Thursday, December 31, 2015


I wanted the fairy tale
although I don't pretend to be a princess.
I long ago learned to rescue myself.

I passed over so many amphibious suitors,
looking for the one;
neither prince nor knight,
but someone to relish the sunset,
someone real.

I should have recognized the taste
of flies on your lips,
foul and forked.
I spelled eyes to see what wasn't there.

I forgot my feet as your tongue
oozed its sticky words.

Awakening, at last,
to your tongue thrust,
to your slime oozing off my chin.

There are no happy endings.

Find it here.

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Your Monster

My self identity was so many pieces
stitched together on your slab,
an almost person, cold and dead.

You meant nothing to me;
my heart lifeless in your eager hands.

You flipped the switch.
Some monsters are better left dead.

The spark of life flickered.  You fled.
You couldn't face what you created.

Love beating within me was never your intention.

The only way to protect my resurrection of feeling
was to hide its beat behind corpse eyes;
I worked to control the killing urge 
of my fingers, which itched to betray me
and summon their master, their maker,
even  knowing that you would only flee
faster and farther from our grasp.

No matter the distance,
I can feel the waves of horror and hatred
at what you gave life to.  The needle shakes in your hand.
The electric current, a lightning flash, burnt us both.

Undo the stitches.  Throw the pieces back into the grave
you dug them from.  Take back the life you inflicted on me.

Your revulsion only feeds the continued beating of my heart.

Find it here.

Monday, December 28, 2015

Never Trust Pandora with the Keys

"I have a very important task for you," said Schrodinger to Pandora, handing her a ring of keys.  "Make yourself at home in my laboratory.  Help yourself to any snacks from the fridge."

Pandora looked from the keys in her hand to the strangely intimidating and, yet, alluring door.  

"What's in there?" she queried.  

"Just a cat," he replied quickly, shrugging in to his coat and hurrying to the door before she could ask any more questions.  He scurried out into the darkness, knowing full well what mischief Pandora would get up to in his absence, knowing that the cat should never be freed.

Schrodinger created that cat: a beast which is not alive, nor is it truly dead.  What it is, this cat, is a diseased, rotting, undead thing.  Schrodinger made it.  He rolled in the filth with it.  He cuddled it to himself, reveling in the disease, breathing in its rot, but, at long last, even Schrodinger began to feel uneasy.

He had been trapped in the darkness with this thing, with this terrible knowledge of what he had done; this dark, twisted secret.  It rustles in the darkness, stealing his peace of mind.  It taunts him from the shadows, a secret which can never be told; a secret which can never be shared.

In his growing guilt and madness, Schrodinger begins to believe that he can free himself from it.  If he can just send it from him; if he can just drive it from the darkness and send it into the light, surely, it will be destroyed.  His mind will be cleansed.  All will be made fresh and new.  It will be as if he never crafted that disease ridden beast.

So, he leaves.  He entrusts the keys to Pandora, knowing full well what she will do.  

She will unlock the door.  She will release his terrible secret.  She will let the filthy, rotting beast out into the world.  She cannot help herself.

And, Schrodinger, you will not be cleansed.  You cannot cure yourself of infection by spreading disease.  All you  have done is shared your horror with the world.  

We didn't need to know, Schrodinger.  We didn't want to know.  

No one needed to see your undead cat, Schrodinger.  Keep your theories and your horrible secrets to yourself.

Find it here.

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

One in 7 billion

A few days ago, I was at an exhibition with a friend.  

I don't remember the conversation that led up to it, but as we paused for a moment in front of a depiction of voodoo ritual, he commented, "Did you know that there are over 7 billion people on the earth today?"

I waited for him to continue, expecting some further reflection on overpopulation, dwindling global resources, maybe even something about the effects of climate destabilization.

Instead, he said, "You would think that in a world of 7 billion people that there would be even one person that would just get me."

In that moment, I thought I had never heard anything quite so heartbreaking, and so very, very true.

Yes, yes, oh yes, I realized, that is exactly what I want; all that I have ever really wanted.

Why, in a world of 7 billion people, isn't there anyone who understands me?

I'm tired of facing the endless crowds and the lengthening days, always alone; a mask of competent resilience carefully in place.

Find me, please, I'm right here; waiting, just waiting for you.

Find this piece here.