Old age has its  advantages
because
I find it harder
to remember what it
was
I was trying  to forget

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.

*** is a four letter word
Flaunted by very bad vowels
Fevered to ecstacy
By tangled adjectives
And pounded
Into submission
By perverted nouns
That take their free liberty
Of the subjective
Once surrounded by
Iniquity of the parenthesis
You will only utter commas
In Benediction

Roses are red
Violets are Blue
The government's
******* us
Let's have a coup

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.