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02/01 Direct Link
Once upon a time in a kingdom not far, a faery-girl survived. A concrete garden sheltered her glitter-dusted shoulderblades. Street royalty braided her messy hair with charms and cellophane rosettes. She swayed to the taste of the shadows, a prey of synthenesia. She saw music, heard scents, and licked the letters of the alphabet when she spoke--not by mistake, but by biochemical composition: a power unto itself. Being understood was what she desired, this neon-robber and minion of decay: alley-child. She did not live happily ever after, but she managed to have a good time and remain true to herself.
02/02 Direct Link
Cotton candy girls break gingerbread boy hearts in the sport of careless love. Spun sugar and iced perfection are the wares for market. The ice cream vendors with their impeccable white spats call, "Come out, darlings, come out and play." The boys and girls do play and sell what sweet confections that they may. Orange sorbet blossoms in a punch bowl of tears keep the hurting bittersweet. "Love for sale," they say. Cupid and his benevolent arrows are nowhere to be seen. What is true love is not this sweetmeat of irony and apathy, so it is just as well.
02/03 Direct Link
Clio, Euterpe, Erato, Polyhymnia, Thalia, Melpomene, Urania, Calliope, and Terpsichore: these are my sister muses when I resign myself to creation. Although art is not my only lover, these muses and the evening-fevers the muses inspire are my longest lovers. Elysian fields whisper ideas into my ears, and my muses kiss invention onto my mouth and place the coins for the ferryman onto my eyelids. Down here when the asphodel flourish, the muses cannot stay, but the muses do not abandon me. My sisters tuck poems into bottles, sending me messages upon the waters of the Styx until I return.
02/04 Direct Link
Home is a dove on the shoulder of a once-cherub. People search entire lifetimes, looking for home. They rack up enormous credit card bills, trying to fill a void inside their hearts. They think the absence of want will manifest home, but it never does. Nothing purchased, used, destroyed, borrowed, or stolen can satisfy the grave's demands. It is never deep or wide enough, that grave. Running hither and thither, people flee their certain selves, continually seeking their homes, never realising that home is not the place people run to and live; home is the one place where they belong.
02/05 Direct Link
Paper lanterns and chimes at midnight even the balance of the Chinese dragon's vermilion roar. Origami storks wade in the old year's salt-water until the celebration is insanity and the explosion of firecrackers an end to the rage. A new year is no time for resolutions. The new year is an administration of faith and hope for future days. I wrap jade bracelets around my wrists and dangle cinnabar with its dusky scent from my earlobes. Rice candy and a flowered parasol carry me closer to childhood's arms when my eyes saw so much before this, my Chinese New Year.
02/06 Direct Link
Freedom is a myth in the mind of the caged bird with her bleak view of the earth beyond her iron bars. One of the bird's quills could inscribe a message of rescue, but the bird lacks the knowledge of whether the freedom is worth the dare. Alone, the caged bird sings, her voice a legend in the minds of the free. In another lifetime, she wound her melody through fresh green bamboo shoots, wedding lovers at dusk-hour. This lifetime is so far removed from her current existence that she considers it a dream she imagined to forget the present.
02/07 Direct Link
Her mouth is pink as the interior of a burgeoning shell or the suction of a starfish's legs upon a mussel's carapace. Her naked features do not require paint to construct of a mirror of her. She is as unfeigned as a dew-skirted meadow, innocent as the mating impulse of beasts. Yes, there is innocence in the unblemished laws of nature, in what exists because it must. She abides, a coquette in her lack of wickedness with her knowing grin. Breasts bared, she asks me what I see. I grin, for what she is has no words and is truth.
02/08 Direct Link
Narcolepsy is a disease to some sleepers, escape to aimless souls. I should know. Nightmares impose their propinquity upon me, siphoning energy and sleep from my body. Sleep is a toxin when it is sleep of nightmares. For an evening absent of nightmares, I would endure narcolepsy's accidental lapses of awareness. I would adore a muse of slumber to carve ivory scrimshaw into my dreams so that I could recover my peace and rest. I pace the floors at one o'clock in the morning. It is easier to exist on little sleep than to exist with nightmares stealing my attention.
02/09 Direct Link
Music is a divine form of sacrament when music is listened to by the truly devoted. I become the Madonna when I dance to the tears of an oboe's reed. My maidenhead is restored to its lustrous pink purity at the sound of a cello's gold-stringed cry. The Immaculate Conception is rebirthed in the slight flick and flutter of my fingertips and the flush of my cheeks. Legs gilded and back rigid, the piano is a Calvary cross. The coda is alms; the bass and treble clefs upon their staffs are a cathedral. Ah, melody and sonata, my young religion!
02/10 Direct Link
Grey marble halls of twilight mark the presence of Winter. Feathery oak branches, breathed white by snow, tremble outside my house. The silence is as foreign as Latin incantations and bloodletting used as a cure for medieval ailments. The Winter spans her cruel touch across the countryside, impaling the skin she strokes. She is a brutal mistress, our Winter: a madwoman and sharpener of blades, wise crone and keeper of the silk purse of souls, judging face of Fate and condemning seraph. Some say she is a monster, but she is a vital element of nature; she understands her role.
02/11 Direct Link
I am learning to be the gentle Buddha. I still love fervently as before, but I am now finding out how to love without fetters. Love requires freedom for survival. Sometimes, the old doubts and jealousies of distance resurface, but I breathe, touch my wings, and add a few feathers to my heart for the keeping. Yielding my insecurity is a symbol of trust. I always trusted my lover. I just did not consider myself worth trusting or remembering. I remember my trust because I remember how much worth loving that she is. And she is, O, how she is!
02/12 Direct Link
I never took up a smoking habit, despite the black angel's seduction of the smoke itself. A well-timed twist of smoke shaped to the pout of a woman's painted mouth is a mystery worth making. An idle balancing act of paper and fingertips spins elegance of bruised seconds. Milky light curdles the milk of a dancer's back. Beautiful boys blow rings into the pulse of strobe. I am no smoker, so I am an animal that does not belong amidst these feathered serpents. I enter the night's arms, designing my smoke by inhaling the cold and exhaling it as mist.
02/13 Direct Link
The weather forecasters claim the future months are to herald a rash of hurricanes. I shiver in anticipation, contemplating the tree masses lashed by the air currents, waves a bluer shade of unrest and the skies alive with motion. Exactly as the forest fire spurs a restoration process, the hurricane produces healing growth for the region it influences. Marine and land animals, plant and sea life possess resiliency enough to withstand the wild, weird force of nature: the poetry of survival. Endurance is verse, living a stanza. The free fall of the coastal calm is an awakening meant to happen.
02/14 Direct Link
People idolise love, thinking love responsible for circumstances beyond the control of human emotions. People expect love to cure the dolor of their lives without exerting any effort to better themselves. Love is not Santa Claus or Superman, come to save the world. Love is not fucking for days on end in an unlit hotel, emotional violence coupled with physical rape, television romance, or store-bought greeting cards. Love is a cat's content smile, baby-laughter, unorganised meetings, companionable silences, expunging the past, whispering among stars, endings that are beginnings, spiritual surrender, and lapses of logic.

