Yell at the loneliness

the eerie in mystified pooled
a mist hangs over shadowed eyes
out of the corners of their eyes, I glimpse doppelgängers
fading into the shade, crowded with the lost

self-pity reeks of putrefied flesh,
hatching rusted snails with slimy roots muttering along carefully placed leaf circles
that crinkle and disintegrate when I look at them with the slightest disdain
but then I forget

I should cherish mediocrity
because it outcompetes nonexistence
nothing is actually 100% perfectly blue and symmetrical
hush now,
accept the violin with the broken string and the fat cat
with the toe missing

if you wander through the apple orchard
and the applies fly away
go find another orchard
yell at the loneliness and it will cease


Eating logic

Powerful stare from beneath intense eyebrows
Utter control
Striding with purpose
Her golden fingertips drip invincibility into the carpet

Her femininity permeates the air
A quick turn, a scent detected
His eyes narrow, his pupils dilate, his heart races
A conquest tasted before capture
Intimidation creeps, mixed with sweet, invigorating challenge
Her pride and her prejudice will both meet their demise

Always pushing away, standing alone, independent squared shoulders
Though they fling blades of scorn and spray with gouts of looking down their noses
After glimpsing her piercing eyes, the sexist cringe and look away

He is not one of them, she knows
But her thoughts repel instinct, twining through an overactive neural network
She meets his eyes, and they
Explode into a fiery burst of light without order
Logic is eaten; swept away in the flames

Hidden among the purines and pyrimidines
A primitive green instinctual repressed something
In reckless wild abandon rears its head and
Force the beholder to open, accept, submit

Blink back tears of freedom, realization, peace
In being taken, owned, directed
She was, essentially, released

Stealing time

I. 23 weeks
He was so tiny as you grasped him, gasping
Tears leaking from your eyes
The first wail was not that at all
But the chilling, desperate song of fleeting youth

The doctor’s tongue made vibrations in the air
But the sound just bounced off your eardrum
She voiced what you’d already heard
As soon as you held him in your arms

 And you refused it

II.  23 pairs of chromosomes
You grasped them and, whispering, promised never to let go
You stole sand from the hourglass
And hoped the universe wouldn’t notice

III.  2 years, 3 days
A child, singing, round and round
The sound, a lovely ringing peal
A composition which, simply by existing
Determines to trounce fate

Toes spin above the ground
A petal drifts around your child’s angelic face
A smile touches your lips
Then a frown

A crease betwixt the eyebrows fixes
Your eyes widen as you see the sand melt together, turning to liquid
The toes stop going round
He slides silently and gracefully into the summoning black waters
Smooth ripples caress his face and he disappears
As if he were never there at all

The petal touches the quietly polished surface
The singing stops; the silence resounds
Someone should stop the playground roundabout
                  but it goes round and

the eerie. l=a=n=g=u=a=g=e

the eerie in mystified pooled

a mist hangs over shadowed eyes

of a course

    silent horse. thumping


    on cherries and wine caskets

     spurting red

cherry red. hurry

the beat is up

is beat

chastise the laken fellow ships heartening

décor mimes patterns of skipped beats on a yellowing wall

among sea lilies and dragon flies

hatching rusted snails with slimy roots muttering along carefully placed leaf circles

wistful, ashore, if butter could fly it would join them

NO-ah, they missed the boat

purple-veined twigs in buckets, holes fill the empty spaces out

unfurling, time is on the wind sail on

on time


on wind

blue blood

my blood is blue                                                                                                                     because that is the color of their eyes                                                                                         staring fixedly ahead from behind a glass frame                                                                         without a care in all the world                                                                                                           the dancing light on the pane as it wobbles in my unsteady hand                                                     masks the fact that they are only two-dimensional

like the paper that yells words at me                                                                                   yammering about their blood types and genetic tendencies                                                           as if I could care any less                                                                                                                   but I drink in the small black print as if it were a transfusion

giving me life                                                                                                                               giving me a chance at a different life                                                                                                   I will never have

but behind a glass pane in a window in a small white house                                                      walk four very three-dimensional people,                                                                                        one of which has the gray-blue eyes from behind that glass frame                                                     I have seen that house, and I want to live in it                                                                                     but I am not in Florida, where the orange trees blossom and the sun shines brighter than                on my own brown house with large windows

even though my /mom\ in the brown house with brown eyes once told me to go back to Florida and see what kind of a life I would’ve had there. unpleasant, I suppose, but at least everyone would have the same color blood, here I pop out like an orange on an olive tree, I’m obviously not an Italian, psht suglia indeed with the silent g and all

I take comfort in the fact                                                                                                                 that the blood in the two little girls’ veins runs blue, too                                                                   like their eyes

my eyes are blue, too


Dendrite tree

an orb in a neural web hanging brilliant by a nervous thread

delicate, the spindle drop releases dew with a soft plop

the globule accelerates, oozing through the folds of the master contortionist

he is your greatest asset, ficklest friend, and deadliest weakness

who bids the words that spil forth from your lips

reddened by his pigments and torn by his teeth


traverse the thickets of dendritic spines and sparking, prickly questions

bridge the gap and leap like fire to the next intangibility

chug those train wheels just as fast as you dare

without slipping off the tracks


take care


he will loose epiphanies and conniptions in equal measures from his slippery folds

infect you with noxious thoughts and trembling insanities

exploit his immense potency over your every heartbeat

enslave you to his shocking, electric will power


and sparkfire-trundle down preordained tracks

apathetic towards the irony that is humanity

an entity that by its very composition is doomed to be

itself; most indebted to its greatest enemy

until it masters the master.mind

A Cinderella Story

Cinderella’s stepmother fancied herself a scepter                                                                           She never loved poor Cinderella or strove to protect her                                                              Instead she chided, spurnéd, and decided to reject her.

