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.
A Woman’s Yearning
A woman’s yearning is a zigzaging, chevron patterned perseverance toward the heart. The heart is an empty house at 2101 Vessel Street. The weaker vessel holds the gold as it cools, fusing with the shine. A woman’s desire is expensive. It will cost her the old linen song in her heart. Curtains cover windows to avenues of guilt. I walk into the prehaunted house, see my ancestors stitching samplers for Envy, who wears black sequins and little else. What temperature is your temperament?
Through the Bloody Kool Aid
In the feral rivers, fish dream of scuba diving in air, floating past our windows and admiring our most habitual habitats. In aquatic versions of The Odyssey, Odysseus’s dog doesn’t recognize him, sniffs another man’s sandals. Beastly, violent beauty paints the terrain with rain. I spill sparkling water on my dress, and a red stain flows out from my interested breasts. What commands womanhood but hazy procreation? Water wipes away our past, stitches a sordid future. Through the bloody koolaid, my nipples peak at decency like voyeurs.
A righteous ridge of anger
A righteous ridge of anger winds through the plains of plastic feeling. Rage is a red, hard thing. I throw my name at it and my name slides off. Rage has a grip on reality much like it does on softening butter. Certainty evaporates here, and questions rain down. My body is poised for questions but not for this poison, this vial of unforgiveness with a homemade label slapped on it that says “feral righteousness.” If you follow the ridge, Regret will plunge you into the sea, a millstone around your neck for every child you never had.
Full Bust
The fluffy buoyancy of my full bust is dreamlike. I am a woman of pillows and teeth. When society came to rain on my parade, I shot the newspaper editors first. In my glass feet, a million shattering lines from the impact of every decision I make weighing at my soul like a backpack it just can’t put down. My hands in transparent silk gloves stroke down my man’s arms. His muscles a moodscape of masculine power. He touches my softness softly, and wakes my desires from their fitful slumber. My breasts are two globular worlds for him to survey.
Drowning
Floating in the flotsam of disco debris, I lay my back over the surface of life like a blanket. I will float here until I drown, counting the pennies children have thrown into this pool while their mothers gild the pansies. Eternal life floats just beyond the permeable boundary of our haphazard existences. Gossiping in tongues about the glitter coalescing into a disco ball in the shallow end, I betray my inner glitz. My name is Temporary. My name blew away in a typhoon. My name is Fictional. My name parties on boats and falls overboard drunk. Sinking feelings sidle up to me, pressing down on my core.
Little Girl in the Purple Dress With the Red Lollipop
Along the Appian Way of my heart, ruthlessness sold by the bucket. Striding along some gray corridor, a robot hell bent on installing Christmas.exe on the server of my mind. Here in the heat that shimmies seductively for all to see, I focus my eyes on the little girl in the purple dress with the red lollipop, minding her business like it was paint drying. She huddles inside my name at night when the cold comes.
Mandatory Fun
Your participation in this fun survey is mandatory. What color were the marbles you lost? Loss is a chainsaw convulsing in a mosh pit. Did you see your lover undress you with his eyes, his lashes gently willing your smocking dress down off your shoulders? Grief is a byproduct of death, and like all byproducts, corporate America can sell it to your children for nourishment. Do you see the orb eyed children drooling over processed abandonment? Submit your answers. Submit your name.
Miniature Moon 