Circles circumnavigate my globular mind. My day is a spider waiting to suck the marrow from your youth. My night is a silken web with stars captured in it. They are desperately trying to writhe and squirm away. Time is always hungry. I am cornerless, fearful, fecund. In my mind are three races of thought, and they are always engaged in some imperial war.
Day: December 25, 2024
Soft and Hard
I am soft like sex when it’s raining outside. My musical blood plays Lacrymosa while my feet climb toward success without me. The ivy strangles the wall, and everyone driving by talks about how beautiful the wall with the ivy is, as though tendril and stone were lovers. As though a kind of abuse isn’t happening in front of us. I am soft like the fertile hillocks of Kansas. The disaster of vine and structural integrity. Gravity is a cheap hooker and a terrible pessimist, always bringing everyone down. I am soft like a memory of pajamas with feet in them. I could never pretend to be a stone wall, but still I am tenderly hunted by the tendrils, their iron wills coiled and ready to strike.
Air and Light Vie For My Skin’s Adoration
The curve of my hip presses into the jealous air. Air and light vie for my skin’s adoration. So often, my silk casing lies in the sun drying out, making love to the light in front of Breeze and everyone. Light is a selfish lover, taking more than he gives. Air is the lover my convex body craves, my breasts in their bra a topographical map of desire. Air whispers idiosyncratic verses into my eager ears and strokes me lightly on the thigh, stokes the fire between my ears. I am alive with error and noble aspirations.
Miniature Moon 