Orbs And Funnels And….

Photo by freestocks on Unsplash

Speaking of cobwebs we were
just sitting upright
gulping venom
from her breast
choking on slivers of
her silk line
rocked by her black belly
slow burn

when she would spin, spin, spin

wrapping our full-bodies in shame
trapping us as prey
feeding off our guilt

until we bled out


Separating skin from a tree
is a faint task, like
twisting glass back to sand.

Long, narrow veins exposed to chaos,
leave their limbs. I climb inside
them for hydration.

I’m a fish, shallow in water,
borrowing lungs from
a human.

Don’t make it glacial,
blue is the true color.
It is royal.
It is blood.
I am oxygen and it feels good!

My husband left me sweltering
during the ripe moon. I grew
ripe, too; a full cherry
hunger in a bottle
of Gin.

Then this tree, he’s latched on
to me. I pour my fingernails
in. He knows his strength
matches me tightly.
We seize together on Earth’s early
tremor, and just as I start to peel,
layer by layer,

his exposed veins melt into
venom, he turns me,
my swift hourglass
resets, twisting sand
back into glass.


If it was fire, I would be burned across my liver.
If it was water, I would be floating belly-up one hundred miles down stream.
If it was a daydream, I would have plummeted from the heaven’s and crushed by heavy streets below.

I’ve always known the thick romance of being lost, deep in black brain jungles, where tigers eat tigers to build their own stripes.

My birth brought it. It was my placenta. We were strong together and now I am separated from eternity.

Sad Forest Of Dread

Sad forest of dread, your morning crowds me
with loud hatred
and the whole world crawls in my head.
They sit on my couch, spilling coffee and
lies. Gross laughter – snorting
at sticky children.

I have said that I am not a city
to muck around, but they watch me
like my ancient bricks are
Italian art,

my legs,
my hands,
my lips become earthquakes

I am the black silence, awkwardly shaking
against the wall while a baby
crunches tomatoes against my skull,
and this flimsy morning is
scalding me with people

carrying invitations to disease.
I want to be free of
this nausea
and take some of their trade,
but I cannot.

My skin has been nourished by neglect
and poverty, I’ve been
eating grass roots and building castles
for worms,

and if you follow my example, you might be the
wisest, and the loneliest,
to ever sit in this sad, sad forest
of dread.


She would rather I be an incarnation, a flower
on a grave. She made my slumber rough with
sand until I swept it out of my bed.

When I was small, I brought all the worms
and the flies
and the bees
out of the water with the last bit of life
they had left.
For the ones who didn’t survive,
I gave proper burial with mermaid songs.

She never told me that mermaids cannot sing,
and she never picked up
a stick to
dig a grave with me

because I am not re-used bones
and skin
and life.

She Snaps Like A

She snaps like a
twig from a
dead oak tree
She snaps
her fingers,


Standstill! Who will
draw first

Three sisters, count them.

Huddled in her meat cleaver,
she leaves them.
Dead meat.

Red, raw
meat for the taking.
Marinated to
manipulated savory.

Three girls with
guilt blonde hair. Three
little witches, fixing burns,
breaking dishes.

That’s what happens when the
flip switches,
she twitches into
rags –
stomping floorboards,
dropping little blonde
hair into body

feeds dirty lies
from her
mothering, smothering hands.

This Is What Happens When A Child Raises Itself

a small child has taken camp
in my intestines

she clutches
to my innards
holding on for her
dear little life

my stomach twists
howls at me
begging for relief

but she is afraid
she will not let go

in the morning
I awaken, as I should
I suggest a shower
and dress, as I should
I advise eating
sometimes the little girl
is too afraid
squeezing so loudly
making digestion impossible
some days
I skip that part altogether

I drive
I work
I laugh
I smile

practice courtesy

return back to shelter
out of the
distraction of
daily life

back to the voice of
a scared little child.

Nature vs. Nurture

Sweet songbird
hush youthful ignorance
chase  fresh posture
under beds, where Monsters lay
in puddles of anticipation

crawl after
force into arms of
songbird lullaby, my only weapon

whistle familiar tunes
bread crumbs
bring battled body back
should Monsters
find amusement

Sweet female
origin of song,
eject me from your womb
pass me to nature
instincts grow
fight vs. flight

Dear friends

they ARE the natural teacher.