Wrap your head with this material...

The nightmare collector arrives on a snakeskin collar he's the only one invited to dreams like this one he'll tell me later, my terrors are just the same as those of my ancestors but with bigger guns, scarier villians still he promises to take my dream back with him Skin it alive file it away but I know he can't take the entrails the nightmare leaves a bit of itself with you a party favor that can't be lost or tossed aside

In the morning dim, the lake is glass at the trailhead completely transparent friends/families hiking, that's all fools you into a clear surface, clear waters, clear roles and goals mere nature, a hike, an endeaver a clear path, a deep lake, a cool morning. Dawn, fiery, rusts the sky to life like slapped skin I look up Feel breezes across craggy raw iron spines a moth dances on ideas I luciddream into the blue, blue, blue sky the current picks up, flicks its wrist the moth flits a dance on the wind sparkles, glitter-mysteries on the lid of the lake Translucent, the light tossed around I don't want the moth to land I can't see beneath the lid There's more to it Pika skitter up preening their soft stuffed cheeks whistling hare yips and screeches somnolent thoughts, wispy and thinning from attention and focus to sounds and shapes. and eventually words. Hips, feet, quads awaken to a rhythm and progress. Hours blow by. Fully alert we reach

Her awakening is slow in the low hours before dogs' whines or the sun squeaks through blinds Before showers are warm or chores checked off, Her awakening is a yawn. Dew has not yet evaporated, its drops hint at her dissatisfaction What could be less endearing that someone else's drool? What could be less inviting than wet socks stepping in his shower remnants? ignore it get ready Her awakening is a snooze button. His jokes weren't what she accepted when he came courting the chorelist of his status how short it would be how long the ledger of his properties and earnings as long as her social calendar her list of invitations to reply to. Her awakening is a reckoning. Then there was a summer when she found how crude his culture was Had they no decency? August, it ended September sand in her toes October she felt it under her fingernails when she wrote letters she never sent him HIM Her awakening is a rush of cold water. She dips into an Olympi

I'm reading all this old writing and realizing how much I lie to myself about it all. I always believe I'm just around the corner from getting this writing stuff right. I think I've improved. But then I read the old stuff and there are pieces that have this quality of wandering like unfettered paint strokes, smeared and strewn. Like powder and blush in the hands of a toddler. Dust flying everywhere and joy upon cheeks. I've been living an unsuccessful suburban life. I don't live in a suburb but I have the third row seats to get there. The kids do activities that are anytown things and I do too. Grocery store. Sheets changed. Soccer games. No cubicle at least but a near-nonexistent retirement plan. Yawnfest. But I was shaken back to myself. Back to the person who has an impromptu dance party and takes the kids into the cave they want to check out. I was reminded that I like to make leaf rubbings for the feel of the friction. I couldn't say where a single colo

I pollinate your idea my hand to your heart wresting palm, gentle dewy neckline your color to my canvas your pen to my page vision to reality

1. Male authors writing female characters who are beautiful but somehow have no inkling of this. Seriously, cut this shit out. I'm just so tired of "she threw on jeans and a sweatshirt, ran her fingers through her hair, and sprinted off to meet ______." Cut. It. Out. Girls who don't know they're beautiful are far more likely to be tripped up by trying to figure out what the fcuk to wear than this. They are concerned they don't look good enough. And if they're not, that's a very different character. And also, just stop it. It's been done. A. Lot. 2. Male authors writing female characters, especially YA and middle grade, who make the protagonist a tomboy, especially if they use the word "tomboy." Essentially this is saying that the girl is okay if she's like a male. Then using her as a mechanism to allow the male character to interact with a female who is cool because she's like a male. It's also license for the male chara

Green is a four leafed fuck you Pink is a pretty please, Polly Wants no crackers in Belize She’s busy taking flight through the mangrove fleas Chopping at her feathers Crying at her flocks Are the her chics in their nests For it’s now lime o’clock

Sometimes writing a sentence is the biggest deal there ever was and getting from the bed to the shoes to the street while still breathing is the most desperately difficult act a person can muster. These holidays are hard some years. Some years I feel the pain of what I've lost so heavily, the family members that have died, the way my core has changed. And the years stack up and the things I didn't finish, the things I didn't accomplish, they stack up too. They're heavy to lift and I can't seem to always get up and do a single solitary worthwhile thing. This last year I lost my relationship with my brother. Fault doesn't matter. For this particular moment in time and my part, I'm not willing to repair it. That's not a light fact but it is one. He stopped being a good force in my life and I guess I didn't have anything to offer his either. And as that relationship dropped off of the precipice into a void, I felt and noticed others tha