Her--in her most--is love.
02/15 Direct Link
Silence is the deep sigh and slither of time past the Witching Hour. Moonlight is a silver murmur. The tap of heels is the three clicks she needs to return to her home. She is neither a good witch, nor a bad witch--merely a girl strayed from her place of safety. She is lucky to have someone awaiting her homecoming, rather than the smirking emptiness when no one cares whether you are home or dead in the world. Wishing for ruby slippers, she tells me an angel inside her throat wants her to move to Kansas. I believe her.
02/16 Direct Link
I still cannot endure watching death scenes in films. Figures arrayed like statues in a wax museum, greasepaint and powder-smeared features, grotesque facial expressions timed to the crescendos rising when the lights dim, and fake blood manufactured from corn syrup and food colouring: this death is so casual and careless that death becomes a comedy. Death should not be comedy, any more than happiness should be irony. If you please, I will take my death sincere and without the frippery. I will take Lady Death with her gossamer veils and brutal agility, or I will not greet her at all.
02/17 Direct Link
The curl of conch ridges turning towards inner recesses, cochineal, dried strawberries, cunt-sweat on red satin panties, ten toes bent over a drowsy windowsill, Mexican sangria blended with a finger and maraschino cherries and slices of citrus, blood on paper thin and frail as onionskin, silk stockings on clean thighs, nipples taut beneath the hoops of silver that are my surprise from her, the love that we create with the friction of our desire, her heart-shaped ass and petal-like lips, the invisible fire of the canyon, her breath colliding with my mouth on her throat: Her, my love, my life.
02/18 Direct Link
Gypsy tarot decks are arcane, cautionless forces. The Queen of Chivs, backdropped by scrim and shadow, sharpens her wiles and beauty upon the blade she balances with the cock of shoulder and hip. To Rom, she is a shuv'hani, draped in the courage and fire of rubies. To gaje, she is a harmful sexual force, the sword second to the weapon of her eyes and the camera obscura behind them. Healing, Egyptian black amber, a mind open as a kumpania chest, and the womb-blood that is destructive and purifying: she is these elements, the saint and salvation of her gender.
02/19 Direct Link
When bards share myths, they omit much. For instance . . .
Loki taught humankind how to mix mud pies.

