Soulful
Autumn leaves in piles
at your feet I smile
whisked up in the chill
of bare tree limbs
regal in poses
possessing the spirit
with promises of apple cider
and cinamon sticks
knitted sweaters
with kaleidoscope jewels
and amber sap
on sticky fingers
finding their way to
comfort in decay
an annual dance
of those bewitched
by western winds
Fortunate are those
with the autumnal soul
Joanne, how do you pronounce your last name?
(-)
[a moment later] Hey, stop talking about me!
Morris Lawrence Building, 2:30PM, 9/7/2024
under the norway pine there are faint notches in the bark, one tally for each secret you have spilled. its twin used to bear the weight of teenage angst, hearts carved so deeply they scarred the cambium. it burned down one night, struck by lightning in front of your house. confidence or coincidence? we were young and nameless; admit it, there is no more value in saving face. buttercup blues–scale a tree, snap a branch, so you can’t leave.
How many followers do you have?
One.
See, then the ratio of one to eight hundred following is crazy! Who’s the one anyway?
A random.
Mosher-Jordan Dining Hall, 11:30AM, 9/6/2024
we sentence dynasties of mice to their deaths, eyes strapped to a display, a paralysis of creature and conscience. outside, i am drowning in distractions. i see your mouth and i smell your voice, just out of reach, a parasite in the brain. i turn to the screen and immediately the sensation fades. my screams are reflected in a pleasant digital echo, but it does not matter anymore. above, an observer makes a note– turns to the supervisor–makes a face that betrays a flash of fear. the wheel keeps turning, though none remember why.
Separate my work from my life, I’m glad that I was the one to answer the phone before my story goes public…
Barnes & Noble, 10:00AM, 11/1/2024
there is a collage of shoe prints at the front door. how long has it been since i visited you? there are boots and canes and infant shoes strewn across the hallway. we embrace like lovers; we discuss the weather like strangers. the heat, am i right? we are two ostriches with our heads buried. quicksand logic: time moves slowly if we reminisce, as if memory moves counterclockwise and we can escape to the treehouse and the campfires and the blanket tents. your ingenuity reflects my innocence. the baby coos and you whisper lullabies in a foreign language–i realize it is foreign to no one but me.
Have Some Manners Being witty can be kind of shitty, but being shitty is not witty. Someone not witty, not necessarily shitty, is a dumbass. Someone shitty, not necessarily witty, is a smartass. I know that being dumb is bad and being smart is good. Still, I’d rather be a dimwit with shitty wit, than be a witty shit, who’s a piece of shit. - Sappy
Content warning: mentions of blood, profanity
Nosebleed
I see red
smell pennies
am I bleeding out
my nose
or just my eyes
adjustments are needed
contact lenses or otherwise
I’m woozy
walking somewhere
my legs will carry me there
there is where i will go
I don’t know where
the world’s blurry
behind fluid-tinted glasses
how funny it is
that my body can’t contain itself
in lungs or lifeblood
the capacity to
spill over the side
and to want to
pluck reds from strawberry bushes
bell peppers come from bushes too
but you don’t see people picking them
because who’d eat a bell pepper
when life’s dripping
and you’re bleeding all over the fucking carpet
@#$%&!* I like to swear. I swear I’m not bad or uncivilized. I swear I’m a proper lady. I swear on my life. Hear me out: a knight who does not swear is no knight. All knights must swear an Oath of Fealty for chivalrous conduct. Here’s my oath: Oh my Lord, sweet Jesus Christ: I swear to you. Hear that? I swear to God! I swear I only swear to prove that. - Sappy
Recipe from Hell
INGREDIENTS
1 garlic clove
5 sesame seeds
4 snake eggs
2 tbsp sage
1 fingerbone
DIRECTIONS
Mash the clove
Grind the sesame seeds
Crack the snake eggs
Whisk until incorporated
Crush the fingerbone finely
Sprinkle bone dust and sage into the mixture
Whisk vigorously until the souls of your enemies cry out
(from beneath the floorboards)
Bake until golden brown, or until the angels weep at your feet
Leave to cool in the center of your pentagram
Allow the hellfire erupting from the ground to crisp the edges
Dig in!
