I am sitting in a hotel lobby in a small town south of Des Moines
That means Iowa for those of you who did not know
I am drinking coffee with French Vanilla flavoring and sweetener
Waiting for my twin sister, listening to loud country western music
I would not mind the music if it was on a proper volume
It is weirdly loud and proud for six a.m.
as if it thinks it is better than rock and roll or bluegrass
my nerves are screaming
I got over you,
Finally and truly over you,
I haven’t seen you in months and I honestly forgot you existed,
Reading back on the poems I wrote you,
Feeling those emotions again,
It’s weirdly comforting,
I know now that what I felt was real,
But I also know we would never last,
You never knew,
You probably don’t ever even think about me,
I won’t lie and say it doesn’t sting,
But I never made a move,
I never put myself out there,
It’s my fault if we’re pointing fingers,
You were perfect,
And that’s how I want to remember,
Not awkward eye contact,
Not small smiles when we passed each other,
Just two people living their own lives.
it's happening again
the pressure behind my ribs,
like something inside me is clawing for a way out
and my hands don't know where to go.
my brain keeps flashing red
like a warning sign no one else can see.
the room is quiet
my head is loud
and every thought is a shove.
I'm not trying to die
I'm just trying to feel something
that makes sense
for once.
i sit there trembling,
breathing too fast,
eyes burning,
wanting the pain to match the mess in my chest
because the mess feels bigger than me.
i see the red oozing out,
skin tingling weirdly,
every line screaming something
my voice doesn't dare to.
and I hate that I'm here again,
i hate that i don't know what else to do.
i hate that I'm scared
of myself
and for myself
at the same time.
not heaven, not purgatory, I do not think I’m in hell
I wrack my brain, wondering about this – an unnamed dimension?
Did I die or am I in a coma? My thoughts are fuzzy.
I had expected to die, but maybe I didn’t?
I try to open my eyes, and discover they are open.
I am on the edge of strangeness, it’s weirdly comfortable here.
I think about contacting my family. Are they in the next room?
Is this a hospital? A funeral home or a morgue?
Suddenly, I recall that I am being cremated.
But it is not hot here. It is strangely cool, not cold, comfortable.
I am aware of others, but can see no one
People are communicating with me telepathically.
Is this new or old?
I am curious now.
Will I open up my eyes and be in excruciating pain?
I know that I wrecked my car; I felt my whole body crumple.
I hear someone yell “mama”.
They are redirected to another person.
How I know this I do not know.
I am in another consciousness, yet it is familiar.
I know only one thing. I come here in between lives.
toc tac toe
I am always X
weirdly enough
every young person I meet is also always X
I had to learn to be O
begrudgingly
I would pay two hundred dollars for this piece of art
Because I never pay more than that, due to one fact
I am an artist, who has over sixteen hundred paintings of my own
This one is prettily painted, so she would earn my top dollar
which is always and forever two hundred dollars.
Because I can duplicate almost any painting
Unless it is a landscape, which I have no desire to paint
I have never liked them, never will; do not want them around
Weirdly enough, my mother’s paintings of choice were all landscapes.
the fire was just getting started when we phoned it in to the captain’s house
He came running with a badger, a monkey, a chipmunk and a mouse
Can they get it out? Asked the homeowners, anxious indeed about this
Better call in McDuck, said two volunteers – Willie and Wiss
McDuck brought the large fire engine, from Number Nine
He left his feed at the fancy pond restaurant where he dines.
But being the captain, he is used to leaving lots of good feed on a plate.
Weirdly enough, he brought his goody bag, and Dinah, his date.
The rings of Saturn are empty.
They smell burning.
Moons which circle planets which are otherworldly.
We forget about them, sometimes.
Venus is catching on fire.
Mercury is always being silly.
Neptune is worried.
Moons laughing about being moons.
The rings of Saturn are tilted weirdly.
No one says anything.
I bet it smells like coffee.
Somewhere in space.
Somewhere in space.
Comets live.
Planets have names.
We think it’s up to us.
Pluto.
Seems lonely but,
Has five moons.
When we think he’s too small to have any.
There lives a gentleman from Luff
Who walks everywhere in the buff
His weeny is teeny
He calls it his winky
A stump that can't fill a cream puff.
Ladies would be left in despair
But he didn't really care
He got what he wanted
Frustrated, they taunted
And decided give him a scare.
They tied him to an 'lectric chair
Placed electrodes on you know where
They pulled down on the switch
His stump started to twitch
It stood bright like a giant flare
You'd think he would very happy
Making a stump long and snazzy
The women were smiling
The man was now crying
Wink shrivelled, weirdly and badly
From that day he always wore clothes
With women he instantly froze
He's fearful of leccy
Winky is now Becky
And parades in yearly freak shows.
25.07.25
I was not always this clever, this funny, this incredibly smart
But it is two a.m. somewhere, and I am hilarious; it is my art.
Weirdly, I was not in any way exciting before I got to this bar.
But now I am unbelievably witty, ask my buddy, his name is Gar.
Aren’t I witty, Gar? Aren’t I pretty? Aren’t I fabulously humorous tonight?
He thinks so, believe me, though he cannot sit upright.
I am getting younger every second, my face is clearing up too.
Hilarity is my middle name; now where is my stupid shoe?
But wait, honey, aren’t I funny? The bartender is closing down the bar.
Whiskey is improving my looks. Now where’s my stupid car?
cobweb on corner
this fence is weirdly brand new
fast acting spider
ART!
He painted my death,
With such dedication I've never seen before.
Every stroke of his brush, on that paper, marking out each curve, twist, and turn my body made
As I writhed in pain.
Premeditated murder, or a death masquerading as suicide, or perhaps just an unlucky soul.
My hands on my throat as I choked to death,
He didn't need to add a drop to my tea to pronounce me dead.
Because every time I brushed his gift to me,
I was gasping and blushing at how beautifully he depicted my death,
And swore that it was breathtaking.
It was really breathtaking!
My body was found lying on the green grass,
Sprawled in a weirdly shaped position, just as he had predicted.
I gave him his last gift:
A live picture of me modeling his artwork, in afterlife.
Who would know that arsenic was the green-dye monster,
But was also made into a painting to die for.
Emer
I deep-sixed toys, games, a bed and a picture book
Our font porch now has a much more organized look
In May I kept hundreds of junk I did not need
Crayolas, pinwheels, and blue petunia seed
Weirdly thinking I might someday need this or that
bent clarinet, torn photo and stuffed bat
knife broken in two, huge bag of red clover
a lesson this hoarder learns over and over
Here comes the uppity bejeweled crow
Carrying her loud beak just so and so
She is wearing a cape as white as snow
Her beady eyes turn on me; they have a glow
Flashing gemstone rings are on her feathers today
She preens and twists, weirdly turning away
Around her neck there is a diamond choker
I heard she won this playing cardinal poker
I have to eat enough.
I opened up everything.
Give them a patch of lawn.
Or maybe a toast.
The first thing I learned.
Inside of cooked shopping trips.
Could be a cookie on the sidewalk.
But then they would hurt.
Shoes are the ones who feel.
Flopping over.
I have to eat more.
The monster is the one who is weirdly smudged.
They told me the dirt lives in this small house.
So do they.
I have to eat pieces.
Underneath.
They left me a snack.
A dirty plate with crumbs.
Eating crumbs as old as this place.
They told me I ate enough.
I almost agreed.
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