Turn Up the Butterfly Bass!

Sing bliss, you gossamer birds, and tweak your lace wing; we’re going from flower to fireball, gym to fighting ring. It’s stargazing and storytelling time and we are the astronomers of our own minds, mapping constellations out of concepts and fishing kisses out of crimes.

⬤  ⬤  ⬤

Hi there, and welcome to my thunderstorm of thoughts. It’s been ages since I’ve let a little literary lightning loose on the forest of fantasia and lit up the leaves with feist. I’m no aerial electrician, but I’ve fried a few treetops already, and there’s nothing fun about witnessing a wan woodland of skinny trees—let’s add some velvet to the vineyard, some bush to the bare-naked bark. Put some fat on the fair-skinned alibi and be as cool as Tony Stark. Life tends to fry your nerves in a pan of doomsday grease, so let’s take a second to step back and taste the fortifying green drink of a good day. You know you like kale, child. It’s time to toss aside the Lucky Charms for heavenly manna–to put away the powers that be and their democracy, and go straight for marijuana. Taste the vanilla peace floating off the minty cauldron of imagination, the mist that floods the lands of mentation. Smooth your rough edges with some syllables—layer your anxieties in the buttery liquor of balladry. Find a haven here in this starry lounge. Meet the literary equivalent of an extraterrestrial Xanax.

Or maybe this is the literary equivalent of a caffeine volcano. It depends on who you are. Will it wildly ignite or will it gently enlight? Are we here to be set afire or be set afloat on our own lazy river of poetic H2O?

You might be searching for a sedative, you might be thirsting for a juicy injection of java to your soul—and hey, you may find both. Maybe this can be a Neapolitan ice cream experience for you. Maybe you can snatch the trinity of sweet strawberry, cosmic cocoa, and voluminous vanilla in a single taste. You might snag the flavors of three forces in a single fistful like the world’s most dexterous lactose-bending Jedi. You could conquer the chasm of spiderwebs and come out of the corners adorned in silk. Or maybe you’ll step off the edge of the earth and find yourself perched on the perimeter of infinity, peering into the periphery of the universe and blinded by the light.

There’s nothing wrong with an old-fashioned adventure. Step into the adrenaline-lined slippers of a swashbuckler’s life; clutch a glittering sabre at your side. Make “The Princess Bride” look like child’s play. Dive into the jungle of prime-time juju and drink the java of legends. Fulfill your lifelong dream to be Indiana Jones for a day. Let’s go rumbling through the tumbleweeds of heartrending romance, grow sexy mustaches, and sip the cold piña colada of raw truth. The fire is crackling and the marshmallows melting, and it’s time to whip out the pumpkin storytelling spice and get to down to spooooky business.


✨ 🦋 ✨ 🦋 ✨ 🦋 ✨ 🦋 ✨ 🦋 ✨ 🦋 ✨




There once was a pretty brunette

Who hated her hair like a debt,

So she lightened her locks

With blonde from a box

And now she’s a breathing vignette.


There once was a glutton from Mars,

Who’d only eat meals from the stars,

And since moving to Earth

He lost his great girth

And began teaching health seminars.



Brilliance brings life,

Nectar of electric light,

Resurrects our spring.


Night of fireflies,

Millions of golden orbs

Freckle summer sky.


Popular schoolgirl,

Kissing the earth in heartbreak—

Friendzoner supreme.


Green Monkey Sauce


Imagine a large food company has contacted your advertising department. They have created what they think is a major snack innovation: glow-in-the-dark pudding. However, there is a major problem—the pudding is inedible! Brainstorm as many possible uses for this product and name it.

⬤  ⬤  ⬤ 

It’s not delicious, it’s not nutritious, but it sure is superstitious. Never before in the horrifying history of tapioca has a pudding emerged from the market more mysterious or monstrous than our one and only Green Monkey Sauce. Inspirationally derived from the jungles of South America and literally created in the laboratories of Harvard comes a wonder out of this world. It’s like a cosmic maple syrup-mayonnaise hybrid, and it’s the almighty alpha goo of the Oobleck kingdom. Green Monkey Sauce is the glow-in-the-dark wizard of infinite slime uses. 

Have a leak under your sink but don’t have the money to pay for a plumber until your next paycheck? 

Keep an eye on the exact location of the leak and stop up the flow with our adhesive glow-in-the-dark Green Monkey Sauce. No Sharpie needed, no duct tape necessary—zilch effort involved. Perfect for professional procrastinators, lazy hippies of the highest zen, and deadbeat dads.

Do you really want to scare your emotionally invincible sibling this Halloween? Are you tired of being an ineffective ghost? Is the white sheet no longer working? Well, fret no more. You’ll no longer depend on janky costumes from tacky companies, nor will you rely on the Chewbacca mask and a larynx-shredding roar to get the job done. The era of shame and sore throats is over. 

Our Green Monkey Sauce is epinephrine in a jar. At least seven (7) pee-your-pants moments are guaranteed!

Directions: Slather yourself in Green Monkey Sauce, hide in the bathtub/bushes/blankets until sibling walks near, and then jump out and watch the world burn. Look like Shrek himself was covered in slugs, smell like you’ve been spritzed with the famous Essence of Midwestern Skunk.

Do you want to prank your ex-boyfriend/girlfriend John Green-style, and finally get that sweet revenge? Be like Margo Roth Spiegelman and do some state-of-the-art slime graffiti all over your ex’s car windows. Shapes of all sizes can be created with our innovative Green Monkey Sauce. Perfect for swear words, scary faces, and any angsty poetry you’re aching to release last second. All your heartfelt hieroglyphics will come creeping out of the shadows as soon as the sun sets, and no more will your ex drive in peace, but be arrested by the glowing lyrics of your explicit ballad. Green Monkey Sauce guarantees awards of all kinds, most often being significant jail time, but also an Emmy of effectiveness from your enemies. We promise their ungodly egos will drop from the top story down to Tartarus—that skyscraper will no longer be thicc.

Get all the revenge, adrenaline, and plumbing help you need with our magnificent Green Monkey Sauce. Comes in the additional colors of Asthma Pink, Emo Black, Gandalf White, and Donald Trump Orange. Available at the appropriate price of $5,158.30 per jar.


The Butt Whisperer

The Beginning

National Geographic zooms in. Its gang of khaki-clad photographers and code-sipping scientists converge together before the shiny black cameras, preparing to hit the big red button of revolutionary documentation. A man with the essence of a rhinocerous itches his bum and sneezes, a most primitive gesture of territorial domination. An older and thinner woman with the aura of a sunburnt giraffe stoops down to grab a stalk of celery in the misty produce aisle, a most foggy isle, sniffing it with vegetarian disdain. It’s not organic enough, her soul screeches, nose twitching, smoke fluttering out of her scarlet ears.

The photographers and biologists huddle in a snug circle, pounding out a mini brainstorming session. Yes, that’s right–we’re so up-close and personal that the research on the People of Walmart is being performed right here, right now on the dusty grounds of the Walmart safari itself!

It is a magical mating scene of vegetation, pastries and carnal delight of the deepest caloric indulgence, soaked in the silver sunrays of fluorescent flamboyance. We see all kinds of humans–ones with tangled dreads and tattoos donning baggy tie-dye clothes, ones wearing business suits with such starched and ironed velocity and faces so fierce with success’ ferocity they could bite your accomplishments into humiliated cookie crumbs. They could rip your sweet pastries of humble achievement into a pile of powdered pomposity, a criminal sugar sabotage from the hands of the modern-day aristocracy.

You see big kinds of people, little kinds of people, wiry kinds, plump kinds, kinds that look like mayonnaise in the form of mankind, kinds that look like starvation personified–a wealth of wunderkind of incredibly high weirdness surround the scene in wild abundance. The pickings are ripe today, the tomatoes of time drooping off the videographic vine.

