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.”
Day: August 29, 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?
Miniature Moon 