You prick your finger on more

than just the needle. Hollow

cones of cartilage—white feathers

in piles at your bare feet. You string

them against each other with black

thread. Not sewing wings for flight,

no wax no Icarus. One cold witch

cauldron-bound lifted fingers

against six meddling brothers

turned birds against night sky

turned swans on lakes with no voice.

Left you on castle doorstep

plucked like early fruit

and given a gold ring. Your six

swan brothers already reached the sun

and that yellow stained their skin.

No one’s getting them back but you

and every shredded feather found

at the lake.


These are magic beans, the sea gull said.
Yellow buds clutched in his dusty claws,
he placed them one-by-one on my wet palm.

A feather rode the sea air and settled in my hand
with the beans. The sea gull did not notice.
He twisted his head and listened to the crabs


     It probably wasn’t normal that she wasn’t scared. Most people would be. But, for some reason, the fear just didn’t rise in Arden. As far as she could tell just one coyote had appeared. The coyote followed her down the crushed limestone trail, but every time she turned to look at it, it performed a kind of little dance. Shifty stutter steps on its hind legs. High pitched huffs and chortles that sounded like laughter came from its jaws. Its hide shimmied on its haunches as it skipped along.


“Extenuating circumstance to be mentioned on Judgment Day: We never asked to be born in the first place.”

― Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Timequake


     Everyone is going to die.

     And thank God, right? Life is a sack of shit anyway. Life is a miserable disappointment and we don’t deserve it. Everyone – you, me, the little old lady who you gave your seat to on the bus – we all deserve to die, because we are all fucking monsters.

     Don’t believe me? Okay fine. I can prove it. (more…)

I see through the windows, a dry afternoon stoops down
The flamboyant horizon moves backward in haste
Stealing all colours and lively symphonies
A starving orphan moon plays in solitude in the farthest
Your coffined history sways in a frenetic way
In between the two endpoints of that grey duplicity. (more…)

we are not the same
you will hear
my voice
i am the harpy of your nightmares
will tear away your sunsets
until all they do is bleed
i am not your
but i am the one you should have
instead you took me for granted
so you’ll pay the consequences
i am a daughter of the
i will not be
told you once that i had a temper
you laughed in my face
told me that i
but my claws disagree with that notion;
i hope that you’re ready narcissus
to face the music
of your
greed. (more…)

so many nightmares in this world
you’re just another monster
whose masks i will
if he comes too close because i am
a dreamweaver full of love, hope, and peace;
but i will not forget how you broke
me to pieces just because you
because you mistook my kindness for weakness
i will show you the insecurities that bubble
and froth beneath your own skin their
putrid potion—
you are the dark witch looking for hearts to devour,
and i am the light one;
hunting you
until one day there will be a moment where one of us can
be no more and since you’ve already killed me
i will not die again
my arrows will fly and they will strike you straight through your masks
into the heart of you and you will fall to your knees—
you’ll try to say something to curse me
so i’ll cut out your treacherous, lying tongue before you can;
and you will stare at me in wonder as you fall
wondering where my mercy went
i only give mercy to those who wish to repent and those who deserve it,
but monsters who hurt others will not be given any consideration
when i fell them. (more…)

     And the wood witch talked in her sleep.

     When she did so, men came from miles around to hear her words, convinced she would tell them the best time of day to hunt, the easiest way to bring in a harvest, the steps needed to enter a woman’s heart.

     Once such man, a tall and skinny farmer who the others called Lamb, went alone to see the wood witch. This had never been done before, and the others were sure Lamb would never return. Many of them began dividing up his belongings as soon as he vanished on the horizon. By the third hour of his departure, some were already spinning a new mythology, the story of Lamb the Brave, or Lamb the Imbecile. By the tenth hour, the village slept and mostly forgot Lamb until morning.