Day 3: Losing Teeth in a Nightmare

There’s a pyre of calendars burning in the pillows.

Smoke billows to the ceiling  in the color of overused pencils.

I’ve become a pious woman and summoned priests

when I mistook scales and grades for the devil.

They sound so small when they ricochet off the headboard

Eat more spinach

Their bouncing tracks knit opaque webs across the room.

I vomit cotton candy after a final tilt-a-whirl trip.

Our throats become papery and green after a while.


Another pen snaps as the chest accordions

and words collapse against each other like dominoes.

Where’s your sense of creativity?

The journal lies agape.

The document starves. It’s been hours since the last edit.

Don’t you want to get paid this month?


It takes three weeks to break a bad habit

but only one more misstep

before my molars fall out, start collecting in the rain catchers

on the linoleum floors of the amygdala during the night

Drink more water

and I’m walking naked through the limbic system.

Don’t bite your nails. 

The hippocampus spits out half-digested doves,

their bones clattering down vertebrae

like broken Slinkies.

Just take your calcium

and get back to work. 





Why aren’t you meditating anymore?, he asked, the hypertension

pills sliding down his throat like lightning bugs in a foggy jar.

I gulp in stars. I’m just too distracted, I replied. Because I’m busy.

Because notes flit across these cluttered desks like dragonflies.

Because nests of articles possess my screens with a guttural clatter.

Because the fireflies might not be covered by insurance.

Because I choose to swallow myself instead of a careful digestion,

spitting little pieces to the world in the fashion of a gumball machine.

Alight, he asked me why I started in the first place. Mouth full of lies

and quick wings, I rehearse my answer. I just wanted the noise to go away. 


There was a blue man outside my room today.

He prowled the rooftops with shovels for limbs

and an excess of tombstones strapped to his chest.

He frowned at my window with gelatinous dimples.

Had lost his features as though they melted off his face.

In response, I pasted giant googly eyes to his forehead

and hid the crinkled receipt from his new gaze

as one would a proper gift. Asked him how he felt.

Suddenly, he was more green. Cerulean, as if he

had swirled a bit of the cosmos in his molded flesh.


He told me he wanted to plant a forest tonight.

His saplings were strewn out to dry in a damp prism

of emerald. Wondered if he could tuck into

their asthmatic shadows like patchwork

of laughing darkness. Already removed his eyes

so they couldn’t show him the dawning world

as the sun blew away his warmth from their stems.

He’d wanted to hide, he said. I’d thought otherwise.


I wove cornea from the psalms of mourning doves

and hooked them into the rumbling, convex plastic

coating his new vision. He was a sickly gold, now,

splayed on the glass like a star before a black hole.

Said he knew I’d kill him today. Suck the evening

sky out of his skull like unnecessary trephination.

You all do. Doesn’t matter, I’d decided. He would die


without the lobotomy, anyway. Well, something of him

would. I chiseled his lunar name into another tombstone

and placed it in his stretched knapsack. Plunged the pick

beneath his jittery pupils and began our work.

Watched the world spill greedily out of him. His chest

concave. We’re always devoured by stars, regardless. 

Felt his head go cold as the ground turned orange.




Cortices trail your shadow,

umbilical tastes left intact.

We develop from formulas

to recipes. We begin to jelly.


Lips fall from putty smiles. Nobody

sets. I melted for winter. You cook


cobweb smirks through bricks

like brown sugar: that ethereal

clanking when we clatter

like dropped lollipops,


how jawbreakers giggle

through vending machine intestines.


I’m made from homebrewed indulgence

and caramelized roadkill: bones jut forth

from bastardized earths

like sucrose mountains

peaked by broken teeth.


You are slimy with the gum of tomorrow.

Go home. This world infects your mouth

with mushrooms,

your tongue post-

marked by tires.

Chatter (Think Rabbit II)

I could diagnose your teeth as snowshoes.


I’ve never seen a blizzard bleed before,

but it’s thumped against my own skull

and forged tetanus

from cranial musk.


Spotted white, I know your throat is infected.


I’d call it water on the brain, but it’s simply

the Spring melt. The amygdala’s expansion,

Darwin’s way of summoning those hounds

through anything holy.

Mammalia is chronic.

The treatment is to speak

as lightly as the shedding.

The Allure is Crepuscular

for nights when stallions blend

into the field, cool watercolors

weeping into



such nights when saddles taste

like lemonade from the groves

licking quicksand

instead of springs.


A sprig of lavender to summon

seasons, to trot the quilting sky

into the cortices

instead of dusk:


a tame pastel or pleasant scent

was never enough to slaughter

throttled astrocytes

with a broken leg.

Geometric Armories

Lay down your arms. Limbs,

mannequins of violent angles.

Shrapnel nails. Plastic smiling.

Chests twist in Mobius smoke

pale as cigarettes. Addicts for

throats like the Old Testament.


Parallelogram claws intersect

intention with a perpendicular

pastel. Its softness cracks like

china. Roundness to tectonics.


The chips tingle ice. Isosceles.

Dishes shake at sixty degrees.

Why should we see sharpness,


shapes where colors could flow?


Drink analytically. I’d rather cut

your hands than calm the stirring.