Ebullient daylight argues with darkness at the periphery of my hungry eyes’ territory. All this bickering and no one brought me lemonade or pet penguins. Every time I feel a sour, sticky dream sliding through the folds of my classic brain, I take some pill that probably causes cancer and the manufacturer is just lying about it. In the clouds, a place wet with dreams and warm with an amniotic sort of safety that surpasses all knowledge.
Day: June 4, 2026
Beige Women
Craving comfort, beige women line their cream homes with white roses. The thorns, being cut off by blunt scissors, bleed their chlorophyll dreams out in the trash can. Some perfect woman will dump them out in compost, saving the world wearing a cable knit chromosome and the greenest eyes. In cold mirrors, I stare back at myself. See the thorns coming from my finger tips, my hands clasped around my own throat?
This is What I Couldn’t Explain to the Aliens
Beneath a gun metal sky of trauma, which grows like a vine throughout all Creation, I play chicken with Death parked in my bathroom cabinet. Will I turn away, or will I succumb? The answer lies in the valleys of existence. This is what I could not explain to the aliens. We must die to ourselves without dying in ourselves, and our growth causes us to constantly crude crunchy casings of our old selves.
Miniature Moon 