The experts jest, they jabber, they beget Beowulf-esque epics out of mere jargon, taking the first step into the creation of American obesity’s lovechild, The People of Walmart. An infamous and honored nonfiction film, anyone would sell both their cat and soul to get in on the action.

A small writer stands on the sidelines, clutching a white notebook with virgin pages, ready to carve dystopia into cuneiform, squeezing the notebook so hard it melts like a submissive marshmallow between her grubby nail-bitten hands. A photographer gives her a respectful nod, a bro signaling to another bro to begin the process of historical illumination via the scribbling of paper. A scientist shoots out a surefire thumbs-up, an intellectual giving the go to a fellow intellectual that the braindance shall begin. The woman sits down on her seat of choice, a soggy stump with dung beetles mating on it, and begins dishing out the harsh realities of the Walmart safari.

⬤  ⬤  ⬤

I was sailing like a kazoo, all bright and funny, too,

Through Walmart’s empire blue.

Listening to the roar of the frozen section and all the hootenanny of the domestic zoo,

I saw a lady with her pants nonexistent –

I mean, she was wearing such skintight leggings it was reminiscent

of a spandex anaconda sucking the life out of her buttocks.

Previously in the morning of mid-June dawn,

When the rays of sun dutifully kissed my boring lawn,

I exited the stark mansion of Me, Myself, and I –

To go out in public and, like a yodeling egg,

Sizzle in my self-conscious pan, pretending to fancy the feel of the fry,

Grinning like all get-out, obscene measures of faux affinity.

That jungle of mine, the scrambled mixtape of

Me, Myself, and I,

Was strumming its symphony of disthemia

Located in the distant hills of solitude –

Was the color of a chrome duffel;

But I gained the fortitude

With a bite of a waffle

To take my new tennis shoes for a decent sidewalk shuffle.

I doused my spiritual leukemia with an anti-bulimia

Breakfast blend of citrus zest with an attack from a garlic maul –

A vicious entre of synthesesia –

To take my new tennis shoes for a decent sidewalk shuffle.

I’d had my years under the disco – within the prism groovy,

I took my gizmo seriously – and delivered a foxtrot woozy with an inkling of bluesy,

I shone like a baby in Crisco or a diamond bathed in butter,

Sylvester Stalone in a beefy movie.


Now I left my lawn of glittering fescue

To pretend I’m on Snack Search and Rescue

For the land of Walmartian food venue.

The idea was: To stage a certain hunt for munchables.

But between the debate of iced broccoli or peanut butter Crustables,

My zippy-doo sailing boat

Of untouchables was the victim of a merciless breach

By the heinous dimples of a

Nude buttinsk

As it bent over to study the ingredients

Of a pork shish-kebab – as if the horrors

Hadn’t done their dark job.

I stood, aghast, flummoxed by the buttocks.

I was flabberghasted as they flubbed themselves shamelessly affront me,

Cornered by the quizzical domain of Wonderbread.

The butt was talking – its dimples winked.

The beast wasn’t dead –

It was scarier than you ever could have thought –

Or thinked!

I decided to wear my cape

That day,

And so at the first jinx of endorphins,

I activated it by sparkling bat wings and savvy dolphin fins

And shot out of there,

Because if a butt

Dressed in peachy hair

Is what greets you when you enter a fare,

You probably shouldn’t be there.


(By the way, I grabbed a loaf of Wonderbread, smacked the butt on the butt,

And did a full 360 degrees out of there

Because I didn’t want to be known

As the Butt Whisperer.)


Who Knows?

Who knows what we’ll do after high school?

Who knows? We could melt like iced lattes

and spin in a summer ballet

or get so famous we need a valet.

We might get as stinky as the jam on the Hulk’s toes

or find ourselves frozen like popsicles

in drifts of wintry snows.

We could shovel straw in a horse’s stall and scrub it raw

like a butt-naked peasant

shoveling prisms on the moon’s

air-conditioned crescent,

or maybe get elevated to the rank of a

pearly U.S. president — who knows?


We could sprout like organic mungbeans

into the belly of the sky

or grow to such mutant heights it would make Jack and his beanstalk cry.

We could doubt like the sinewy jowls

of retrospect’s backward snout,

and like the philosophers with their heads packed with thoughts,

always wonder:

Is the universe full of ins or outs,

and why?


We could bloom into the feline ferocity of lions and tigers,

or be strangled by a neighbor’s lawn hose —

We might get splashed in the chalky blood of an albino liger,

or get lucky with the lottery and

be showered in a lifetime of Calvin Klein clothes.

We might flip on the flashy charisma switch

and inspire a lifetime business pitch, making Wall Street fall in love with us —

or we could get high on the hemp of happiness

and dance to the soundtrack of an 80’s disco avalanche, riding the hippie’s bus.

With the help of estrogen and age, we might morph into a woman sage,

a Proverbs 31 epitome who cooks up a storm each day and makes all the other Karens of the cul-de-sac RAGE.


We could slip into the clutch of cigarettes and spite, lovers and late nights, falling into the territory of evil —

or soar into the svelte character of an artist’s sweet thunder, sending up a crystal kite to Heaven’s discerning anvil.

We could be as serious as a scientist brooding in his smoky office,

or freak out in a storm of silliness, belting out a Tyrannosaurus chorus like an operatic wench

and keep pushing life’s patience

inch by inch, grinning like a Christmas-conquering Grinch —

We could be full of benevolent donation, volunteering more and more;

or we could keep all our candy to ourselves, naughty to the nimble Starburst core.


We could be a platinum blonde bitch with the heat of the Hulk’s temper, gliding in sports cars and guilded in rhinestones,

a patronizer of salons and a serial pamperer;

We could be a barbarian of brunches with only gluten-free lunches, don’t you dare mess with her slender legs, she paid to have them sculpted!

Or we could be a bashful brunette with a cashmere soul,

her brain cells baptized in the waters of books,

sipping lore and tasting truth,

a nerdy gal of gnosis galore with Ugly Betty’s beautiful looks.


We’ll open up our dimpled dewberries and smile, gasping at the freckled droves

where our nemeses hang out like sarcastic chimpanzees

Snacking on slices of sourdough slang loaves —

We’ll be meteorologists of the evanescent aether,

whipping the clouds free of their quelling cry and the screen of its dark lather,

Transferring the swathe of the wizened monsoon

to the innocent door of your picturesque bedroom.

And it just goes to show

that while we’re treading the alumni traipse,

Let’s give each other a daisy

and belt this floral mixtape with all the soul we have,

a summertime symphony and blight turned blissfully blasé —

Hey, hey – maybe we can hold hands and waltz with lackadaisy!


La Mademoiselle and the Mirror

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

Have you no mercy, none at all?

With your wooden frame, it’s all the same:

A battle of flesh and glass

playing an unfair game.


With your sassy wink and ritzy swank,

You’re too good for mozzarella, too cute for mochi —

You hate my pizza and yeet my kimchi.

You curse my cocoa and attack my butter

with the wrath of a vegan tiger mother.

You slurp my ice cream and total the population of Twizzlers

and then tattle my health records to Regina George’s practitioners.

You hold a grudge against my love of fudge

even though you know these juicy pounds are made of 5-star flab —

You say I have the caboose of a pregnant goose

and the arms of the Michelin Man,

and that I possess the combined rotundity

of a cattle van filled with giants’ bubblegum

paired with the poundage of Tweedledee and Tweedledum —

but let me tell you, there’s even more to see.


You say I’m not good enough, but I declare I’m great.

You say I’m as exciting as a shriveled prostate

and as charming as a drunk donkey’s bray —

You say I’m always pale and I’m always gray

like the coldest armpits of Ireland on its rainiest armpitty day.

