My vows stand before me, full spectral specters with gray eyes, wondering at my frailty. Without God, I can’t climb this hill. He sips coffee and unbinds ropes. If only my hands were not greased with ambition. Ambition is always a little greasy and dirty if not coupled with saintliness, and blended like rum and coke. I wanted to be the best and forgot to ask why or at what or even how. The Carabiner roughens the rope to give me grip. My vow to love pulsates pure pink and asks, “What happens to me if you can’t do this?” “I can’t do it on my own, but He promises to wrap my wrists and raise me up on the Last Day.”
Month: August 2025
Ghosts
My ghosts are highlighted punk pink, yikes yellow, and billowy blue for rapid categorization. Miraculous myriad of ghosts follow me daily, even to the Realism market by the river to purchase my intravenous memories. The Dewey Decimal system was my first and most honest friend, and even he can’t contain the multitude of subjects hidden in the dimension I lick like a keypad to open my front door when I stumble home from the market, my name eviscerated by pain. Sobbing, one ghost asks to fog a glass one last time with her breath. I hold up my frightened mirror, loan the yellow ghost my warmth, and feel a lightbeam length of life force leave me like a lacy lexicon.
Daisy Hunter
A hurt huntress of daisies, I came to bleed and break. I’ve bled over the hungry fields, the glades gladdened with a lattice work of sunbeams, and watched flowers flow like a river. The roses are baptized in their hues of red and blue. I shed like salt crystals over the river, feeding fish that prowl the surface collecting crafty crud. I am the queen of crafty crud and cuddly credibility. What will I do when the blood, the skin, my name are all gone? Who will cull the daisies, keep insidious floral populations in check? No one cares that an orchid ate a child last week, or that he said the 6 year old’s chi was better than crack and then proceeded to bloom in 13 colors for 6 days afterward. The mother is still muttering and mumbling down in the garden, broken and bent by grief. And who will feed my fish that clean the sunlight off the surface of the water to let the depths have their dependable darkness?
St Dymphna
Embroidered music, rustic symphonies in autumn shades of regret. Comfortable in the rain, death writes sonnets with his fingers on my fogged window. Crepuscular dreams muscle into my psyche. Dreams of hours coated in a sticky, sweet love. St Dymphna, pray for me. The hour of my reckoning stretches over my house the way the afternoon usually does, languid and lazy. How electrical the lies I tell myself! Do you smell the acrimonious fire?
Good Fridays
Fantastic, frothy Fridays foam up at the edges of my life. I’m out for coffee with the Antagonist, and I hate coffee. I crave cold, curious Saturdays of discovery. I like to wander around the English language after dark and get mugged. An elegy broke my nose once. At dawn, the weekend will taste like candy. Sugar is true and lethal. I didn’t choose the thorn burrowing into my side, but I will die beside it.
To Walk to the Edge
In the surround sound cult of Tuesday, be a heretic. The jellyfish judge me, their electric colors reproachfully pulsing, dreaming in a sea that offers to claim me when I can no longer haul my own blood back from the shore to the home that drinks it. Cover me in stamps. Discover me under black light grinding against amoebas. You aren’t sending me anywhere. Currents take me. Currents spell my name in blue.
Pain
Time acquired dilapidated properties at the edge of my publicized lake in the inner folds of my mind. This life is a performance for the entertainment of angels who do not laugh. Their weeping kisses the lilypads with dew. Frogs sing and philosophize. Time vacations here to taunt my memories and fragile wishes. Life must be grasped by the sharp end and plunged into matter like glass shards to harvest a wine so bittersweet with lilac pain that I can’t bear the rustic smell of music.
Beaming into The Future
I am a white daisy beaming into the future. Roses gather at the hem of my life, baby’s breath at the cross stitched hymns. God, please pick me among the petunias in their pageantry best. My visions have tea together. My secrets tell me nothing. But somewhere on the edges of my name, a scythe scratches the notes to a new psalm in petaled flesh.
Despair
I wander into night like a stain into a wedding dress, not seeing the disaster I am for the black velvet around me. Hairy voices of monsters dissecting my name echo against the fur lined dark. Escapism is a red and blue striped slide from the playground of my private wallowing well down to the depths of whatever a red light district calls despair. I walk the greedy streets in stilettos, my footsteps Morse code for sadness along the listless lane.
Miniature Moon 