Ambition disguised as snow coats the city suits in a light dusting. Christmas in the city…or the collection of bridges and turnpikes we call home with the vague flavor of discomfort in our mouths. Christmas laced with martyrs’ tears, glowing as icicles outside shop windows. The cold here wears a roledex and diamonds. As the time gently but surely crumbles away like Christmas cookies, I yearn to be even half as permanent as the flakes on my lover’s silver hair as he builds another world for me.
Honey and Hell
Hexagonal childhood spreads its honey over my spreadsheets. The facts were all I was asked for, and they smell like ocean and regret. Shadows compute in the closet, the blue screens scathing the disillusioned shadows whenever their electric blue light touches them. The numbers are fossilizing in amber honey. I have weighed myself on the balance and found myself wanting. So many digits away from heaven, and every new year is a countdown to hell.
Math
Sour glowing integers run away from me like sunlight. Sophisticated testimony of a holographic truth echoes through the passages of Culture, who is wearing cheap leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. The math here is simple. Take a woman and divide her by herself and watch angst spill out as the remainder.
Woman
A woman’s body is a playground. They are jungle gyms made of softness and gentleness. The yellow stripes tattooed on bees are slivers of anxient sunbeams. Some truths cannot hold us. The fire hisses out in the hearth of our collective memory, and we are each assigned an idea to degrade. Woman is a fallen tree. A woman’s mind is a 4 course meal. A woman is herself when summer ends and leaves her holding a cute tote with “Try me” emblazoned on it in red letters.
Beauty and Envy
Calling her frenemy on a blue telephone, Beauty shellacs her nails with diamonds. Envy is smoking herbs in her palace, blinded by the bling of corporeal existence. She laughs at all of Beauty’s jokes, and then sticks pins in her secret effigy of her. Beauty is anaesthetized by her delusions of modesty, and she doesn ‘t feel the tiny bit of life drain out of her. Beauty and Envy hold hands when they play, skipping and singing saphically through the corridors of life. I am in the old red Dodge, my headlights going feral, driving to the point of no return. When I get there, I discover an old gas station playing Orgy and a closed book store with a neon, glowing open sign. My obituary was hot pink.
Timeless and Terrifying
Timeless, terrifying tesselations cover the crisp azure sky in code. Reading me like a book, my man graces me with a bouquet of fallen leaves. Over the maple tree, a halo dripping with honey. My bifurcated biography is going to drip with orange Autumn, coalescing in spooky pools of spectres at my feet.
Human History
Harvesting heroes from an alluvial plane of flooding horrors, Noah in a row boat with his wife and one rabbit. This world is hell’s foreplay. Extinct, I haunt the museums of old. Man has forgotten his speech and yells pitifully at the sun who cooks him in cancer. Nothing good survives Destiny with a laser gun. In empty museums, human history is recited to the disdainful dust.
The Fine Print
Crisp bubbles crinkle as they pop open on my sharp personality. I have a sticker collection bigger than you. The rowboat that seemed so superfluous is becoming essential as the river rises from my eyes. I need to row to a land of roses and pinwheels, where the refining fire of delirious faith is as sweet as honey from charitable bees. The fine print in life’s lease is that you are responsible for maintenance of the machine.
Anomalies
Exponents of song light up my aural equations of bliss. Here and there, a letter leaks from me. A dusting of glitter and numbers falls from my shoulders. Where I am from, the sea determines the boundaries of your fear. Somehow all these cold hearted stars and fiery ice caps are supposed to add up and everything will be fine like wine, but division and subtraction are coming, armed to the teeth and lukewarm to the beautiful anomalies we call men.
Democracy Tends Her Fire
Unrelenting, unrepenting dismay trickles through culture like tree sugar through a fungal network. My ego glows in the dark. Under the blacklight, sin splattered everywhere. I used to dance when I had feet. Now I float with the other ghosts of dances past, my spirit sagging whenever the music stops. In the trees, revolution. From the women’s arms tangling children like branches, the infestation of revolutionary thought. The dayglo atrocities of banal government are a sign pointing to the cemetery. Here, the piñatas are people. Bust open a politician and watch the graft pour out, sugary and deadly. Democracy tends her Fire by the river and knows her true daughters by name.
Miniature Moon 