her professor

based in truth

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wooden horse

See how the wooden horse enters the scene–
on a silent dolly from stage right it gallops
Do you fancy Montague or Capulet
The show goes on, ending when the star-crossed lovers die
Isn’t that beautiful, how the royal velvet curtains cradle the set
All hand-stitched by Venetian cobblers, who were bored out of their minds–
stringing mandolins with leather shoestrings
The stiff horse has seen better days
Its low-budget cedar ass is splintering
Someone hiding in the pit had to be mindful of costs
The wooden equine doesn’t even belong on this set
The driver missed his cue for Cinderella this morning
In her pink world, no one commits suicide–
except maybe the mice, upon learning they are no longer stallions–
and that their playhouse curtains are a machine-stitched polyblend

animated refuse

this character sketch reminds me of an ornery Shakespearean spirit, I couldn’t tell you why

 

jeremiad

it’s unsettled, this thing in our chest
delicate as the velvet underside of lamb’s ear
bellwether of change
preparing to die
in the dark
in the cold
as winter shoves her fingers down its sleepy throat
dormant into the dirt
winter steals beyond the plant
she will claim our hearts with frigid hands 

I am sorry I have no answers
experienced in living
neophyte in death
parse these words gently
it’s unsettled this thing in our chest
delicate as the velvet underside of lamb’s ear

I do apologize for this lamentation
this jeremiad from dust
to dust

oatmeal walls

oatmeal walls

sketched last year-no one died for the writing of this piece-all is well