It's not like I'm drowning serpents in my spare time.

Slick slipper

slippery snake snicker

flicker

fall into a whole

to flood

faster

never hear you hiss again

Merry Christmas, bee tee dubs.

Your actions were screaming so hard I never heard your empty words

Falling like paper parchment

Colliding with dry wispy leaves of what's left of me

After the storm of your whim tore me apart

Optimism Prime

Revamp(ire)

Reboot life via telephone wire

Call on yourself

To be someone else

Suck your old life out of black veins

Spit in scarlet and new

Cold and quiet and leaving that old corpse blue

I never take pictures, not even on Halloween

We went to all the trouble of dressing up troubling

A special pocket in the purse, snug home for the camera

Where it sat all night; neglected

Finding ourselves too busy making memories

Letting them run free of capture

Going to Court

12 or 6
Jurors or pallbearers
Die or be judged?
I'll take my chances on double the enemies
And risk being hung anyway.

Good Intentions.

Wouldn't it be nice if everyone's heart was in the right place?

No.

Those places are never the same

And stretch from me to Lucifer

What is that road to Hell paved with again?

Stress is like

and then I asked why you were taking the turns so hard? like a skier veering back and forth on slopes over snow instead of roller skates over roadkill instead of blades over ice instead of wheels over slick asphalt instead of talking there is only acceleration of the needle on the speedometer and the beat of my temples to pulse and my voice. The engine only got louder fighting with the broken radio and the cliff only got closer and then

Actual conversations are naturally the best kinds.

"You know Mom, when Dad is wasted, he goes through with wrestling with the dog, he doesn't just stand there, bluffing."

I'm making spaghetti, by the way.

You can watch the pot all you want
Beg it not to
It's still going to boil
And you can cook hot enough to kill
Both the germs and the nutrients
It'll still be hot but it won't taste good
Damned if it stops the empty calories
From being shoved down anyway.

Damned roots.

Ripe cherry tomatoes in an otherwise wilting salad;
I drop into the water and watch the scarlet sinkers search for something,
Plopping softly with blatant disregard for the ripple
Hoping to hop into caves where they can burst in peace
In a place without the horned hedonists haunting
My ever growing dreamscape of demons with
Ever more dastardly deeds.
I'd rather find somewhere else to grow
Than keep trying to evade
Take my fruits to the lake
And part of me without salt
(for my salty demon demeanor)
will sink

I've gotten a lot better at dealing with rumors.

You body is wasting away faster than my concern for the knives you spit at me.
It's easy to dodge atrophied insults.
It's easy to resist the urge to air the dirty laundry.
That stinking pile you won't shut up long enough to swallow.
It's easy to float on the pond scum you create.
And laugh while you scream from the bottom of your shallow pool.
At a point one's anger becomes nothing more than a punchline for another.
Always.