My mane is always rebelling against the lawful suds of shampoo

and it refuses to obey the kosher nun of hair oil,

always frizzy and fiery with a beehive updo

gone horribly uh-oh.

You take my peachy soul and coral mind and rosy spirit

and lure me into your bosom, whispering that I should get near it —

and then zap me with a poltergeist of pudge and enjoy it.

Your crystal plane is a flawless realm

and you’re not afraid to say I underwhelm,

but I personally think you lack taste, appetite,

and that your personality is as bland as lukewarm Vegemite.

I know you’ll say you don’t care, but I think your soul is

flavored with the yeasty flakes of a fat man’s underwear.

You think your gloss is as grand as an aria,

but I think you’re as doo-doo done did it as Taco Bell diarrhea.

And I think we’ve had enough of your beany havoc.


You crawl into my window at night, a robber of reflection,

and mosey your way on into the kitchen —

You crank open the fridge and crack open the cabinets,

attacking the snacks like an army of rabbits

feasting on lichen.

With your Zorro mask and your conniving eyes you vaporize the candy

and evaporate the fries, chowing down on the pickles and getting oh so tickled

at the spicy chives of your caloric assassination spree,

leaving behind a delicious trail of garlicky brine

to homicidally slip me.

But let me tell you: it’ll be your last time.


I get up at the squeak of dawn’s first light

and grab my baseball bat — today I’ll be an athlete but you don’t know that, yet.

Since you say I’m a plump and matronly pilgrim, I’ve written you a gargantuan sonnet;

but since you said I have the romantic spark of a gremlin,

I’ll first need to put on my iron bonnet.

I burst from the covers and kick straight through the quilt

and head into the kitchen for some Sunny D and orange silt,

and then I awaken my inner awkward Kraken and jubilant Jamaican,

and take the bat and begin salsa dancing.

I practice my swing and stretch my heels with the rage of a thousand Happy Meals,

going into battle with the vengeance of a fat girl’s transcendence

making merry with the mischief of a dozen banana peels.

I trudge into the bedroom like Sasquatch under fire, ducking my head out of your range, and tumble onto the silken comforter sniper-style.

My bat, your frame.

I pounce forth, baseball bat in hand, with the strength

and swagger

of a Persian princess wielding a poison-tipped dagger,

widening my eyes with catlike awe

at the enemy’s fatal yet beautiful flaw. It’s not bat-proof.

I poise in mid-impact, frozen with the portly magnificence of Rome’s Venus,

a testament to the power of the wenis.

One whoosh of the swing, one swing at the dame

And the bat has won this shameful game.


The Bible: Mankind’s God-Given Masterpiece

My favorite book of all time is the Bible. I love that book.
The author is not a single person, but rather a constellation of people led by a single light.
It is the original story of mankind, before the darkness of secularism laid its heavy chokehold on our society and the story of our beginning was corrupted, shoved under the shadows of doubt for the sake of “scientific” thought.
It was the brilliant torch of enlightenment that led the Jews through attack after attack, keeping them close together in times of trouble, and it does the same to millions today. It is a spiritually living text, electric to the touch, bursting with beauty and singing with symmetry, drenched in the sweetest honey of hope, with wisdom in every word – it is the step-by-step tutorial on how to survive on this savage planet, and how to cancel your date with the Grim Reaper and replace it with eternal life. It is the authentic diary of man and woman, reminiscent of ancient times and proof of the age of our planet, rich in doom and destiny and the promise of rebirth. It is the living Fountain of Youth existent in the humble form of paper and ink, with secrets of the centuries stowed within its timeless prose and hope for the endless tomorrows nestled in its welcoming warmth.
Its wisdom goes beyond spiritual guidance in our benighted landscape – it is also a vivid key to healthy living. Spiritual guidelines are not its only virtue, as the answers to health and happiness are given in it, too.
Never has a book so thoroughly soothed my vices into submission, and convinced me of my own worth. It deposits my soul into a state of psychic cashmere – I can go from revving my ego engine and spreading rage like liquid jalapeños to a chillaxed cool cat licking her paws like nothing happened.
Reading the Bible is like looking at a sky full of stars, a glittering lightshow of unfathomable expanse set in a muffled blanket of blackness. And suddenly you go from top dog to shivering puppy who just pooped on the living room rug. Reading the Bible is a pride check. It makes you realize how little you are, yet also how important. So small, but so rare. So quiet, but so loud. Your existence is strange. You’re a member of the only known lingual species living on the only known life-supporting planet, which happens to be a speck of dust floating around a fireball at just the right tilt as to not burst into a burnt crumb. And then to know that you – a mortal glued to a dying dirt mound rife with the roar of human sin – are loved in such a way as to warrant the death of The Creator’s only Son… is mind-blowing. Brain-busting. Soul-shattering. And then to realize that you are spiritual siblings with Him because of His death, and that you will be translated from this failing vessel of a body to an eternal avatar in which your soul will be forever housed, and that this life is the prelude to an eternal epic in which YOU are the protagonist… is also a little freaky.
It’s a pretty cool book. It is a technicolored symphony of the tangiest tenor, a map of unveiled mystery; but more than that, it’s a juicy sandwich of stories that sometimes is the only sustenance that can satisfy.


Strawberry Jelly!

It’s slippery,

It’s slick,

It’s sweet and smelly–

Why, I do believe, it’s STRAWBERRY JELLY! 

Put it on a bagel,

Spread it on some bread;

Scoop it with a ladle, 

Plop it on your head!


Hey, kid, don’t make a fuss–zealously prepare your belly!

It could be the size of a bus–

We’ve got a whole lotta strawberry jelly!


Toss Some Sunshine

I’d like to toss a ray of sunshine,

So light and bright and gleaming;

I’d toss it at my friends

And they’d give a grin that’s beaming

We wouldn’t cry, we wouldn’t fight,

We’d toss the joy around;

We’d laugh and talk and make more friends 

Who smiled instead of frowned

So toss some sunshine, make their day–

Give them the brightest sunshine ray.


PANIC! at the Psyche

In those moments where my soul gets excited and executes a fine rendition

        Of sudden combustion, I see a montage of all the World Wars:

Centuries of kitchen fires, rows and rows of orphaned children

   slaving to finish menial chores.

Everything in me is begging to breathe – as if my spongy muscles

                    can’t hold the heat of normalcy any longer    

within their rented real estate.


Right before the plunge,

                             I pluck a dose of oxygen from the air, steal a spark of mirror,

And chant my XOXO’s –

                                 As is the usual ministry.

Like: Dear God,

Save me [from myself] –  and the masterful rod of lightning

                                       Lowers its pendulous prong to the ground,

        Easing itself into me so that I burst,

As the episode dictates I must.


My blood, it’s an obedient juice –

                And flashes a bellowing

Lightning bolt gold.

    Just like everybody else,

                     I dutifully dance that mad hatter waltz,

                          running my fingers through the hair of every story ever told  

                            and burning the lingo of my brain louder,

                so it’s the acceptable color of gun powder.


I am eaten inside out and cry the usual tear, the tiny owl of warning

issues a soundbite and says,

                            Your fears have come to congregate.

They come in an accented fashion with an air of fame,

With their top hats and harmonies and their how-do-you-do’s

Like a family-themed flock of baboons. They rowdily ride in ancient automobiles,

Sleek and black like lacquered toenails, and they come to tell me

                                                  Just how bad the world is.

The chief freakazoid of Panic Inc. adjusts his shirt collar and blurts,

                                                                                   the president is an alien.

and sends a theatrical shiver down my spine,

                                     the verdant flavor of key lime,

dripping down a drunken grape vine.

