
Beauty




I don’t care. This wonderful, crazy, feminine collage of ribbon and paper says so much about me as a woman. This is what I really like. Polka dots and glitter and bright colors and all of that. I think this is good. It maybe doesn’t require a great deal of technical virtuosity, but it gets across the mood and meaning that I want it to in my opinion.

“Sylph” by Abigail Cloud is a rich, decadent read.

My sentences are sprinkled
with snowy asterisks.
So many cold specific species
of special considerations.
Compounding the temerity of
this informational vacation
through the paradise of lingua franca
*commonality hell*
A virga, purple and inconsistent.
My tongue,
dry,
cracking,
goes on.
In the meadow between my
thoughts and their definitions
snowstorm as crepuscular ballet.

The three books on the left are excellent volumes of flash fiction and micro fiction. I really love short form fiction, and I’m always excited to find more of it. I’m on the look out for another excellent volume of micro fiction right now.
My tinfoil moon is so cheap
and glitters prolifically,
unlike the gold sun jailed
in the center of the solar system,
mined to death for its light,
wasted resource above the
bickering buildings with their
fluorescent innards.
Perhaps my dearest half will tear just the
littlest piece of my moon
to fashion me a fashionable ring.
No one loves the crinkled moon as I do,
The glitz and glam of being second best.




