No one will ever read my journals
Any more than they read my odes.
I’ve left my mark so carefully
But I wrote it in the sand
And I wrote it at low tide.

You need to carve your name in stone
In words that live eternally
Not write in smoke across the sky
Where zephyr winds will scatter it.

I wanted to be recognized
A standout in the crowd
I hoped my brilliant verbiage
Would capture fashion’s eye
And I could win the cakewalk.

But the cameras turned the other way
And never saw me fan my plume.
I followed them for half a mile
But they never turned to look.

No one will note my journal here
The one who could, strives to forget.
I’ll be someone without a name
Who couldn’t reach out far enough
To grab and keep the golden ring.
           ljm

a polyamorous couple moves from chicago
to new zealand

things were getting so bad in the states
they both tweeted on a daily basis
multiple times per day

once situated they began to lecture the locals
on the racist colonials who racistly named the country new zealand
when the real name could only ever be aotearoa

"here in aotearoa, things are so much better than in the states"
they would tweet on a daily basis

before moving to aotearoa, the female of the couple
sold her son to a man named richard levine

richard levine killed several hundred elderly people
and can currently be found advocating that children watch ****
and amputate their body parts

richard levine and aotearoa are always where it's at for polyamorous couples from chicago

a friend from chicago sent flowers on a regular basis
and the woman of the couple tweeted how the flowers were lovely
but she would rather have received money instead of the flowers

her next tweet was about how she had a talk with the friend who sent the flowers and how he agreed to send her money instead

there was also an earlier tweet about how another friend from chicago died recently

"it's sad because he gave people in the kink community a lot of money to help them out financially"
tweeted the woman of the couple who sold her son to richard levine.

Spring and summer, they come and go.
Then it’s the hell that waits for me below.
An arm? A leg? Which part is scheduled for torture?
Fair Demeter, where are you? Are you truly my mother?
The pomegranate seeds were bitter pills.
Supposedly something that would cure my ills.
But there’s a side effect for every cure,
and I know now I cannot endure
the months-long torture of a winter in hell.
And my future fate no seer can tell.

I enjoy these brief respites.
I live now for my pleasant visits
to sunny days and strawberries;
away from my torment, the dogs and ferries.