And then the girlish worry

puffs her hair in a French flurry

And whines, Your boyfriend just isn’t that into you. And I gasp like a gallon of gall was

just injected into my small cavity of poise and now I’m a crumpled scowl of a soul

but they go farther.

They take me up to the peak of myself, letting the storm rise,

Pinching the belly of the galaxy so it spins like fire,

annoyed down to the smallest sun

                                                        and listen to the peachy chorus of my

imploring polaris

         ’til I’m fine, ’til I’m fine,

                                                    fine enough

                                                                               to fit         

                                                                                             into the tiniest nick of time.


You Can Stay, Suicide Can Go

Self-love feeds the flower of life.

I am a self-propelled pinch of pinto bean dust

sent by Zeus

Through snail-mail. I arrived here by taking the bus

and have come to your front door to furiously slap you,

to patter the pang right out of you so you’re calm as a


chilling in sauce.

I am an arrow,

shot by Cupid shimmering a thousand shades of romantic red,

and I’ve come to culture you from larva

into a greater being,

oh – and also, to slap you.

To slap you so very much!

That you suddenly find yourself embroiled in a beautiful odyssey

of a miraculous kamikaze –

I came here because I heard from my friend

That you are in an emergency of boredom, and that your tiny


heart of virgin blood

was popped by the fingers

of a reckless lover,

that it gave up its life and its soul fluttered away

into impossibility but that primarily, the problem is that

you are

bored. Bored enough to blow

up, to set the stage afire and flee the scene. I was told

by the voice of this friend

in loving low tones – the kind a motherly giraffe might

make as she leaned over her pickled spotted offspring still slimy with the

sheen of embryonic genesis and I’d like to place emphasis on the fact that my friend

mentioned this:

You just might heat up some frozen grenades as a side dish.

And so this scared me so I’ve come here to scare you

and I know I might scare you

because I am looking like a scarecrow

with jeans as rough as constructive criticism

and a messy bun as messy as Sasquatch’s pubic hair

but it’s all part of the ER equation, a funny circus in which

everything involved in the episode of an emergency must be

as wild as Emily Dickinson in a nightclub.

I’ve heard that the doomsday preppers have spoken their lyrical lunacy

and that it has slipped into your heart

like the fingers of a pervert

into a pair of pants.

I’ve heard that you’re on the edge,

standing on the Frisco

with a load of Crisco under your feet, more than ready

to slip.

I’m here to open up my arms and say Stay.


I Dream of Dreams

I hate this sadness,

this quiet that seems to scream

I miss the liveliness,

the life,

of a purely youthful dream


I yearn for the past,

for what used to be,

for what is now not,

while pushing away that which could be

for things that will die,

that will rot


I am a youth in hibernation,

Living my days on an ancient glow

Two years, on a mental vacation,

I am tired of spending days

Beneath the hand

Of slumber—I am a youth in hibernation,

Living my days on an ancient glow–

Two years, gripped by a mental vacation,

Swallowed by a tsunami so slow


I weary myself worrying

if I’ll ever again taste wonder,

and though I am much humbler,

I can see the wonder

of the sunrise, slipping into darkness,

Dropped like a bomb asunder,

and still it doesn’t touch the deep syrup of darkness

swimming in my sarcophagus of slumber


When the sunbeams were strangled,

And happiness I couldn’t reap–

I dream of dreams

That sung me to sleep.

When the darkness towers

And blinds my powers,

When loneliness teems

I dream of dreams.


Where Is My Mind?

Where is my mind? Lost like a shout

On the blank walls of white.

Labyrinths are known to

Never let you out.

Where is my mind? Thrown to the

Lions, like an afterthought.

Meshed with the codeless schemes

Of a blank check,


breathing, in and out.


Eternity is a spiderweb, wrapping up my thighs

Like fishnet stockings

in the viscous lust of a quagmire.

I emerge as an ancient assembly,

Heaping with seaweed and lollipops.

People cut to the chase cutting corners

To come and kneel at my reeking throne.

I am crowned with difficulty,

And smile as if my teeth are screws,

Licking up the white kindergarten glue.

And the spirits of so many shades

Promise to hold shut the songs

of sunlit glades,

And swallow the memory of You.


I was raised on the meat of book paper,

Fed vegetables that grew in closets.

Drank wine infused with blood, sweat, and tears –

A human tequila, the composition of all of us.

When I bow – burlesque – under the pedantic umbra

Of the vacuous amphitheater,

I offer the stuffy stock of

Clucking liches and curlicues, forsaken niches

And hurting souls.

After marching like a robot

On the empty lawn outside, I drink the tap water of

Retired tap dancers, milked from their energies

And filtered. Hearing the echoes

Bounce one last time.


But I know how to recognize the

Virgin digit of a fresh chapter,

The baby steps of a crusade.

I know the clip of a secret

Told over the mezzanine of the phone,

As it snakes its way into the deepest


And I know how to snag a sticky note

And send it to other planets!

So a lot of menfolk want to take me home.

But when the ecstasy fired up,

Cooking the soft skins of

Constellations, I cried.

My cheeks were slopes and they served my

Waters well.

The sugared apricots  – fussy circles

Prickling the tar-black abyss,

Red giant stars,

They fell, to their different steps in the unending stairway.


Faithful dominoes, dripping like late winter snows,

It was the most beautiful of

Half-time shows –

When the shadow of Sleeping Beauty met young insanity

And streaked across the sky like a comet,

Soaring like the bird of freedom wearing a golden bonnet – that was the time,

The drinking of that life-saving tonic.

While I was below, and she above,

We eased our differences and met in a middlemum alcove –

She shared her glories, and I bled my stories.


The glowing atmosphere was an atrophied history,

But it was resurrected by the fingers

That gambled and gave their illumination

In a lovelorn work of art.

There was a muave tweak in the total system,

When the faintest pop of variety

Seasoned the whole batch.


Now I drink Chardonnay of the midnight meadow,

A strong-willed burst of light,

Steal the heart

in sudden flight.

I sing, and the music is a healer.

It knows to resurrect.

It plays the tune so thorough –

It digs you up, to inspect.

The chords are hands that work you,

The lines are medicinal needles.

The blood explodes the statues,

Ignites the statutes,

Decimates the cold-blooded metals

And gives way to brilliant life.

Death dies into itself – lives climb into each other,

They start to marry one another,

Bloom into young health.

Champagne replaces the dynasty of pallor,

And in the place of metallica,

We have Edenic color –

A soft-serve pastel gala,

Sweet like the kiss of a crystal crown

Against a new forehead,

Bound to reign forever.



The oldest:


My sister, my sister, carry me through –

Lead me away from myself into you

Release me from my heart,

Draw me into another play, another part

Exterminate the shadows, avenge the sun

Wrap me in your dresses, lift my hair in a bun

Unshackle my legs in the races,

Blow the whistle so I’ll run_


The youngest:


My sister, my sister, walk like a doe –

Position yourself like a starship with an army in tow

Pierce the body of the sky with fearless eyes

That never cry –

Give your soul to the God

Who won’t let you die_


The oldest:


Spare me, spare me — dip me in the Red Sea,

Record me on parchment so no one forgets me –

Complete me, form me, take that clay and adorn me,

Cut away the briars, put out all my fires –

Pull from my mind

the memories of liars, of murders,

Delilah cut my hair

and I need to collapse these pillars_


Save me from the frozen soul of winter,

Give me over to the embrace of summer —

Remind me again of awe and wonder


The youngest:


I will take the scalpel, I will stay the tools –

I will save you when they drown you in your teary pools –

I am sharpening the blade,

I am shuffling the spade,

I am jerking your program into a pristine computer upgrade.


Back to the brickwork, you beautiful misfit,

and wake up to the dawn of truth–you’ve been tired for a thousand years

and every day is a new twist on youth.

