Hell is fluorescent lights and the clicking of mice;
a place where the mind can’t breathe;
a place where the soul forgets her wings;
a place where the only flickers of wonder
are found in well-constructed Excel formulas.
This was never my kind of magic.
I often question why the little rectangles
on a spreadsheet are called “cells” instead of “boxes.”
Then it dawned on me: this is because
working these things as a daily job function
is the closest you can get to feeling prisoner
without committing a felony.
This was never my kind of magic.
Hell remains sedentary, listening to the same
fifteen rotating songs on a soft rock radio station
chosen by someone who makes triple your wages.
It’s prepackaged breakfast out of a vending machine,
eaten in a 4x4 cubicle that’s
fixed in a room without a single window.
This was never my kind of magic.
Hell is a cheap Chinese finger trap:
failing to find release
by pulling in wrong directions.
It’s a tight trickery that insists you stay
because you have nowhere else to go;
but my kind of magic is the inward force
that has met a friendly freedom.
It’s bathed in inviting shades of turquoise,
and fell in love with the solace of the desert.
It’s memorized the curves of mountain peaks
and collected freckles from every angle of the sun.
It loves the rush of blood to the head,
when racing the sunrise
on the edge of some atmosphere.
Something that hell could never
put its thumb on; this is
my kind of magic.

Its teeth are longer and sharper
than any other unforgiving beast on this planet.
The hairs that ***** on the back of its neck
are charged solely by curiosity,
and its eyes burn electric yellow—
never breaking gaze with so much as a blink.
Indigenous to every silent crack of this earth,
it requires no sleep or acclimation.
No living thing can out run it,
and if it sets its sight in your direction,
do not try to argue your fate.
Its presence alone will bring you to your knees,
and wherever it chooses to sink its fangs
will ensure immediate affliction.
This—a  sickness of insatiable wonder.
To sit still now will surely be the death of you,
because, darling, you’ve been bitten—
plagued forever with knowing that
millions of somewheres have suns
that are rising, and you cannot rest
until you’ve had a chance to paint them all.

Expose its flesh, eyes closed and
have at it, whole-mouthed.
Eagerly, without abandon,
I **** down to the pit of life.
Juices run down from chin to neck
in perfect rhythmic queues.
A sign, I think, that I’m doing it right.
When it’s all over, and
I’m breathless and sticky sweet,
I tongue at the strings between my teeth.
With nothing left to taste,
I finger this leftover seed
and lay it to dream
in a black bed of rich possibility.

Young enough to know
that what they’ll have me
believe of this world
is a shadowy truth at best.
The lesson
in each dancing darkness
on my wall is love, &
we’re nothing but silhouettes
until the lights come on.

She sits on a wooden porch
in a chair that learned its comfortable shape
over decades of fireside conversation.
Her hair, still dark,
dark with a swatch of silvery gray
that drapes across the top of her head—
an honorary sash, life-bestowed.
Her cheeks, still round.
Her eyes, still green and wondering.
Her fingers, still short as they
light a long wooden pipe.
With a flick and a hiss, she *****
sweet tobacco smoke
and breathes out secrets
in languages spoken only by
those who understand the trees.
She sips bitter tea from a clay cup
and names each of the birds
that fly into her view.
She grows berries just for them
on vines that twist about
unsuspecting beams and rails.
A metaphor, she suspects.
She hums familiar melodies to herself
and cracks a wrinkled smile.
The world, as she knows it,
is only ever waiting to be enjoyed.

Once upon a time, a little girl found a seed.
She wasn’t looking for a seed,
but she found one anyway.
She held it in the palm of her hand
and wondered and wondered.
She planted it in rich, black soil.
For weeks she watered the soil,
gave it sunlight,
and even sang to it.
It sprouted and grew into a beautiful flower,
with petals of colors man
hadn’t even invented names for yet.
The girl loved the flower,
and the flower loved her back.
They were happy.
But between smiles and blooms,
the girl and the flower knew
that this could not possibly last forever.
“Flower, I know no matter how much I care for you,
some day you will die.”
The flower nodded and when he did,
some of his brilliant petals fell to the soil.
The girl gently pocketed them to keep.
As time went on, the flower began to wilt;
his colors faded;
his roots shriveled with the rest of him;
but the girl still continued to care for him.
When the day came, there was not a speck of color
left in his stem and petals,
and the girl knew he had gone.
She ran her fingers over his soil
only to discover a pile of seeds
that had fallen from his dying center.
She collected them, tilled a patch of land
outside of her window
and planted each of them
with the same love and care as before.
They bloomed bright with petals of colors
man hadn’t even invented names for yet.
The girl loved her flowers
and was happy to share their beauty
with the world passing by.
This, she believed,
was how her flower knew it was to be
all along.

I watch the music maker
and wonder if he holds his women
the same assured way he holds his guitar.
I wonder if his fingers memorize their curves
the same way they memorize measures.
I wonder what he does with his sheet music
when it has nothing left for him to learn.
If I were his, I’d insist he hand it to me.
Each stack I’d fold into delicate flying creatures
and send them off into the sky.
With their pointed wings,
they’d strum clouds and pluck stars—
making messages in melodies
to remind the world
why she chooses to keep spinning.