Aphrodite was not a creature of the morning persuasion, but atoned for it with lusty, late midsummer nights.

Amon-Re was not a good cook and prone to burning each dish he baked.

Laughing Coyote danced with the tumbleweeds and cacti when loneliness devoured the hour. Because of him, the desert was never sad or forlorn.

Morrigu walked shade through the moors during near-dawn, which is why that hour was the softest.
At least, this is how I'd tell it.
02/20 Direct Link
A person can be unconscious without shutting the pink petal of eyelids. I look at unconsciousness daily: the meter maid skulking with her granite stare, the semen-and-tobacco-stained matron at the gas station, ancient-fingered nuns outside the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception--all wedded to a polygamist god, fresh-faced secretaries at lunch counters, stay-at-home mothers without personal identities--duty a lithograph of facial wrinkles, painted and peacocked teenage girls that believe his lies of only hitting when he's drunk, and the insecure half-moon face of the mermaid in the mirror--her scales altered to ten very human toes curled on tile.
02/21 Direct Link
Good morning, Sun, and your small, funny fingers, the crimson slips of hair arranged around your lips like patches of dried blood from when Helen--wife of Menelaus--knew Troy. Words in duplicate and nothing more shocking than you permeate the white static in my head. I whisper your name at night, praying to your memory because there is no God. You were so precious in that I never thought you would leave. Endless songs loop through my brain, jarring me into reality with the depletion of sleep and food that has become my way of life. Goodbye, Sun, I must sleep.
02/22 Direct Link
My fingers are numb from this dread season of Winter. Tree branch-claws snatch the clouds, and the moon is an unblinking Cyclops eye. Drifts, whip-lashing winds, and icy roads afford insufficient mobility. Winter chokes hopes of Spring from the throats of geese and the bare woodlands that lay in ruin. No creature stirs. The blue-veined cold progresses on spiked feet: a conqueror and slayer of warmth. I wonder where birds find shelter as I peer into the death-black cold. Winter may wear white in her crystallised water, but Winter is black to the liver, black in the bile's bitter acid.
02/23 Direct Link
"How many licks does it take to get to the center of my Tootsie Roll Pop?" I heard a woman sing in a song.

"As long and how many licks it takes to see her writhing and begging," my mind replied. My mind has never been a particularly clean or safe place to visit.

My mind is too smart for its own good sometimes. Someday, there are going to be many happy Tootsie Roll Pops because of me. If my mother suspected, she'd throw one of her infamous fits, and darling, that's just the tip of the Titanic's frozen dessert.
02/24 Direct Link
Cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt and cunt.

That was for all the girls that never knew they had a chance in taking back the word cunt.
02/25 Direct Link
Horror films and the dread of seeing a glimpse of blood on a late-night television screen made an avid reader of me throughout childhood. I did not want to bear witness to the darker, harmful sides of humanity, so I buried myself in books. Books--freshly cut, inked, and pressed--were more vivid than scary movies, but far gentler than the slashing, killing humour of Wes Craven and John Carpenter. I suspect Craven and Carpenter gained such outrageous imaginations from reading books. What does this say of me? My bookshelves, clotted with sundry tales, know the answer to my question.
02/26 Direct Link
I want a black beaded shawl to drape across my shoulders and head--a glittering cowl of midnight upon my being. With the shawl, I could lure stars from the arms of galaxies, shadows from New Orleans alleys, and a single siren to my shore. There are secrets neither thrashing wave, nor threaded moon can reveal in full. A flick of a wrist, an irregular tilt and turn of hip, and I am a huntress: no victim of divine surprise or enchantment. The shawl would shelter the softer cells in the muscle of my crimson heart, be my rightful Valhalla.
02/27 Direct Link
I subsist in a world of creature comforts: heat and wool socks for winter-bitten toes, Burt's Bee's Lip Balm and Milk and Honey Body Lotion for the flesh, minestrone soup in a cold and lonely belly that causes the sense of missing to fade, and Tau crosses and lit candles to ward off the ghosts of the graves my feet have trod upon. Most people require more basic methods of sustenance, but I've lived for twenty-something years on little more than inspiring literature, finger-kisses, the sincere voices of my musical instruments, poet and angel-blood, rain and sun dances, and laughter.
02/28 Direct Link
It's always the rough boys that arouse me, me who knots cherry stems with my tongue and spits fire with the aid of pent-up aggression and a can of Aquanet Hairspray, me the girl most unlikely to be brought home to mothers and sainted as "Virgin of the Year." I was the scapegoat of grade school classes with jungle gym cheetahs, but finally, I grew the steel rod of spine that my Blackfeet ancestors wore to war with the paint of red deserts. Now, I slay boys with the tilt of my hip and the arch of a jackal's grin.