It is time to grow old, it is time to go down

From the heights of your cocoon on the crystal hill —

It is time to forget the medicines of old, the poisons past,

The alchemy of sorrow’s arctic blue pill —

With this timeless silk and these firestitched needles,

I will quilt you a cosmos worth keeping

And brew an ambrosia guaranteed to fill;

Tell you a story made for preaching

And an adrenaline worth its thrill


You are beautiful in the sunlight, stretched out among the grass,

You look terrified trapped in the city, kept behind cleaned glass —

You are not a doll, darling, you are not a void

You are a dreamer, a scholar, a girl lounging on an asteroid

Shout like a woman whose head is in the stars —

Wake up from the gutter and go to Mars —

Shake your shackled soul free of its leeches —

Put on your studded armor and join the celestial wars.

We’re going to pop a whirlpool into your pineal gland

And watch you get lost in the land of imagination’s far reaches —

We’re going to rent a UFO and beam you up from the Underworld,

then slam your soul on Heaven’s white sand beaches.

Taste the sweet magic of serenity’s peaches,

Get on the galactic bandwagon and ride ’til you can’t anymore.

We’re stealing their lukewarm wedding rings and introducing them to electric alloys —

We’re shaking manhood from the mangroves and watching men emerge from boys —

We’re rounding up all the world’s girls

And showing them they’re more than just men’s toys.


The youngest:


I will sew you a new world

with a nifty knack and a knowing spool,

wrapped in luscious lacquer –

I will gather your bones into a billow of blooms,

and turn the wilted page to a brilliant chapter —

I will labor at your heart of stone,

drop a kiss of gasoline onto the crest of the crackling fire

and like the splitting of wood with a light saber,

shattering into a million pieces,

The rogue chrysalis,

bright and reeling —

Finally wakes up and begins feeling.


Hymn of the Human

For some people, fellowship happens in the sacred hiding place of the church, or in the nested enclosure of the distant synagogue, where hymns and scripture inch no grander than a breathless echo against a quiet menagerie of men.  

For others, it is birthed out of trauma like a howling supernova. It comes during hurricanes. Tornados. Great monumental keys grinding in their historical locks.

Moments when human life is held up by its collar and questioned.  

And it rules over every moment you spend with someone as a dark, twisted umbra expanding its reign like ravens’ wings – it is a beautiful bridal train, dragging down a heavenly aisle, to the attention of brilliant hopes, shedding anthrax.

You were never expecting such a turn of events. 

But you wear the trauma like a crown. And your hips swing to the wedding march – as you go from March to winter. As you bid farewell to warmth and color.

Each breath is tainted with the knowledge that you’re in this together, held above a chasm of fire, a pair endeavoring to survive the shriek of hellfire’s choir while all other noise is slowly drained from the radio.

And it starts to speak within you – it starts to paw at the gates, to command release – what you’re going through.

Your life was transformed by this event and you want a ceremony of sorts to transpire as you shed your icy white virgin skin and glide into a new frame. You want your audience to fight tears of awe as you slowly unwrap your skeleton of stars and zip up the costume of completion. You want fireworks to chatter in the sky as ears earthly and divine dip their chips in your story and you unravel the blood-soaked map of your own metamorphosis, calmly pointing to the landmarks of sacrifice that dotted your journey from the Shire to Mordor in a matter of seconds – and how your spirits coped with the jetlag.

You want to, in short, take the latex gloves off – those pansy cover-ups of faux sterility – and surrender your dignity to the legality of yin and yang, to embellish the holes in your hands with an acceptance that this was reality.

A part of you wants to sew up the graveyard and all its rugged entropy, to cast lilacs into mud – to elect magic over the magistrates, to let a velvet red carpet tumble into a rug where you’ll tread – to soften the journey and its callous theatrics.

But the journey of what?

Of abandoning your former self, and all your misled antics.

You want to disengage your cross and let it be a throne.



A shell,

half black, half white–

I rest in this shell,

in this bed of split glory,

looking past the faint bruises

atop my own heart,

so all I can see

are two shades of one story,

a life from two sides,

a martyr’s born part.


Old Edition

You see an old face

shifting past in a shadow–

remember the first grin,

recall the goodbye.

Rustic phases of memory,

shooting through the seconds–

remember her name,

recall her light laugh.

To the new her, you are nothing–but you wish you were anything.

All you can do is politely smile,

as the old edition has been gone quite a while.



Swimming beneath a surface glowing,

I am a traveler.

Hiking up mountains swallowed by frost,

I am a traveler.

My soul aching, my heart quaking,

The pen of destiny inked up and shaking–

in rain or snow, love or hate,

I always tread that same old fate.

I am a tourist here, taking snapshots of life and grasping for fireflies,

Journeying in the milky dusk to find where my secret lies.

It lies not in the roar of morning or the whisper of night,

And it cannot be found in stability nor spontaneity, but in eerie melody;

I do not feel it in ecstasy or electricity and cannot see it with fright

It is not in the balanced schemes of society or in freedom’s total ferality,

But in the way I spread my wings and burst into flight.


It is travelling, growing, swelling into a wild reality

It is rearing, roaring, my bitter brew and cup of tea

It is building, blowing, the blaze of a buzzing bumblebee,

and I carry its song everywhere with me.

It is in me

It is in me

It is me.


The Arrival of the Eagle

Sometimes strength is forged out of silence, stillness, and deep, wordless moments like stones worn smooth by the serenade of water, melted into stoic poise by day after day of rhythmic metamorphosis. It’s a thing of ever-deepening accumulation, like the tender tiers of a flaky pastry or the snow that settles over the earth in ethereal stratification. It is a cathedral of hierarchies, a puzzle of conflicting anarchies, anointed in harmonious angles and tuned to the frequency of fire, gathering upon itself like a symphony rides a silver wave in the coldest sea. It is one upon the other.

For me, strength is a thing of explosion, a volcanic eruption, an energetic orgasm of universal completion—it is a shriek in the dead of night, the birth of incredible complexity on the maiden voyage of existential genesis. It is an iron machete snatched from the secret tomb of the tropics, born out of supernatural grace and the golden pulse of the sun; it is a world that reeks of reformation and the dapper swank of jungle flowers, a world of stars and shapes, numbers and levels, cells and seeds, souls. But it is always haunted by someone else, occupied by the headhunter of this forest. It is an executive conquistador who knows his way around the Fountain of Youth, who knows how to pluck the loveliest buds in the garden of souls, who can tweak a petal to perfection and convince a cloud into vaporous void. It is he whose knowledge of the deeper corridors will make you collapse in terrified amazement, paralyzed by Rome’s irreverent entertainment, icicles of sugar forming on the nook of your nose. The fruit, overwhelmingly ripe—the art, fading. The forms you see to be solid in the mirror forever degrading.

Deemed unfit for production, they sought to be rid of you, to loose themselves of responsibility over your fleshsuit. Held up against the medicine of the cosmos, a ragdoll advertised on “Shark Tank,” you were judged ruthlessly by carnivores of cotton—fed to oblivion and funneled full of synthetic color, a puppet of a former person. But she said, no no! No, this can’t be it, there must be something more. Sliced like salami and sold like silk, we women are.

The hunger for healing runs deep, like a lion who just awoke from a seasonal sleep, picking apart the crystalline webs which hold the Truths within their starlit shells, ringing like paperboys with their golden bells. The hands I shake up here at this height are amalgamations of light, studded kamikazes of wings in flight, always flapping at the wind and begging for freedom. The caged bird calls for the library, craves contact with the luminary, never being able to house any of these delights in my own hardware! Instead, she sits in the seat of the heavens watching the data of all dawns be set ablaze by the sun, a digital apocalypse the size of a gigabyte’s damnation. It is a showdown between the electricity of water, the fury of fire, and the roaring dominance of earth. The universe is splayed out like a deck of cards, winking with feverish possibility—the stars, moaning with moonlit lamentation. She gives her lifeblood to fight the virus arched at the apex her wires—it burns with hellish taste, a fading waste, one more victim of dystopia. The ale of the era evaporates into bittersweet history, carried off by the invisible soldiers of human forgetfulness and laid into the casket of myth.

