Month: April 2026

Hunting Hauntingly

Take my life and let it be a strand of pearls around the neck of the strongest shark in this reef of rainbows and diamonds. My spirit leaks a little. He asks if I’m crying. I am not. My name, however, is weeping with shame. Take my life and let it be yours. When he throws my love letters in the air, they explode in pink and blue like fireworks. By the reef’s edge, predators hunting hauntingly.

Alkaline Angels

Alkaline angels freshen the twilight with blue, twitching light. There is an impatience in me blooming like a black dahlia and laced with oleander. The light here is alive and learns everyone’s name but mine. My shadow runs ahead of me. I limp and stumble trying to keep pace with that dirge-singing child of obfuscation. Everything here is primed to bloom, but in my spine, the root of an oval organism miming its way into my esoteric being.

The Small Packet of Miraculous Insight

Could you hand me the small packet of miraculous insight laying down by the invertebrate river, meandering as it does through the mind, curving and cutting the manly wild of flower soaked land? My father buried an axe here. My mother, a key. In the cool dawn of my effervescent identity, a strange blue wailing I only recognize later as my name. Hungry, the moon descends to feast on the horrified dark. The sun illuminates you and me now, honest as soap stripping away filth. Hand me the packet. I am going to see the color of angels.

A Meadow of Math

I wake up in a meadow of math. Multiplication is everywhere and the bees dance in their polyphonic language. Here lies truth – sunbathing drunk in a dagguerotype a hundred and 30 years old. The ghosts of mistakes past plunder the pansies at the edge of the valley. Mountains are but vaults of information buried with the dead.

Hot Pink Ghosts

Pearlescent peeves poke me incessantly, chanting my name in a lint accent. The hot pink ghosts of my flamboyant girlhood eat Lucky Charms on the veranda of eternal summer, and all I can do is count mosquitoes. Gratitude is plush and warm and siddles up to me. My own body, trilingual in curve, pain, and generosity, presses in closer. I must come to understand the onyx vortex inside me to decipher the great cobalt void around me.

Snarls Through Snaggled Teeth

In the crinkling dawn, death yawns. Another day, another disembodied body. I tell him to get off my back porch, and I chase him with my own scythe painted dayglo orange. He’s been drinking and smoking joints on my patio all night. Angels sew the fields with tempestuous flowers, hauling bright colors and soft textures with them like a holy burden. I hear one mutter, “I will dance on his grave.” But death puts his joint out on my face and snarls through snaggled teeth, “I’ll be back.”