what vanna white sees in her sleep | Chris Campanioni

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10 mins read

I am gradually learning to speak

            a          loud     my wants                       into the air                    hey

siri pull up

                        booty pix

since anything

that can be called

to mind can be

enjoyed                         I have

gone far too


long without a meal

                        as the eyes

meet the moon I met

your face

           massaged by the wind &


in looking I felt something

somewhere

                      between obscurity & obscenity

here’s the mind coming

                     to awareness again after


the carcass wrecked with fever

                      I used my writing hand

domed my torso to insinuate

           a new shape or body     parts

           of speech & these

ribbons             of sun against

a just-opened                 frame to            feel

            the warm jets

go on & on                               looking

            for another                    energy   source or doom

scrolling until & with leopard

                                                                        intensity

michelle pfeiffer decapitates

            seven straight mannequins in a single


take

            mosaic of word-signs

levitating against


the cool color

less screen

                        I toggle to little

effect conjure

what vanna white


sees in her sleep

                        green glass shattered

on the asphalt & adolescence

            textured

upskirt revery so

                        like an unwrapped lollipop

I am better taken as reward


a convincing muscle     or conviction

of image as it re-

                        aligns with sound


                        snow wintering

the peopleless

beach as dimples

            across a chin & my quads foam

            rolled at room

temperature                  our ghost

given company of a camera

            & the choice of jojoba

or coconut to facilitate

            a metaphor

my secretarial task to log

            these webbed hands sodden

then     one clenches &     tips

            the face back                 for 

the mollusk’s seed to ask

was it surprising

            for you? neck slicked

            in each other’s

            perfume we each

                        cling

            to dream     brought moisture

& the heaving

            plea for benthic

            collapse again

            I move from oil

to solar try to wrap

            myself in consent of turning

rock into rock                clay from clay

            the most minor gesture

of style & grace as you kept

            your knees bent & recast

the mouth of your aperture

                                    how I am overtaken

by the false laughs at parties


limitations of the I

in the photograph




Chris Campanioni’s work on migration and media theory has been awarded the Calder Prize for interdisciplinary research and a Mellon Foundation fellowship and his writing has received the Pushcart Prize, the International Latino Book Award, and the Academy of American Poets College Prize. His essays, poetry, and fiction have been translated into Spanish and Portuguese and have found a home in several venues, including Best American Essays and Latin American Literature Today. His latest book is Windows 85 (Roof Books, 2024).