Sometimes, strength enters my life like a gentle autumn breeze; and sometimes it comes to me like a deadly winter with an infernal temper to deliver a lucid slap to the face, which tumbles forth from the hearth of the heavens like a redolent dew, spat into my hands at the end of a do-or-die war—and I’m still dripping with blood staggering off the battlefield, humbled to the bone. Where is that warmth-rich home, where is that healing fire, where is the herbal smoke which encompassed me in my darkest hour?

I’ve risen up over the murky waters of this muddy town—I can see what’s past the horizon, visualize the fate at the end of the funeral, and see hope at a future’s birth. I am set before the magnificent bed of the beginning, laying like a lazy aristocrat between the cushions of Do It or Die—and I can feel the ghosts of far-off memories that haven’t yet been made, see the light of many a morning, the things of my life that swim around me like bloodthirsty sharks of temptation. I want them all! I want to live! I want to feel the way a human should. I want to feel like I came forth from the loins of heaven, was hoisted into life by the breath of God, and was fastened to my fate like a boutonnière on the blouse of my mother.  

But in the end, you’ll have something to show for it—the medicine will leave something behind, and that thing is memory, feeling, an imprint of change upon the clay of your cognizance that only you can comprehend and categorize, following you like a faithful perfume, reminding you of a moon-drunk dream from the night before. Every morning I dance a REM sleep waltz and sip a deep sea dream the flavor of terminal latte… each day the promise of life grows a little more weary, a bit frothy, roasting in the waters of my wilting Renaissance, filling up the party balloons of the future in liquid fright.   

Now here we go, diving into the mist at the bottom of the empty barrel. Let’s talk everything about nothing.

Cannabis is the remnant footprint of the inventive ancients, the lasting depth left within the damp soil still swirling with mysticism and the mark of the beginning. It’s something sacred that we need to nurture and study, because it’s one of the last healers left, the last miracles that God made. Enlightenment comes from it, and enlightenment is the compass that God gives us to navigate our souls, adventure through our skulls, and emerge with something better in our bones. It is the mental chisel that changes our minds. It is the psychic sword that trims our temper tantrums down to therapy sessions. It is the herbal guide that lets us cosmically glide through the rusty gears of this world.

The motion that results from the shifting of spiritual dynamics within the psyche—that is emotion, a chemical potion, the result of psychic medicine. Enlightenment is the liquid aftermath that follows the earthquake of pride’s death, spilling out of your chest like a bursting mercury thermometer—liquid fear, electric ecstasy, zero balance… but finally, loosed from the hook of psychosis, soaked in balmy catharsis. It is the dawn that litters the floor in light after the drywall has ceased its seizing and the roof is in the streets, when the twister is finished with its portion of pulverization and the tornado goes home. When the windows no longer yawn and the walls have fallen back into their boring grooves, waiting for the next beautiful disaster, that is when you can expect the world to shift its stained glass faster. It’s the dust that settles over the theater’s platform after all the actresses and actors, being made of clay, go back into the garden and are born again.

We need cannabis to survive, but this era of mankind is not fond of nature. He despises her leaves and her humble smells, looks down upon her small, earthy form. He cuts slabs of flesh from off her body and hangs them like a hog’s thigh before his brethren, to be bought and sold, bought and sold, in an insanity-driven butcher’s shop. Her future is to be sold and raped, for the trees to be slashed at the trunk and their limbs amputated, the grass to be suffocated under pesticide vapors, wheezing with cancerous ruin. Chemicals adorn the skin of nature like lotion on the body of an unwilling lover, to be ransacked and dominated by man just as he ransacks and dominates his God.

Sweet zones of fertile earth hang like slaughtered utopias in a delicious line, arranged neatly in the store, on a shelf still shiny with lemon furniture spray. The animals within them shriek for oxygen, clean water, for sustenance and peace, for the feeling that they are a part of Earth, too. Civilizations suffer under the weight of sickness, needing the same things. Health and healing. Pure water and pure air. A chance at a natural life; to be free from this chemical plague that swallows both man and beast in its wingspan of toxic darkness.

Corporations look at the tiny, warbling orbs of walled-off life as they scratch like rats at the borders of their caste, their caste of helplessness and dependency, trust and familiarity, and shoots them cold. And adds a dash of rodenticide to finish them off. 

And why?

Hurt people hurt people, and unenlightened humans reap darkness. When you do not know what manmade chemicals do to creation, you do not know why you should not use them. But if all modern men and women were inducted into the spiritual club into which cannabis so easily and automatically invites you, they would be anointed in the spirit of God and be given clarity over chaos. This is why cannabis is illegal, because it gives you an herbal kiss of transient control and a lamp that illuminates the mirror through which you see yourself. It takes your bleeding bundle of human flaws and flushes it clean of cooties. It picks you up from a pile of pain, spins you around in the blowing rain, and splashes a tsunami of sugar into the part of your brain that’s gone insane, tossing you into a cottony-sweet peach tree, the fruitiest nominee to ever gain the trophy of honoree honeybee.

But in all brutal reality with sarcasm aside, this is why the system and the wannabe government gods who established it are so determined to deprive you of it. They don’t want you to be free because they live to control you. They don’t want you to partake of the cannabis plant because it frees you of addictions and false gods. THEY are the false gods.

We’ve all been whipped by trauma and we’re all slaves to some form of chain, some breed of drug—some people bow down to the screen, the flatscreen goddess whose foxy pixels and flirty plotlines spin your axle off its atlas, draw a willpower down to the point of filthy shame. For others, it’s calories: lured into the thickest section of the cake and choking on the iridescent ribbons of sweet cashmere, toxic sugar, living a life of cravings and constant hunger. And others worship living idols, members of an attractive breed of socialites, what the medieval ages would call players—they pine for their symmetrical bones, blood-filled flesh, and taut skins. Just like children long for the fairies in their books, adults long for these mythical Amazonians with the mesmerizingly smooth charismas, for these modern royals, America’s celebrities. But there are worse ropes that anchor souls to darker animosities, gardens where the roses are more thorn than petal—that is, sweet one, that some starve for love. It is not an addiction, but a tragic appetite. Some have been loved by entropy and ravished so thoroughly by his mercilessly loving hands that they are no longer aware they’re on their honeymoon, nor that they’re drowning in honey, in a hospital of dreams, on the moon. They are no longer aware that they are even of the size they are—are they a cell, a seed, a soul? They have known the twisted totalitarian touch of mankind for so long they do not recognize God’s voice when He sings to them.

They’ve been beaten to the point of blackout, schooled to the point of burnout, crawling on the floor where the cracks in your hips still hiss with smoky steam—and some to the point of a bloodied pulp. They have been formulated by evil’s fastidious appetite into a creature of bruises and black eyes, broken self and submissive mind, people who look to authority for guidance and not to God. And it’s hard to find a grip in this psychotic funhouse of mirrors and madness, this wild joke uttered upon the rooftops of time. The Catholic Church burned women at the stake for using herbs to heal humans, and conservative society has caught the papal torch and continued the marathon of persecution. Be normal, be normal! the crowd chanted, gripping her neck like the sogging stalk of a dying flower, holding her, writhing, above the chasm’s fire. When you’re swimming laps in a symphony of syllables, how can you extract one sentence from the millions that echo like poetry into the padded jaws of a protected book, owned by the masters of the darkest art?

