Wrapped in the same name as my nemesis, a theory frictioning frantically with a reality so sharp that it cuts, and the theory is bleeding, and we drink too much at lunch. Too much. The ice in the pond is too much. A patchwork of cold. The theory of feminine wild wiles can get no satisfaction. She bares her hair to a hillside of honor and visibility. An elevator, snipped from its cable, floats toward frosty regions of unprepared wine.
Month: October 2025
Biggest Regret
Red code of dawn for love letters from Hades. The grass is always greener -or sharper- on the other side. The machine buzzes in my head, strips memories from me like old wallpaper. Treatment, they said. The forlorn math of always being emptier than you should be. Suffering souls singe. Early in the morning, I drove over the alligator river. Not I. My husband drove. And I went. I was a cave. A crayon. They broke me, but I still color. I just can’t see lines anymore. It’s all a disarray of color and exultation and expectation, and everywhere the smell of terrarium.
A Dirty and Dangerous Little Thing
I’ve been telling a story with leaves and flowers I pressed the life out of. I’ve been telling a story about blue blood, ballerinas, and balls. The story has many climaxes, like a woman with her lover who is with the beat of her heart. My heart is a snare drum, making rickety rock music and frightful calls to war with the past. I don’t allow children to listen to my story and neither should you. How grace bred with elegance until the world, fat with starlight, burst and space filled with shimmering crystals of silence. My heart, a dirty and dangerous little thing, leapt from a shadow into the great knowing.
We Will Never Reap
Unattended sparrows sow the fields with lavender. The fragrance betrays the eroticism of the fluffy clouds, looking down like a lover on a world that doesn’t know it’s asleep. When through the pearlescent gates the ocean begins to pour like a spilled drink, I made a raft from my studio desk, with an umbrella for a roof. Beneath the waves, Leviathan with centuries of teeth and an appetite for the twisted. The lavender will wash away. The warped odor of regrettable flesh will be all that is left. I sail to a rippled shore covered in sunbathing dreams.
Winter
Glittering silver snow lines Winter’s home, furnishing it with comfortable coldness and arctic blue mood. My spirit lives in winter, jealously watching the rich earth for the arrogant arrival of tulips. All is sleeping and heavy with the weight of dead leaves. Ghosts build fires in their encampments by the frosty river. My name is a river rearranged. My name is arraigned. My personality sails by, trailed by sharks.
On the Cusp
The bluebirds nest on the cusp of my awareness. What is beyond my awareness is bright light and new colors. At my dark periphery, morose shadows of old pleasures, crumbling to ash in the weight of God’s judgment on them. The baby bird will fly away soon, to the morose forest choking the back of my throat. Regret is heavy, and it sucks in many to its great gravity.
Language
Language babbles like a brook in the snaggle toothed mouth of a baby, but pour like the falls from my cherry juice lips that shine with adoration so my soul mate can see himself in the gleam of my smile. Language smells perky and pertinent and penitent. She lures Silence to his death. Language belongs to no one, and so leaves me every day to rut in the autumnal mouth of another while my mind wanders over a plane of math so wild, imaginary numbers grow like brambles, piercing me. My pureed mind leaks out.
November is Coming
Velvet encases me like a casket at this party I snuck into. My dress is filled with frills and thrills, a slinky black little thing exposing my soft porcelain thighs to the crushed purple velvet. Death is LARPing as October, and no one knows he’s in costume. Ghosts glow glacier blue and just as cold. November watches from behind the velvet curtain, ready to wash away childhood and joy. November with her blue eyes, onyx hair, and burns all over her body from a thousand candles.
Nothing
I read my bones for answers to all my problems with my x ray eyes. In the hollow tree of winter, a raccoon and a plague of rose scented blood. Winter burrows into my name. Snow fills the chambers of my personality. Suddenly when I speak, hail pops out. My x ray eyes and cold hands pry the truth from the fingers of my enemies, who run a ghost factory in my yard. They are hiring – for ghosts. My eyes are glass anyways. Why not apply? I have lots of experience with zero.
Miniature Moon 