Daylight orange personality fills out my neon rayon borders. The 90s are smoking on my back patio. I shove a candy cigarette in the trash disposal and listen to the sweetness hacked to bits. Outside, the storms play tag over the well worn, hand me down prairie. At night the wolves are silent here. I can light up this prairie like a fire and make it bloom again. In the grove by the river, fireflies extinguishing themselves one by one on a Tesla coil.
Day: August 8, 2026
Laughing
Stale lightning works its way through my daily bread like fungal rhysomes. In the valley between my breasts, supine visions of cotton candy carnivals. Here in the molten core of ourselves, we can be absolved of our eccentricities in this solar system of sameness, revolving as it does around boiling coinage. Soon our daily water will grow up to be rain. It will fall into the sea, laughing.
In the Vineyards
Dancing sprites jitter alongside Death as he sweeps the purple plain with his discount scythe. From whom much is given, much will be extracted. The vineyards are choking on weeds taller than me. In the wine press, remnants of what were once promises, pulpy and thin. In my housework dress of cozy, comfy, suburban glamor, sleek thoughts of collecting glasses. The sprite looms over the landscape of life like a giant, pulsating windmill. Death is rational, is weighing his options, is looking at me.
Miniature Moon 