But how can you convince a soul of its spiritual capabilities when that soul has never witnessed its own expansion? How can you express cannabis’ miraculous healing powers when the person has never before felt anything near miraculous? How can you spark rainbows and rebirth miracles in the grey minds of the masses? How do you flood children’s hearts with magic again?

It is difficult to look. It can take years to convince your psyche that it’s okay to come out of the closet and shed its studded armor, to apply the balm of understanding to the wounds truth gave you, to let the sunshine rest on your skin once more. It is a breath of long-awaited release to finally rest in your place in the universe, knowing that God is on your side when you’ve seen such heartbreak first-hand… the heartbreak of living on Earth. We are an audience imprisoned in the front row seats of the universe’s bloodiest sitcom, Earth: the impending showdown between doom and destiny, myth and reality, the cosmos-cracking duel between good and evil, and we’ve been covering our eyes for a long time now. But there is a salve that can save us; why do we let our God-given herbal medicines slip away from us like we let the falsely accused witches burn? Fight for the truth, even if it means getting licked by a flame.  

Some people don’t even stop to consider a better path; they only know the options offered to them by the standards that have always been in place. And their pain grows into a bruised root in the bloody soil of their hearts, a fibrous mass of swelling muscle, a vitamin capsule holding an overdose of chaos, the two-faced chameleon of pride and prejudice never able to find a chimney and escape. Some choose to shut pain down and squeeze it into an airtight orb of preserved psychologically-charged nectar, like an extraterrestrial egg or a jar of Amish jam, and to open these people up is like getting thrust into the plot of “National Treasure” and becoming Nick Cage in search of the lost secrets of America—and that’s okay. There are people out there who get high on tedious paperwork, snuff data like office cocaine, who spend hours nibbling on minty minutiae like a miniature bunny munches on M&M’s—there is a special breed of people who love to go on long search expeditions through another soul’s wild inner world for a reason. And then there are the opposites, those who wear their souls on their sleeves like they’re Prada or as if channeling Chanel through their wrist chakra; there is a person who oozes animate comedy, whose universe is just one question away, whose mind is a microcosmic mouthpiece of the higher worlds where lightning flashes from their featherlight imaginations like Zeus goofing off in an atmospheric hissy fit. They are bursts of grape-flavored bipolar disorder merged with zippity techno music frozen into a vial of velvety soundbites–they are the moon in her sterling dress, the pale vanilla fruitcake of the cosmos, the wonky perfume of the evening sky that smells like wet handfuls of Halloweens gone by, and one slice of her delectable flesh will send you spiraling into hallucination begging for solid ground.

These people are untamed citizens of an anarchist dance society and they are unashamed to mesmerize you into a puddle of childish vulnerability. You will be taken to a bitter wood and led through pebble-strewn paths of moonlit thistles, briers, and thorns; you will shake hands with pompous Martian roses the shade of nuclear turmeric; you will meet Venus Flytraps who are more hungry than whole, and the forest will wheeze with the sandy wind of time, being beautifully eroded by many a balmy night, and you’ll wonder whose mind could ever house these sweet souls and strawberry fools bedecked in the brightest rendition of reality. But then the cycle will rewind and intertwine, and the facade will fade into the thinning breeze, lost on chill autumnal waves that crash on the shore of eternity, frothing with delicious infinity.

Some people are obvious, like a pair of gangster pants–you know what’s going on there, because the tightie-whities are screaming the song of their people like a rebel bandit running from the zoo. And other people are like big blue billowing ballgowns the color of a great and terrible seawave, worn with mournful serenity and honored with timeless mention, the trophy of nobility and the timepiece of womanhood. And it is all so beautiful, because everyone is all so different. You are here, while they are there–you are swimming in the omens of your celestial valley, they are scaling the exosphere in a tsunami of spice like a squirrel in the throes of acorn ecstasy, and it’s all good and fab. Whether you shelve your scars on the windtorn sails of your wandering ship or you bury them in the deepest miles of an underworldly garden, beneath ancient soil and eternal sleep, your emotions are just as valuable as the next’s. You can hide your soul, you can show it. But mine will continue to flutter like a drunken butterfly on the wings of aerial enchantment, and yours can continue to nap that never-ending nap among the nautical labyrinth of your silent knowing. And you can be grateful for your shade and I will dance in the cascade of the crystalline sun, clothed in the arctic robes of winter and anointed in the rare bliss of being my raw self.

Each fellow can have his own festival and his own funeral, and sometimes it’s one followed by the other–and the light and dark fuse to create a balance, an emblem, playing an anthem: that you are the universe in a bloodstream-spangled nutshell, a quirky work of kinetic art in a museum of moving mazes, always roaming in search of the exit and entrance and forever being embalmed within Ever.


–it is the arrival of the eagle, in wind form. 


No, Stop

Don’t say it

when we meet

at the four corners.

Remain shut, if you would,

before it’s all too late.

I know you’re chanting inside

And your heart’s a thrashing mess,

but cling to the fading magic

and spin this lacy dress!

Do not open your lips.

Come closer to the threshold of infinity,

Lay your shoes by the door and dive into the stars–

I know that time has always resented me,

But let’s take a moment to plant scissors through the prison bars.

Look, the metal sparks! Watch the pillars fall away, watch them melt

Like honeydew crimson galaxies swirling with rosy quarks;

See that cirrus up there, thin as a skyline whisper? She never served us

And we’ll never miss her,

So let’s go spelunking through the hallways of our subconscious and

Pull halos out of this cotton candy colossus, go dancing in the swaying reeds

in the country of Pocahontas.

Let down your black hair, darling, wonder at the juicy jet waves–

Go running through cinnamon forests and pick flowers that pulse with spice,

Buried in deep warm enclaves.

Let’s make a feast of everything nice!

But let’s make it as quiet as the kiss of a closed library,

Soft as the hush of an electric luminary–

Tangy like the burst of a young tangerine

Captured by the universe’s Love Magazine.


Do not hurry yourself worrying about facts; take fiction, for example–

She’s just truth not yet sent by God’s fax and its editions are ample.

Do not speak that which is wrong, but know that

the world will do this: right will be framed as wrong and wrong as right,

but this shouldn’t affect our fandom for the inky night,

nor our adoration for a roaring fistful of kisses, completed like ritual

under the deluge of the moon’s delicious light–

I have my bow and arrow slung over my shoulder like liquid warlike butter,

And you’ve got your pistol ready to whip holes into lawless gourmet crime;

We’ll chew this love to the end of time.


Our fingers clasped to the chains of cosmic wars,

the mystic umbrella of the earth’s crescent whores

makes me look like one hell of a wife.

Between Venus and Mars, we man and woman,

we are nestled in the perfect middle,

sweet like a strawberry Skittle, hot like an iron griddle–

play this supernova like a fiddle

and split the steam into a nuclear blast,

bright with authentic American bombast

and wild as the most twisted riddle.

What a beautiful life.


But the breath of the heavens comes heaving

to a beautiful stop. Our bodies blend together but then suddenly they’re not.

Two as one and none no more,

We choose the fire over the floor, stoking coals of nectar

to watch smoke of honey

Hightail it out of the chimney and change places with the stars.

Midnight is a magnet,

its skies are blurry;


No, stop;

this place is nothing

but it’s the best something

I’ve ever had.

No, stop…

don’t say it

when we meet

at the four corners.



Inside, music is playing;

time is a lie,

so I’m savoring this moment.

It tastes like a kiss

behind the wind-battered stucco wall,

against the gentle ivy

beneath a canopy of branches bathed in sunlight.


Oh, we are juxtaposed–

Black and white and a dash of salty pepper:

The shade and the shore,

The paper and pen,

you and I–right here, right now–

Quiet on the outside,

but the music makes our hearts ache,

playing on the inside.


