Archive for November, 2013

For Always

Posted: November 29, 2013 in Poetry
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Bye is not goodbye:

We’ll wave at each other in heaven

Or one of us will commit a series of misdeeds

So we can kiss in hell.

A Reflection On Apologies

Posted: November 15, 2013 in Poetry
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Why do you run before

my apologies have a chance

to bloom?

Is my sorry

not the color of a rose?

Does it not smell of

regret, sorrow, remorse?

Would a different word,

a softer word,

thaw the forgiveness in your eyes?

Lo siento?

Je suis désolé?



미안 해요?

je t’aime?

Te amo?





Posted: November 14, 2013 in Poetry
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Is a flower that

grows without light

or water or soil. 

A blinding flower, it is,

petals made of fog

stem of mist,

smelling faintly of normalcy

steamed in irregularity.

Such a flower has never been merrily picked

Nor grown extinct.





I’ve sold my dusty worries
For a fall

Bought glue
For pouring between our hands

Because I already wished for the gaze of Medusa
To keep our moments locked in stone

Won’t reincarnations of our story be told
Upon an eternity of ears?

I know Time will
Unbury our words

After some future philosopher names this relationship:
A religion of love
Unaware that we only believed in us


25 – Cassandra

Front-handed and backhanded Father Tillicum struck her face. “What did you do to her?” A third time he used his hand. “What did you do to her?”

“Death closed her eyes.” Her lie sounded like truth. Another blow would only strengthen her resolve. Tears wouldn’t fall. “I am not death.” Father Tillicum pushed her down. “She must’ve done something to her, Mystic. This situation has the smell of deception.” He threw the covers aside of the dead woman. “Death is not this quiet of an assassin.”

With the help of a table Cassandra restored her stance, curtsied. “I weep for your loss, Arkin.” She acted the part, placed sadness in her voice. “I wish your mother had died some other way. During sleep nobody has a chance to even fight.”

Arkin acknowledged her condolences in a nod. Though his eyes held more anger than grief. Clenched was his jaw. Fisted were his hands, knuckles whiter than his uncolored skin.

“Witchcraft,” Father Tillicum said, rechecking the extinct pulse. “Poison. A poisoning, of course.”

The priest reached into his deep pocket, withdrew some sort of augmented phallus. It had the look of a penis but it certainly wasn’t a penis. Never before had she seen anything similar. Certainly God hadn’t attached them to men. Damyn’s didn’t look so big, so unrealistic.

“Stand back, Mystic. This tool causes uncontrollable regurgitation.” The priest forced the item inside the deceased, plunged.

As frightened as she was, the Mystic appeared doubly frightened. One would’ve thought he’d taken a blade to his lifeline if they could only see his face and nothing else.

“She’ll come back to life in a flurry of retching, Your Grace.” The plunging continued. “I’ve witnessed the brilliance of this tool firsthand.” When sweat soaked the priest’s brow, he discontinued his thrusting.

Still the woman was dead.


24 – Cassandra

Cassandra poured the rest of the blood down the sick woman’s throat. She spit most of it back up like a baby.

“I don’t need the blood, girl.” Violently violent, the woman coughed. “Drag me to the church before the sun goes down.”

“You’re too weak to leave your bed.” Cassandra never wanted to get that old, hoped she’d die before she aged so long.

The woman lifted her head as to stand up, but she didn’t go anywhere. “I’m a mother, girl. I’m a mother. My son is shit. He’s shitty shit. He should be here fucking his mother until I’m fucked.”

“You’re not a mother anymore,” Cassandra said. It was the tenth time she’d told the woman in the last hour. “When you married your son he became your husband. You no longer have any children. You’re not a mother.”

“My son is shit, girl. He’s shitty shit.” The woman coughed. Green goo popped out of her mouth. Cassandra did her best to clean it up.

“You’re not a mother anymore,” Cassandra said again.

“A mother deserves to be fucked, girl. For what I pushed out, my son should push in. On MILF’s Day every mother should be fucking until they’re fucked.”

Cassandra pulled the sheets up to the woman’s chin. “You’re not a mother.”

“I know it’s MILF’s Day, girl. I created the day. I should know it. I can smell it.” She sniffed. “I smell fucking. My son is shit. He’s shitty shit. Never be a mother, girl.”

Cassandra crossed the room, closed the curtains, remembered when that priest had unraveled himself from them and molested her. Somehow she still felt his finger between her legs now. She could feel the tears dressing her eyes. She blinked them away as she walked back toward the sickbed.

“Is the sun going down, girl?”

Forcing a smile, Cassandra said, “The sun has gone down for today. But it’ll rise tomorrow.”

“Oh, my son is shit. He’s shitty shit. Never be a mother, girl. I hope you’re never a mother.”

From behind the sick woman’s head, Cassandra pulled a pillow. “Never be a mother,” the woman continued. “I hope you’re never a mother. I hope you’re never a mother, girl.”

“I’m not a girl.” Quickly quick, Cassandra placed the pillow over the woman’s face. Slowly slow, the woman died.