Elektronik Sigara - ukash

Poet/Artist Erica Milam

 

erica milam

Erica Milam’s poetry is haunting, beautiful, and representative of her distinctive natural gifts. She writes of herself: 

” I am 32 years oldphoto (1) (1) and I have high functioning autism. I’m currently a student (studying mathematics and physics) but pursuit of my degree is on hold as I address health issues related to a second disability. I love numbers, algebraic topology, quantum mechanics, music, animals and Japanese animation.”

The photographs featured are Erica’s originals, including the self-portraits (here and on the homeunnamed (2) page). To see more, follow her on Instagram at “heartistsmuse.” 

 

Following are two original poems she selected for AWE in Autism:

White Iris

there they are. 

young, guileless.

the one
indistinguishable from the next

from
beamed thirty-second, sixty-fourth notes.
demisemiquavers of echoic laughs.

trilled.

jammed.

in small, rusted measures..

& you remember the pulse of the hummingbird.
the cyclical whir of inaudible, rice-paper wings; sibilated whispers

tickling inner ears
& hiraeth for fast, senseless flight.

& you.

& you.

thoughts dropping, they say,
like anvils and tire irons.
& USS battleships incorrigibly tangled
in wrought iron ropes and helical palms.
lone, wry.
idiopathic.
one hand-stitched soul

sewn from lyrics from ciphers from

chinese tea leaves.

from storms writ

by feathers

dropped from gothic cathedrals.

the dichotomous vice of knowing too
much
and understanding so
little
amidst the vibrating crush of confused

city blocks.

you spin on your axis and retreat from the light.

but you remember the pulse of the hummingbird.

the cyclical whir of inaudible, rice-paper wings.
sibilated whispers tickling inner ears.
& hiraeth for fast, senseless flight.

 

Poem

she scrawled it in calligraphy and courier. 

in sanskrit accidentals on
vaunted church ceilings.
on achromatic walls
vandalized with latent prints and
hollow execrations of ghosts-writers vying
to be seen.
and she put it in her notebook
between cyan blue bounds and dog-earred margins.
and she wrote it on the tender part of her wrist.
and she underlined its crux on origami save-mart receipts

smudged with hazel makeup,
crippled at the bottom of her purse.
and she wrote it in violet chalk on corrugated asphalt
grainy against her raw, ashen palms.
as she printed her poem on sidewalks
under a watchful purple gaze
born between sunset and dusk.