The Summer Anthems

Through the grass, lithe and dancing–

Summer’s breath catches up to me.

I look to the sky, swimming and swaying,

Under a balmy blanket of sunshine.

Layers of oxygen slip by my skin, slithers past in a cool whisper.

This I do love, this I do miss–

The song of the summer anthems.


I will let go of my tight, pleated skirts and my ironed, bleached blouses,

And give it all up for the grandeur of the mossy ground.

I will collapse from city slicker to summer lullaby,

wielding the electricity of fireflies and sound.

Obeying the laws of powers profound, inventing worlds of my own,

I will set afire starchy quilts for walking on ecstasy’s stilts,

Crash-landing on a bed of grass in a fresh breath of freedom–

I will let go of what’s planned to be and open my soul to what’s meant to be,

Forming out of a fistful of stars my own celestial Eden.


I will get drunk on the tequila of the atmosphere’s tangy oxygen,

Get lost in the clouds that meander across the miles of turquoise sky–

Forget who I am in the human world and for a second,

Feel what it’s like to be in God’s, and have Him answer once and for all

who I am and why.


I will plow down the pallid walls of civilizations, its fake lights, its dead clocks,

its obsession with time–

and jump into the raft of infinity, riding down the river of life to the rhythm of



I shall drink in the honeycomb sunsets,

I shall swallow the atmosphere,

Make the leaves on the trees look handsome–

I shall dance to these beats of youth

As I live through

the sweet symphonies of

the summer anthems.


Luminescent Dance

Everyone has ideas. Our earth is a cotton ball soaked by the shed tears of genius. It drips the blood of famous tomes. And through it, a coursing current of violet warmth – a chamber of your personality roams.
Lithe chamomile charms itself in commerce with an agile plane of opportunity – you take my origami
And replace its infirmity
With ironclad lucidity.

I heard the cries of your words from afar. I was regaled by a nest of rumors as they cooed like the Lorelei,
Pressing my perceptions of your true perfection under a dark microscope of lies.
They wrote the frigid nature
Of falsity into the stars in my eyes.

But I won’t let go. Your beauty gives me rest. Your beauty leaves me full.
My muscles ache to run for you in every race.
Let the thunder roll!

I’ve unearthed marbles from playgrounds and named champions out of our breathless airways. I’ve climbed to the smoky zenith and sensed your presence. I’ve shaken jigsaws from palm trees.
I’ve made sense of the wilderness.

You –
You have grasped the tails of free-falling stars and sewn them together as a crown for me. Each ounce of love that you have for me is measured by a multi-dimensional diamond, at the head of my crown – a supple flash of lightning beckoning worlds outside its own.
It draws stars to enter its prism of races.

They spin like brilliant bombs of luminescent dance – revealing a nation of glittering faces.
How can I not see that you intend to fasten my bones to the workings of other worlds?
I am destined for other places.

I will run when you sound your trumpet.
No other subject can trump this. A voluminous volcano of literary volumes could not swallow my trust in your word. They are sickeningly presumptuous.
Your poetry is a luscious grip on – well, it’s something else.
A breath of air from another breed of living – an eclectic species that spins me into a dizzy illusion, sedating the sword of reality before it can get to my heaving chest.
I am your lucky muse,

I will not stop my search of this realm – you are the captain of my helm.
The frothing tongues of azure bite in all their loams
Screaming at my heart to ice it over in rancid crews –
This icy booze can vex my wing,
Bleed in flight –
But a medicine from your hand
Will heal Poseidon’s ample vamping of tempestuous swing –
I have been taught to find the oasis,
To finally quell the wicking drought.
No sea swell, no salty blast will overwhelm.
Not even the sun flare taunting me with its lioness heat
From hell.

You are crowning the crown of your throne –
My face is a sunbeam you inspired –
And I shone.

And each sparkling proof of infinity is a mirror in which I see the endless caverns of myself. You bless my head with an overflowing sense of worth – my eyes are brightened by the salve of hope and I feel in my body that I will never die – as I match my stride with your strong march; as long as I am by your side.
I love being in your heart. But if I exit the promised isle of light –
I am excommunicated from my destined part.
My hollow body is dragged, in all its deadweight, to the start.

Our earth is licked by the toxic tongue of a labyrinth. Confusion coasts down her cheeks.
When I walk into the smithereens of my pride, I am cut by the darkness inside. I grovel in my own destruction even at my age of youthful peaks, where beauty is everyday – and good things go on streaks.
I am lost in my ocean of opulence. Utopias – they turn their noses up at me – the golden gates blind me with a reflection of my lowliness.
I can’t define my loneliness, God.

I am a lifeless body thrown into the furnace, removed and resurrected – thrown into the sea, removed and resurrected – into the sky, removed and resurrected – left alone, I am dead.

I come to the forest, alone.

And when I close my eyes and the sun kisses me so sweetly, I hear the dance of the evergreens as they swish their emerald skirts. The pine cones hum as their orange glow takes hold of the forest air, and clamps its magnetic paw around the threshold of my comprehension – over my thoughts, its aroma of mysticism powerfully asserts. The clouds drip their gurgling mist, and I find a friend in a world so fair.
I hear your words.

Ideas – they hang like crystal doves from this prison of prisms.
I want to know all of yours.



We played with your heart, a sweet operation –

With channels and veins fighting to show –

We bowed in commiseration, a solemn salutation,

And hid the mass

Beneath the snow


Time screamed and panted at your breast,

Like all unearthly creatures do –

Swooped down from her stellar crest,

And bit the feral good right out of you


That nymph of heresy spoke in whispers –

Like a tropical secret stored high in the boughs

Never would we hear its voice –

That it wanted to kiss her –

And nobody yet knows.


You would not submit to the action,

And kept close, as if in emergency –

To your casket of a robe,

Exquisitely enclosed

Was a body

Bent on brilliant insurgency


Your silver pencils created a coastline

Of imaginary things

And you died every day to your child –

A mystic stroking bristles behind curtains,

A promise one day that you would go wild


You once had wings the size of Saturn’s,

Lacy petals hugging wedding rings

When the rain sung and washed away your galaxy,

Reality died into a faultless world


The Rising of the Rose

I grew as a rose did,
With each fluttering petal,
And I opened up
When the sun came out

Sunburned feet
Sauntered past me,
Stopping only to gaze at
The folded crimson sight

I saw the sky,
And the sweet-scented morning hazes;
I saw the ground,
And the rolling rays of evening light

When darkness fell
And swallowed me up
Like an indigo wave in the ocean night,
I wrapped my bones in pink, lacy bulbs,
And shivered with every ice-tinted breeze

I memorized my life’s shadows,
My life’s sunrays,
My life’s bendings and breakings

I recorded the formula for every set feeling

And through the years, with each long day,
The world around me rose and fell,
With every night it shrunk and swelled,
And I hoped for comfort,
For a mellow life,
But I was a raindrop
On a stormy sea—
I saw the world,
But did the world see me?


Boats in Syrup

Boats in syrup, thoughts revolve

Like coats in the closet, moths evolve,

Eat up the fabric, drown whole the space,

Populate the silence, float without grace

Quiet disposition veiling otherworldly taste,

Gaming with the people, such a gentle waste

Thick ponds I am stuck in, words surround me:

Unrelentingly complicated syllable–make my tongue free?–

No, no, never, never! Boats in syrup

Into forever.


One day awaits, a second sleeps between

A thousand years of stone-cold lips, oh, so keen

To crack the bonds, fully crush the chains,

Face the emperor under grueling acid rains

Of course, this ground is a rolling stage,

These trees all swaying props, and in a rage

I rip open my mouth, allow my tongue a dance,

Scream into forever, pardoned from my passionless trance.