Boot Print

The infertile sky

carries on for miles and miles

black as a fiend’s tongue.


All that I have left

is the outline of your boot

pressed against my chest.


For now I will not

wash it off, for it must serve

in place of my heart.


Festering Vengeance

I break each piece in half

And press those shivs,

With which my heart

Was once composed,

Into an envelop.

That gruesome parcel will arrive

Without fanfare or caveat

And you on opening

Will without thought, consume.

May those brutal lozenges

Lodge in your throat

Trapping your voice

And its deceptions forever

In a breathless barricade.

My love is a terrible thing.

I have trained my memories

So that I no longer favor you.

I have trained my flesh,

To accommodate the cold

Of your unsolicited absence.

I have plugged the holes

In my chest with strips

Of forgotten shirts and sewn tight

The aorta that my heart,

May, in its deadness, simmer.

There will be no sudden

Fits of mercy or amnesia.

Hate must be tended like a fire.

I will not ebb into forgiveness

Nor drain the venom

That you have injected.

I’ll let it kill me as surely

As I kill you and only then

Will I be satisfied.


Some time ago we did a series of prompts for which I gave only two words and asked the participants to embody the emotion or to create an experience based on the words. I had quite a bit of fun with that prompt series and so I gave myself these two words to work with. This is completely fictional.

Wordle #68

Week 68

Your unshaven face accumulates

As flotsam in the wince of my smile.

I’ve a predilection for problems

Their development, their pithy reconciliations,

Sex that ends with rictus and begins with fire.

I knew that you were a caitiff, a roving truck.

I knew that whatever we planted

Would not grow because saplings

However, intent do not thrive in wreckage

I knew that you would dump me

In favor of an uncomplicated brevity

But as I watch you scuttle away

I realize that I never had the courage

To want for anything more.


Diary Entry September 27 2013


Mute. Vulnerable Given to collapse. My heart lies diminished. Having peeled back too many scars, too many layers I am raw, besmirched, and not yet itchy. There is no comfort in expectation. In the opposition of neurons corrosively overburdened. I think too much. I succumb too easily to lawless sleep. To anti-realities and dissociations. Hours pass more quickly than minutes. Minutes are impatient. Minutes add up but hours reduce. It’s a long time waiting for the sun to drop. Waiting for my responsibilities to undress and settle serenely into the arms of a generous lover.


I am exhausted. Minutiae are threatening mutiny. I scurry, kaleidoscopic, through rooms on the verge of collapse. The Gilings are on the rise. I’ve arrested the latest pathogen  and all I really want is to lie on the sofa with a swatch of velvet thrown over my icy limbs. I want to dream, idle dreams, that require neither compliance nor consummation.


Gilings just means dust but it sounds like some type of creature doesn’t it? I am emotionally and physically exhausted and yep I am getting sick. Also I want people to write letters real pen to paper letters. I keep telling myself I will write letters but to whom? My hand-writing is atrocious and I’d drive myself crazy worrying about it. I wouldn’t even have very much in the way of concrete things to say. Maybe I should write post cards lol I absolutely love post cards.

Yard Sale

photo0703Photograph by: Howanxious

Your covetous hands undress

My possessions with creased

Dollar bills. A callous scythe

An arbitrary ellipse, you have

No regard for my anachronistic

Sentimentality. It’s been two

Years, time to scrub the chalk

From the hardwood floors


There goes my spleen plucked from

A backless picture frame and there

Lies my inky heart tucked into the

Sensational headlines of a failed

Marriage. Inside that shoe box a

Pair of testicles, never been used. Had

They been, perhaps I wouldn’t be sitting

Here knitting sweaters for all the unborn

Children imprinted inside my sterile womb


Swinging from my neck a fiend’s tongue

Noose, words exchanged, blighted by

Expletives and expectations of psychic

Servitude, turns out that two incompletes

Impoverish exponentially. Turns out that

I was not the mistress of his moonlit

Engagements, that honor I’m afraid

Goes to my sneak thieving sister


You’ll find me piecemeal in every

Purchase, a torn fingernail, a raven

Hair pinched off rootless, a failed

Leukocyte. Sometimes we shatter

And for a dime you can cash in on

My sideshow holocaust, better

Still take it all free of charge


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