The HyperTexts

Lana Hanson

Lana Hanson has no college degree, enjoys no "touring poet" accolades. She's blessed to run a brush through multiplying grey head-hairs, to feel crows' feet deepening grooves around her eyes. She's finally learning to admire herself. She aims to help raise women and children up from poverty, oppression, doubt and silence because she has faced all these herself. Lana's been published at and also at the distinguished poetry e-zine,, where some time ago she was Spotlight Poet for two months running. Among her publications, her award-winning poem "ARRHYTHMIMIC" first found print at Helen, a leading Las Vegas cultural journal. Lana's been a regular columnist at the women's health website and has co-hosted open mic poetry venues and poetry workshops in the Las Vegas, NV, area. Born in Flint, MI, Lana now lives with sardonic teen sons, three perpetually vomiting cats, a farting old rescue dog and a boy-toy-spouse at her Crazy Quilt House in N. Las Vegas, NV.

I make my arrhythmia mimic cricket feet—
turn all my eyes to pleading blue.
You waited by the mattress under streetlight heat.
Scuttle past the trash, glass shards and bird shreds, greet
an omen; moonlit, a jolt-moment for you…
I make my arrhythmia mimic cricket feet.
What scheming god makes predator and prey meet?
Day deserted me, grudgingly darkness grew.
You waited by the mattress under streetlight heat.
Two wet beacons, speechless scowl, swiveling beat—
brown hair catching bruised sky, you flew.
I make my arrhythmia mimic cricket feet.
Singing limbs scratch climax sweet—
my mouth open, last of husk ripped askew.
You waited by the mattress under streetlight heat.
Back to the spot my morphine cold-blood meat.
Ground sorrow-soaked—is this how you first knew
I make my arrhythmia mimic cricket feet?
You waited by the mattress under streetlight heat.


"But Lot's wife looked back, and she became a pillar of salt." (Torah, Gen. 19:26)

It's heat from God's damn flames that makes me turn
to see my lost city burn:

All the rows of pink houses, each a perfect clot,
such shiny waste of plaster and paint
bundled with nails and wires by men like Lot—
shelved trophies that rewarded tame intent.

Where is the room in which I nursed my sons—
and those where I played the "nice wife" role?
Waves of brine-tears, and soon this plot hole:
Lot and his angels worked till they won.

What "punishment" the pious rain down!
I laugh: Should my look back make me
sorry? No, cement me as I choose to drown!
Bring me only doomed cities to see!

Behold! The tantrum of the Great I Am!
Now let me show you what I am...

Come calcium! Come in me saline!
My hardening scalp stings with your sweet hums.
Come Seven Seas! Come, come in me,
low beating tides, blissful drums!

Better to be made of this:
contained, undulating darkness,
two breasts turned up for the moon to bless,
lips caked with Dead Sea 's salt kiss.

Let "good" Lot have his God, his cash.
All I own is what I've become.
My dream's done, down to ash—
suburban bravado that was Sodom .

My life's surge now has a face.
And here— I like the way I taste.


We envisioned
the deacons and preacher naked,
working and sweating
over their unwise wives
like they did The Bible.
It was so hard
to stifle the giggling with pieces of
His body
wetting in our mouths.
We all wished for romance.
body's urges
grew like a cult.


lipstick print bleeding
around the cigarette
in the sink
my swimming panties
stained language
a man on the next street
his skull pummeled
one pane in the whole frame
rattles and
sun rising
my head from the
blood-colored pillow
cherry ink


for Max

It thunders this night
before my son's first day of school.
In the doorway of my bedroom
he appears like a ghost,
                               but when
he crawls in beside me
he's very slippery, very real,
his breathing as quick
and certain as lightning.
My tears disappear
into his prickly hair.
              It's fresh cut.
It was only
a small rumble
away when they told me
Push! and dutifully, I did.
           Now I hand him over again.
He colors outside the lines.
Red is his favorite.
He likes french fries dipped
in ice cream.
All his bad guys know
they're bad.
He has no permanent record.
             I wait for no rain.


You, embryo chose
the Eastern Avenue Burger King
of all places
to trash the plans.
Your brother obliviously
played in the dirty
ball pit while I felt
the sudden
wetness grow softer.

You took
a long time getting gone.
So pure in hurt, small in life,
finished in burst-
tomato shout.
Thick moth, ugly little
clotted daughter, you
beat at the streaking window for sixteen
whole days and nights, fighting
like light being
sucked from a room.

That-a-girl. Go...
from this world, this woman
parting her legs, to another
who's opening hers, and all
stop crying.


Poor pupas. Looked
like pockets of rocks.
And I liked to destroy
them all.
A pear tree in the backyard.
It has nothing
but green and brown disappointments.
"Heart and Soul" cried
in a mezzo soprano.
Wishbones snapped—
never in her favor.
Bony fingers bounced
over every stale key.
And passing trains joined in.
He was the silent spaces
in the score.
The only song
I knew, yet never knew.
Not one breath
on those sticky nights.
blow with unknown ghosts. Below
cats scream
to be touched. Under
that midwest moon on the bedroom floor,
all the round, stitched eyes
return the stare.
with the play I gave them.

The HyperTexts