Risky grass points at the sun, accusing her, blaming her for their birth. Here, the bullets hover just above the nape of the neck. This is a wholesome place because Fear is the primordial feeling, black and polished as onyx. Fear is honest. It does not succeed in subterfuge.

Winter rebrands as peace. There’s a barcode in my phosphorescent heart. Scan it and ring up my frosted ambition. Music is balm to a world wounded by so much silence. To film peace, place cameras on either side of a drowning woman. Wait two minutes.

Pugnacious earth battles for me as I try to ascend to space. There is more space in me than outside me. In my name are many caverns of conspiring fungi and blind creatures of emptiness. I am a science fiction flavored novel about an alien trying to assimilate in Washington, DC. Politics are muck between my toes. I want to be in a felt universe of needlepoint stars, not here in an antebellum planet tied to gravity like a little brother I don’t get along with.

Circles circumnavigate my globular mind. My day is a spider waiting to suck the marrow from your youth. My night is a silken web with stars captured in it. They are desperately trying to writhe and squirm away. Time is always hungry. I am cornerless, fearful, fecund. In my mind are three races of thought, and they are always engaged in some imperial war.

The curve of my hip presses into the jealous air. Air and light vie for my skin’s adoration. So often, my silk casing lies in the sun drying out, making love to the light in front of Breeze and everyone. Light is a selfish lover, taking more than he gives.  Air is the lover my convex body craves, my breasts in their bra a topographical map of desire. Air whispers idiosyncratic verses into my eager ears and strokes me lightly on the thigh, stokes the fire between my ears. I am alive with error and noble aspirations.