There's a castle,
off in the distance.
I can see the tops of its
turrets along my horizon.
It calls to me, on foggy
nights when the children
fall asleep.
It tells me I'm its queen.
I am. Of course I am.
My castle misses me.

Hush now, babies,
and gather your things.
No worries about the fog outside,
dreary as it may seem.
We're off to Mommy's palace,
where the steps are made of stones
and you will greet each one.

Yes, this is
Mommy's castle
Yes, I am its Queen.
Over here now babies,
up the stoney stairs.
There's a gift up there,
for my young heirs.
A view of my Queendom,
you will forever behold.
Quick now, before you
little ones grow too old.

Please don't scream, little sister,
I promise,
your brother didn't feel a thing.
Enjoy the fall, little sister
and tell your brother
what you've seen.

My castle is so lonely,
but it only calls to me.

Don't ya wanna ramble through the dew-wet blades of grass, over on that patch by the ball diamond? We could sit on the ground and poke our fingers through the   broken spot in the chain link, like when we were kids. Only, we didn't know each other then, but if we did, broken-chain-link-poking sounds like something that we'd do. We could do that. I could grab a bag of chips and you could bring some cold beer, and we could just sit there and kick at the dirt spots by the fence pole, next to the dugout, or the bleachers, I don't care. D'you care? Where we sit? Eatin chips an drinkin beer? Don't ya wanna?

I am a pyorrhea.
Diseased with morals
conflicting.
There are no pills
to cure what drains
from me.
Seeping onto the sidewalks,
the leakage of a beauty
exposed.
Exposed like a jutting
rock cliff where all
the birds peck
and shit
and nest.
I feel infested.
With judgements
and sideways
glances.
A pyorrhea that all the feet
give wide berth to.

Anticipation was high.
Glow sticks were adorned
and modeled, trapsed
over linoleum floors
like the cat walk in Vienna.
The midwest sun descended
and left wakes of translucent
grayish pink and orange roses
in the October sky.
It was time.

Conversation erupted in
bursts of candy counts
and costumes.

Buckets, blankets, folding chairs...
everything was readied.
A grassy curb curled
up beneath bouncing feet
awaiting sweet treats
and slight frights of
the Night Parade.

Flashing lights floated by,
illumination of miniature zombies
scarecrows and vampires
lit the boulevard,
so harrowing!

Screaming shoes bustled
in the street for tootsie rolls
and lollipops.
And as fast as it started,
it was done.
Eight pieces, in the buckets.
All the kids agreed;
the Night Parade
could suck it.

I'm never gonna stack up
if the dumb bricks keep falling.
I'm never gonna feel square
if dumb shit keeps balling
all over the rotten place.

There was a moles nest.
A sleeper cell of morbidity
flounced in pearls,
T-shirts, aprons
and Sunday jackets.
We never knew where
the next ankle-crunch
would come from.

Some were do-gooders,
with neatly edged driveways
and a perfectly-landed
newspaper that no one read,
rolled up on their Mary Poppins porch of sunshine.

Some were ass kissers
trying to fit in with the
Sunday brunch crowd.
They scratched a lot
of backs, those
filthy coat tail rats.

Some baked cookies
and read bedtime books.
Others wrote romantic
essays where the couple
walks away happy,
holding hands.
Such bullshit.

The moles were delusional
and left camouflaged holes
for us to step into.
Hoping for a fresh meal
to chew on, and to stay
entertained...they waited.

Accepting us just to
search for the strain...
the spider webbed cracks
in our skin that made
them feel good.

Now, we just don't go in.

Once, there was raging
warmth and fire
where the cold hearth
now lay.

Once, there were belly laughs
and jovial chuckles tucked
into the checkered sofa,
so infectious.

Now, the gray puffs
roll from the touch
like an archaic
dust encrusted tomb.

There's
No more breathing room.

I watched her walk away
as I whispered
"You're beautiful".
My voice was quiet.
I felt she was too strong
to hear such words.

As a person: I'm solid.
As a woman: oh, yes.
As a friend: like concrete.
As a mom: good, but still learning.
As a partner: blow your mind awesome.
As a navigator: never lost.
As a maid: clean your own damn mess, unless you're sick or dying, or you've asked nicely.
As a writer: full of doubt, but I do it anyway.
As a listener: oh, shut up already, have you read this?
As a confidante: like a steel trap...unless I'm writing.
Sorry. Not sorry.
I'll change the names.

October veils were thinning
as she stood in the kitchen,
grinning from smells of
old dead memories.
She enjoyed their company.

The temperature had dropped, suddenly.
Like unexpected
knocks on the front door,
it had caught everyone
off guard.
There was no time
for preparations,
for filling cracks forced open
from the summer rains.
As the children slept,
no doubt dreaming of
playgrounds and bouncing
vats of sweet treats
and toys;
the Army of Pestilence
scurried in through every
open crevice.
With collective conscious,
they went to work
by the thousands
and shredded the family apart.
Bit by furiously fast bit,
the rodent soldiers spread
their diseases by gnawing
through cotton and
polyester fibers till they
reached bone, and marrow.
The screams were heard
briefly, bellowing out into
the night, like a banshee cry.
By morning, the scurried,
furry army lay fat,
and satisfied.

It's been far too many days.
I try not to count,
but on the clear mornings,
the sun tends to trickle
in like dusty fairies...
dancing in through
Big Mama's
window.

Them damn fairies show me,
on the clear mornings.
They dance with my
cellie's slash marks
and make 'em shine
in my eyes.
I know how many days,
on the clear mornings.

But I don't miss him.
Clear days, dark days,
obscure days, just days,
it don't matter.

I'm on the right side
of the daisies,
and he is too, mind you.