When I see a bug crawl across
my peripheral, I take a small piece of
paper, and I softly push its legs under.
What feels like miles to the
bug, I soar paper toward an exit, the nearest
window or door, and
I put the bug down and
watch it crawl.
I imagine the 70s, when road trips' tallied by dots of
dead bugs on the windshield was as common as
Amazon packages on front porches. Now, dead bugs
are a rarity as cross-country pelts are made of dirt and
Guns, the true Americana experience of the 21st century.
Before I let the bug go, I take a digital photo on
my cell phone, a document of the species,
my tourist attraction.

I see
freshly picked produce in
even slices atop white plastic stained
by multicolor droplets.
The colors blend like plants under packed ice.
Later, I'm walking,
and I'm reminded of an espresso machine's
buzz. Of my childhood,
family dog cuddling close,
of Warm.
Back in the kitchen, where the produce sits,
there's a dead zebra fly on the snow-lined windowsill.
Not farther, there's a dead basil plant, stuck
in its ***.

If I let it free, if I watered the plant, if I, if I, if I...

But it's early spring, I'm reminded.
Under my feet, crocuses bloom.

If I pick my scales off and prink, move
mountains to paint my flesh, turn red
lilies the wrong hue, I can
live in a world where I choose the
color

until blue and burgundy spots
form on each windowsill.

Look inside to join them watching
me dance
my large dance.

The effluent swam out in front of me
floating with motley leaves
down the street to the sewers.

My clothes slowly
spotted, color slightly darker
than the original,
and I smirked as pools formed in my shoes.

As your feet peddled down the hilly street,
I leaned back from the handlebars to feel
your body pressed to me—
skin to skin, morning dew.

I closed my eyes to let laughter guide us.

Ballerinas pirouetted
in the wind, their dance wafting
lime juice & tequila from tendrils of my hair.

We were a pirate crew without a compass,
but we still managed to steal the night.

I didn’t know how to explain where I go
until I realized

the feeling is the same
as when I was a child
in the town swimming pool
devouring youth
until the corners of my mouth itched blue,
and shivers took over the goosebumps,
and I only focused on the icy way
my arms stirred in the unheated pool.

That’s where I go—
to the cold.

I danced through a sea of pomegranate seeds,
my shoes red and brown
from the muck.

I bathed in it.

I felt like a sapling
sprouting
out from dirt.

Persephone rising from Hades,
a rebirth in the spring.

I then bit an apple
and watched as it browned.

Droplets form mid-air
and cool on my
red, blotchy stomach skin.
They echo the ocean,
a whisper of water,
cycling from land to
sea to
land.

You ripped my lace *******
and I laughed because
the broken white fabric looked like
a waterfall and your hands looked like
the jagged rocks waiting
below.

“How do you deal with a dying friend?”
asked the child to the tree,
who had lived for so many years,
the tall giant much older than he.

“You remember them in the wind,
and in the dirt beneath your feet,
you remember their laughter in the forest,
even if you do not feel complete.

You remember their name
in every person you meet,
you remember them by being strong,
so the goodbye can be bittersweet.

For in life we are who we care for,
both the sickly and the sweet,
so remember those who said goodbye,
and hope that in the next life you’ll meet.”

The tree replied these words to the boy,
hoping he would heed,
for soon the poor boy will realize,
the tree is much wiser than he.

When eggshells become sand
and the tide just another reminder of the glass
being half empty, not full,
it is time to take a step back and reminisce on
the spring flowers blossoming from detritus.

I liked it when you let me stick my cold hand
inside the warmth of your coat.

It was nearly 2 am but I felt as alive
as I do when the halo-bearing sun
illuminates the snow-covered streets at noon,

and I felt like the
white crystals falling from the purple sky were candy
drifting slowly past the full moon...
And I wished I could stick my tongue out to savor the flavor.

but I bit my lip and the pain reminded me:
as soon as the sweetness comes it dissolves.

I can't eat candy and not expect a cavity.

All I know is:
I get bored when I can breathe,
the grass I lay on itches, but I lay anyways,
and when I was standing at the top of the
Eiffel Tower,
I still wanted to die.

God, it's raining
ash embers and the noxious spiders
are jumping from
pole to rusted pole.

I really blew it up,
gosh golly,
I really blew it up.

I needed to. The venomous
blob was poisoning my mind,
but gosh golly!

The city is gone-- crater left where
church, congregation, lovers once
held hands under the blue moon.

The smoke bomb filled the sky
and it vaporized
all but the brown recluse.

Careful, that venom stings.

A babies' cry is as natural as
the mushrooms uprooting--
puhpowee--
two births into the world; life made anew.

But then there is

the rush of train tracks outside the window,
or the sound of a wolf howling at the moon,
the feeling of bare feet on dewdrops,
and watching a hawk sweep down to a lagoon

Dance the tango with me.
two left feet I am spores,
two left feet I am floating

and then I crash down,
burnt paper and burnt cigarettes,
I have a cut on my face,
I have cut tulips in a vase.

I wish I could stand in a mirror and
confront what I see
feminine physique, feminine plastique
two beady little eyes staring back at me

my eyes tell stories of deceit,
my eyes tell stories of no sleep,
when I look in the mirror I don't see me but a
bare-***** woman numb in her defeat

these suicidal lullabies in rose-colored dreams
are how I say hello to the world for I am
cruelly stuck in its'
twisted seams

one day I'll drink salt water and
float out to sea
Edna Pontellier,
I am the real tease.

It was the sound of wheels
on leaves under
a cool moon,

and then it was a breeze
floating past the crowd
under the eye of a watchful loon.

It was someone choking on a cherry pit,
poison ivy on ankles,
a trip, a fall, a slip.

Of course, I remember it.
The silent night
with eyes screaming for

the pedestal of my God
fell down, crashed marble
pieces left scattered.

I looked back
to see savior turned shadow
a ghost; visage of disaster.

I blinked and he who was king
instead rose to dust,
the fool now on the throne

like paint covering up rust.
Oh Messiah,
how the mighty fell,

and yet scribbled in the ashes
left words unspoken
the remnants of passion:

Love me
Love me
Love me

I used to like the snow
because it felt like a kiss--
wet and cold.

Now, I'm not so sure
if I like the cold
because it reminds me
of sipping hot cider, apple-
scented cinnamon sugar,
delectable on the tongue. Which, then
brings me to the memory of the mint
leftover from gum on your lips,
wet and cold.

And, maybe I feel indifferent
about the cold now because
throwing up isn't so bad
when the sweat immediately cools
to a shiver down the spine.
And, it's like skeleton breath from cigarettes
feels so much better when smoking in the
wet and cold.

And, maybe now I realize
that I am at home in the snow
because the sacred geometry
of Fibonacci numbers and Mandelbrot’s
set float in the heavenly ice and they
remind me that I could never do math,
but I can at least feel
wet and cold.