Pole Dancing to Gospel Hymns - Softcover

Queer Pushcart-nominated poet/activist/independent rockstar Andrea Gibson has toured with Ani DiFranco and poet Buddy Wakefield. Cementing their niche in the upper echelon of the national performance poetry scene, Andrea has placed in the top four of five international finals stages and was the first ever Women of the World Slam Champion in 2008. They have been showcased on Free Speech TV, the BBC, the documentary "Slam Planet" and indie radio stations worldwide. Andrea has self-released four CDs, Bullets and Windchimes, Swarm, When the Bough Breaks, and Yellowbird.

Excerpt from:
POLE DANCER
She pole-dances to gospel hymns.
Came out to her family in the middle of Thanksgiving

grace.
I knew she was trouble
two years before our first date.
But my heart was a Labrador Retriever
with its head hung out the window of a car
tongue flapping in the wind
on a highway going 95
whenever she walked by.
So I mastered the art of crochet
and I crocheted her a winter scarf
and one night at the bar I gave it to her with a note
that said something like,
I hope this keeps your neck war.
If it doesn't give me a call...
...And I want to grow
strong as the last patch of sage on a hillside
stretching towards the lightning.
God has always been an arsonist.
Heaven has always been on fire.
She is a butterfly knife bursting from a cocoon in my

belly.
Love is a half moon hanging above Baghdad
promising to one day grow full,
to pull the tides through our desert wounds
and fill every clip of empty shells with the ocean.
Already there is salt on my lips.
Lover, this is not just another poem.
This is my goddamn revolt.
I am done holding my tongue like a bible.
There is too much war in every verse of our silence.
We have all dug too many trenches away from
ourselves.
This time I want to melt like a snowman in Georgia,
'til my smile is a pile of rocks you can pick up
and skip across the lake of your doubts.
Trust me,
I have been practicing my ripple.
I have been breaking into mannequin factories
and pouring my pink heart into their white paint.
I have been painting the night sky upon the inside of

doorframes
so only moonshine will fall on your head in the earthquake.
I have been collecting your whispers and your whiplash
and your half-hour-long voice mail messages.
Lover, did you see the sunset tonight?
Did you see Neruda lay down on the horizon?
Do you know it was his lover who painted him red,
who made him stare down the bullet holes
in his country's heart?
I am not looking for roses.
I want to break like a fever.
I want to break like the Berlin Wall.
I want to break like the clouds
so we can see every fearless star,
how they never speak guardrail,
how they only say fall.