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.
Day: April 1, 2026
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.”
Miniature Moon 