Today I woke into a nightmare.
I rushed out the door, already late for work.
Behind the stream of cars the sun greeted me
with refractive beauty only seen in the greatest masterpieces.
I remarked that my eyes hurt.
the streams slow flow,
Increased my despair.
A twisted metal monolith,
caused the trucks to come in tow.
I drove past a chaotic scene.
I was annoyed at my lack of discipline.
A wayward bubble trapped in a slow stream.
Never wondering how I was supposed to know.
As a well rested wonderer I sat in my chair,
Ended the day with good time spared.
My birthday had proceeded without a hitch.
Neither laid out on a road or sickly in my bed.
The indifferent world greeted me,
with every boon it had to spare

He beckons me forth,
my sanded toes dusted like candied fruit,
ready to be washed clean
by the delicate froth of white salted foam.
The hush of his tide brushes my bones,
black glass whispers,
rhythmic charm,
his fingers, luminous,
glint blue as he parades the coast,
curling around my ankles.
The moon sways,
singing silvered lullabies
rocking the earth
so that he sloshes, just so,
like the tilt of a glass
to your lips.
How could you not want to take
just one long, slow, sip?
I long to taste the briny wonder of that deep,
to float upon belonging.
The wind crests over the rolling water,
wrapping me in his cashmere grip,
damp earth, the raw green of kelp,
and butterscotch,
as if the sun had spun sugar
from his sweetness on the shore of day
and left it here in the breeze of night
to cool.
I wade into that ink,
assured by the calm and the air's friendly warmth
until I am marine to my middle.
My lips part in tendered sigh,
for at last, I feel I have found home,
but then, the sweeping of my heart
becomes the sweeping of my feet from under me.
I am dragged along the floor,
waves undulating viciously,
taking the whole of me with merciless desire.
His currents replace my breath,
my thoughts circling,
as if swirling into the drain,
I wanted to be a siren,
and didn't realize the sea was he.

I set the table before dawn;
the woodgrain clothed in white linen,
adorned with embroidered daisies stitched in hope,
fraying around the edges,
six chairs lay in wait,
none of them needed.
The wind RSVP'd weeks ago,
she brought ash instead of sugar,
while the silence stirred itself.
The roses arrived, already wilted.
I placed them anyway,
in the vase my great grandmother used
for holy water and secrets.
The cups are chipped,
the silver lining of the rims rubbed away,
but they remember the hands that held them,
once.
I pour tea, lukewarm,
for ghosts who do not thank me,
only mirror the steam,
their cries echoing in weighted air.
The sky cleaves beyond these hedgerows,
a throat that has swallowed thunder it cannot hold.
Still, I pass the cream,
to no one,
savoring the semblance of civility,
drinking down decorum,
a peace offering
to those who do not deserve
not even a lump of compassion,
nor a second thought.
I raise the fractured bone vessel,
"Drink",
I spit to the air,
"a toast to the burning
and the stoking of fires
that you just couldn't keep from feeding".
The kettle screams.
The world tilts, cracks, crumbles,
the crumbs unable to be swept from the table,
clinging to edges of lace napkins,
impossible to fold away.
Pinkies out,
I face the heat,
with a fascinator veiling the curl
of a smirk that knows it won't taste victory,
just finality,
steeped in bitter black.

I was sitting at a table in a café when she walked in.

I said, “Hey, good-looking stranger— would you like a cup of coffee?”

We were laughing, drinking coffee—

when suddenly, she caressed me.

We were heading straight to the wedding—

then I woke up, needing coffee.

pinwheels twirling
spinning from breath
blown through purple popsicle
stained lips
sparkling in golden streams of light
dust fairies floating
in a summer morning window
as butterflies catch
in the net of my throat,
words and wants fluttering together.
I spin silk around them,
wrapping them tightly while you aren't looking,
the wings too soft, too new,
to allow them to break.
The roses give me away,
reflecting their pink
on the ashen shyness of
my cheeks,
dabbled with freckles of copper
that fell from seraphim wings.
The stars witness me tossing stones,
desires dropped where sea glass cuts
and moonlight drowns;
They knot themselves to shipwrecks
no one has found.
I toss heart-wrought wishes,
the ghosts of dandelion seeds,
into the storm-ridden sky,
praying they will take root
somewhere.
someday.

Your tongue is tied,
cramped from its labor:
lip-service and laments,
twisting prophecy from parking tickets,
doom from unloaded dishwashers.
You monologue like a thundercloud,
over breakfast,
foretelling despair,
in the sogginess of cereal,
and how the day didn't start off
with just the right tone,
the sun glinting through the window
"wrong".
Every spilled cup is symbolic
every sigh a soliloquy.
You speak in psalms of pity
as if your calendar
were made for tragedies,
names written in expo,
scheduled to take turns
making you the victim.
Imagine the audacity
And when the world doesn't end,
exactly on time,
you sulk in darkened corners,
complaining about the shadows,
as if the loneliness your ego creates
isn't an apocalypse of a different kind.
The intent behind every word I utter
is spun into serpentine silk
in your ears,
so you paint me the snake,
accuse me of hissing,
when all I have done
is refused to speak Jabberwocky.