there is a flood, the torrent will come, and take her in one gulp. she will not resist, so encumbered by architecture.

                – Roxanne Carter
                   from Words Dance 12, Fall 2008