princesszyrtec

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, I Pray Higgs boson my Soul to Keep "If I were to live my life thinking matter matters, I'd waste my soul with care. It's better to hold fast to dreams…do you have one to spare?" ~princesszyrtec You show up at night, inspired and drunk; I come as a stranger. You come four times by morning; as a stranger now I'm leaving. I long to be lost as a howl in a hurricane.  The art of loss isn't a science to master, despite the degree. You give all you have been, or could be for a breath of ecstasy. You implant your cochlear to my concha   and sing what you hear. I romp with joy in the bars and notes. Y

They’d always slept with the windows open. On late July nights, the cicadas’ rhythmic cadence announced the sinking sun, rising stridently as the last rays touched the tops of trees huddled in the dim spaces, as if to say “don’t leave us alone with them—they are a coven of trees, they know things.” Afterwards, the tree line is a negative silhouette against the black sky, blocking out stars and wishes. They’d always slept with the windows open. Wrinkled, sodden sheets stuck to the areas of their bodies not covered with wrinkled, sodden sleepwear.  The whispering coven of trees went unheard, unnotic

Accidental Turista It’s a brave new Webster’s world out there in the waiting room (wailing wall). Looking up asymptomatic Hypochondrial fever, and pondering the Patagonia that lay under the lab rat coat of authority. Should he feign ignorance or faint indifferently when the results come back and he learns the awful Truth—his insurance won’t cover cosmetic surgery for the accidentally beautiful.

Love on the Rocks Bier Stube boogey shoos blues as Bass Ale, bitter, choked down with rising bile, gives her a buzz and a moment to wonder,     while fending off the Neo-Jewish Elvis and his karaoke burnt slip offering dedicated to one “babe in the tipsy black boots,” if the boots were on the other foot, would she be so bold?

Weapons of Mass Seduction I sing the body Frankenstein; all parts is parts but the sum’s not whole.  Where once were breasts, here be now weapons of mass seduction. Plastique but not unique.  Torpedos straight ahead and costs be damned!  The West has been conquered, and the saddlebag gone the way of the Pony Express. Obsolete, and emptied of meaning, its absence ironically speaks volumes.  The question of matching carpet and drapes becomes moot. The carpet is stripped and the floors waxed to a hard, sexless sheen.  We are BarbieKen, KenBarbie, interchangable and replaceable. How do we replicate? Monsters are s

Swallowing Fireflies First—sleep. If you wake up, pretend you’re in a dream. Chances are, you are. The dream of sunsets. Last stanza silken sunsong streaming up. And down. Coral peachskin lit within. Women and candlelight at dusk, both flickering out of reach. First—sleep. Your eyelids twitch and close against the world. Breathing slows and low indistinct murmers capture your evasive mind. Nevermind. Just open your mouth and say aaah. Swallow the firefly to light the path under the violet aspen tree. First—sleep.

It's a suicide Monday. It's the end of the line. A Toledo man walks his Toledo dog on a Toledo street, stopping on green and running on red. He's a suicide-in-waiting, like the lickable lid to a chocolate pudding, or cellophane wrappers baiting cats. It's a suicide Monday. The sky reigns clear over squirrels and women and Wal-Marts and radioactive rivers that resist under freeways. No pathetic fallacies, just suicides in the making, like post-debate politicians and post-coital enemies. It's a suicide Monday. A woman on oxygen smokes her eight hundred thousandth cancer stick in her tarred home. She's a suicide parade, like "I l

Back and forth so your edges fray, words soft          you were a headland slipping into the blue, smiling, not quite at home. Tucked into your sleeve-pocket many a fine-grained          pebble from voiceless lands and barbed-wire estates, hiding in your palm. You could say the past swallowed me, and in speaking tongues,          invented a life that barked all day and I suppose will bark all night. It is a secret, like the sound of my name. You wear me like a brooch,          or a quilt of silence laid down upon the hills of your soul, blanketing.