So Cinderella scrubbed the hearth and laved the kitchen floor                                                       Her jovial stepsisters’ antics made her wish for more                                                                     Until one day she said, “Enough! This living is a bore.”

Indeed this was a verity; fairy godmother said,                                                                                   “I augur life will change anon.  Now Cindy, go to bed.”                                                                   But Cindy, with malevolence, formed other plans instead.

Alas, no handsome prince arrived to woo her as his bride                                                               So Cinderella, all alone, was disposed to decide                                                                         She’d improve life by ending one- resort to parricide!

Ode to a love-hairte relationship

Oh! What futile workers
Who toil to no avail
They hack-­‐cut-­‐shear the enemy                                                                                                 But sadly they will fail

A more persistent army you never saw                                                                                     Armed with many a sharp tool
But any but time that fights such a foe                                                                                           Will inexorably be made a fool

But halt! What turn of fate-­‐
Do I accept what I descry?
Such mortal enemies I’ve never found                                                                                            Yet this surmisal new evidence belies

For behold,
How the worker caresses
Nurtures the very pestilence she strives to eradicate

Like an epiphyte, it grows, takes over its host’s anterior                                                                 Yet the worker simply chops a little away
Never attacking in one fell swoop

In the one instance in which this was the case,                                                                             The host became interminably angry
As if the worker was ridding her of a major organ                                                                       Rather than sloughing off a ghastly growth

Alas! I shall revise
My predictions; they are flawed
The Dresser and the Hair                                                                                                           Must-­‐clearly-­‐have symbiotically coevolved.


T’was cruel to betoken the men she ne’er loved;                                                                           Their requests she dismissed as prate,
Because the all-knowing God from up above                                                                             Would assay, then descry, her ill fate.

For Elza thought naught of the men who beseeched
So desperately for her embrace;
All hoping perchance that their aims would be reached;                                                               That she would comply in good grace

E’er relentless men attempt her heart’s myst’ry to solve,                                                             Alas, to no meager avail;
‘Till after long torment congeals their resolve:
Her love is not worth the travail.

Each man who came to the threshold of her heart                                                                       Was met with promise, then disdain.
Fearing feelings for him she’d force them apart;                                                                         Ne’er once did she ponder their pain

Fair Elza deemed love to be fleeting and rare;                                                                             Meant only to importune her,
Thus, when a man would lay his tender soul bare,                                                                       She’d go all lengths to avoid hurt.

In evading the pain that was so sure to come,                                                                                 She deemed all men’s hearts imperv’yus.
The lonely men wallowed in languish and rum;                                                                               Their friends and their kin all quite fyur’yus.

And while crumbling asunder were their spirits,                                                                                A sad madrigal their souls played;
Singing several soft sadistic lyrics,
When Elza’s luck slowly decayed.

With men’s severed souls splayed ‘round her path,                                                                     Elza’s fate for her sins was found.
No longer would she escape God’s mighty wrath;                                                                         She felt the pain of those around.

Among those around her the suff’ring was worse,                                                                         And as it may be predicted;
In avoiding her pain she was caught in a curse;                                                                             One entirely self-inflicted.

Fickle fiera

Fiera, the fairy of fickle mettle,                                                                                                       With hair flaxen as wheat,                                                                                                                   Is mischief’s minion.

She brings the chalice of malice                                                                                                         To the lips of fine folk;
Her wicked merriment.

Fiera, the fairy of games folly,                                                                                                         Believes that surcease of others                                                                                                         Is her divine power.

In hopes of devil’s exaltation,
Fiera curses ladies’ pendent trinkets;                                                                                             Trouble and sin brood.

Fiera, the missive of death,                                                                                                                 Unveiling her cruel plot                                                                                                                   Awaits Satan’s call.

Every thane of Satan                                                                                                                       Must disburse for entry                                                                                                                     Into gates of hell.

Fiera, inflamed with desire,                                                                                                               Will give her due payment                                                                                                                 By forming demons.

Ladies and gentlemen                                                                                                                     Lost in the night’s wassail;                                                                                                               Their fate undecided.

Fiera is sent before Satan,                                                                                                                 A harbinger
But to be naught more.

For fickle fairy Fiera                                                                                                                   Releases trinkets’ curses                                                                                                                   A thane never to be.

Fiera, like the horse
In the adage,
Drinks not from the chalice Of Satan.