Natural Selections

Piquant wood shavings build houses from one another. Natural selection, the choices of the man in the barn with his saw. The light chooses not to touch those with old tongues any longer.

If I went to the light, I would find a locket of gold.

Choices are envious of boxes. To make a choice is to sew yourself to something that runs faster than you can.

When choices are all spooled out and the thread is cut, what remains is a saw and a veil of night.

Giving Thanks

Often, when I make gratitude lists on here, it is to cheer myself up. Today I feel very good. I still want to make a list though. Praising God is important.

  1. Thank you for blessing me with the opportunity to stay home. It helps my mental health, and is also allowing me to pursue a creative life.
  2. Thank you, God, for the random word generator someone felt inspired to build on the internet. It is beginning to fuel new projects.
  3. Thank you for giving my daughter a good start in Kindergarten. I pray that you will help her continually. She is dyslexic, and that does not make school easy for her. Thank you for blessing her with wonderful teachers.
  4. Thank you for giving me good neighbors.
  5. I am thankful there are no sunflowers around. They scare me and make my hair stand on end. I look like Don King when I see those huge sunflowers with their cruel, watchful faces.
  6. Thank you for a wonderful day.
  7. I love my psych, and I thank you Lord for leading me to her.


Balloons murmur at Velvet’s party. So much soft rubbing in the dim light. Silks and their secretaries took the night off for this. Behold the lonely dark in the corner, desperate for touch.

Roiling – inspired by word generator

The well off at the ossified marina count the crusty salt crystals. Orange corn poking from the windows of my old home dare me to grind my teeth on it. At the mouth of the bay of wine, bad memories teeter. The division between food and teeth is stark. The division of drink and thought soft. She strays from the wine to my old house and its belligerent farm.

What Kind of Spider is This?

Two invisible legs of glass. Six yellow as yolk. Fiberglass hairs. Flippant fangs.

The house does not stop running. In my snare drum diagram, it indicates a problem with things that don’t make a sound.

He’s crawling into your purse…


Yellow is so small between
My breasts

If she’s looking for my heart
She won’t find it there

My attic contains orgasms
And fireworks

Yellow can set off both

Into my mouth she climbs
Like the scent of a
Song I no longer have