waking.
my dreams infused with slips of you,
i will tell you only what i can remember..
i get out of the car,
and go around to the back
to get my piles of books out..
i sort through them, and all
my father’s papers but end up
grabbing these nautili carved from wood
and filled with living plants instead.
i carry these with me as the car pulls away
and i am left alone on this dark surburban street.
a large wooden nautilus in each hand,
i start walking, looking for the right house
but i can’t remember what it looks like..
tall grass grows in some of the yards,
and a woman wanders aimlessly,
her bathrobe untied and flapping..
i follow her into her backyard
where she shows me her prize-winning roses
and hummingbird feeders,
glass flowers filled with sugar water..
i can see the ruby heads glittering,
dipping into the sweet center-
this is their drug, and when the woman dies,
so will the hummingbirds..
as she tells me this, i watch
bees swarming over the hummingbirds,
i can’t understand what’s happening-
are they being devoured? caressed?
then it hits me:
the bees are making honey
from the hummingbird blood.
in his purple poppy palace
the black jaguarito prince
tells me of the love with which he raises
and tenderly cares for his hordes of bees..
in his colony, there is no queen.
instead, there is a fat, larval king
who only stirs when the flames burn high and bright..
when he feels the warmth in the room, the adulation..
otherwise, he sleeps, encased in half a chrysalis..
i am talking to in my room,
i show her an exquisite art nouveau medusa mask,
which she wants to wear to the ball..
i brush her ginger coloured hair,
which has grown so long, and falls in soft waves-
the hair of the perfect pre-raphaelite maiden..
she wants serpentine tendrils to hang around the mask,
and i try to coax snakes from her fleecy locks..
other things are so vivid, but i can’t find the
reason in remembering them-
the little tomboy, so eager to see me-
i tell her to wear cedar instead of washing.
the car alarm that finally wakes me
begins as strange music in my slumber,
before i realize what it is..
the longer i can lay abed,
recounting certain snippets-
the longer i can sleep at night,
voyaging far afield.

many thanks and kisses to for his industriousness!
I will be there today from 4-10pm, come play with me- i’ll make you a stultifyingly scrumptious beverage!

breathe in the cold night air flickering with diamante,
smoking from my mouth in glittering plumes
frozen to the quick, once again my heels clicking
against the uneven asphalt on desolate streets..
seeing sound as colour, in split fragments
the voices of children laughing in a strange language
echoing off the dark houses and bare branches-
i come upon them playing and screaming
weaving in and out of an old car-
they are bizarre, mutant children,
their stocky inbred bodies
their mongoloid faces,
the clouds of white blond hair
encircling their circular heads
in gauzy coronas
the door flies open and out
comes their mother, the troglodyte
matriarch of the happy band
of hermetic circus freaks
roaring at her progeny
in a foreign tongue..
i pass this strange scene
convinced i am dreaming..
mme. mickey love appears from the shadows
and we stop in the cold for a spell,
she tells me that the monster family is polish,
that they’ve been there for years and years-
reclusive, and exceedingly peculiar..
i stand and gaze at the chinaberry tree,
golden and glowing against the pitch blue,
it looks like a painting, stark and luminous..
i stop in for tea, and spy madame stella-
the icelandic velvet-witch,
who stitches together such exquisite
silken wonders in her warehouse atelier..
she is the most beautiful crone i have ever seen.
i want to be like her when i grow ancient..
she told me about the fairies in iceland,
about how there are laws that protect their dwelling places,
from desecration and the vagaries of “civilization”
her voice is thick with hoar-frost and tangled skeins of
watered silk, her eyes are pale green shards..
she asks me if i can see them, and i tell her..
i am her little sister, she is great-aunt tanglewood,
one of our ilk, and soon she will be leaving..
more wonders still, walked in the door,
the very girl i needed most to talk to-
the illustrious mme. cole accompanied by a mme. rose,
and we discussed needful things for the doll-show
and they conveyed me home most chivalrously,
saving these brittle bones from the chill air..
today was one of dim never-awakening,
of pointless arguments and unhappy accidents
scathe my skin, and prickle my nerves..
the one aspect of my daylight hours
shot through with silver,
a group of maroon-robed tibetan monks,
some sage, some smiling as they pass me by..
i wish they would come in and let me
make them tea.
Huldre: These Icelandic fairies look like beautiful girls from the front,
but in back they may have tails or they may be one-sided.
They demonstrate that beauty is only one part of something.
In fact, in surveys, few Icelanders rule out the existence of elves, dwarfs, trolls, light-fairies, and especially “hidden folk,” gregarious, human-like creatures that purportedly dwell in rocks.
The road authority typically responds with sensitivity, routing roads around hallowed boulders or delaying construction long enough to give non-human constituents time to find new accommodations.

to all my kittens residing in la nouvelle orleans,
today i’m working a long-ass double at CAFE Z’OTZ,
our marvelous new phenomenon
located in the whirling dervish (1135 decatur)
24 hour coffee, tea, chai, fresh juices, yerba mate,
and of course, cocktails..
please come by and keep me company
i’ll be there from whenever i get dressed and leave (soonly-ish)
until ten o’ clock this evening..
come sit and read by the cozy fireplace
and challenge me to a round of set..
and i will give you many kisses!

i walk outside and it’s night, clear and cold- perfect and blue-black
the sky through the trees and glare of stoplights is still littered with stars..
i take off walking in search of sustenance towards hell’s kitchen..
i never go there, but it seems close enough and relatively appealing..
the streets are dark and empty and i’m singing..
on the corner under a streetlight stands a man,
as i pass by he whispers, “psst..”
and starts to follow me.
“psst.”
i walk faster,
feeling in my pockets
for my knife, which i’ve left at home..
the one time i decide to walk, instead of riding my bicycle-
the one time i leave the house un-armed,
the one time i decide to go somewhere new, unfamiliar..
“psssst…”
i’m exhausted from spending the last four hours scrubbing a filthy floor
a labour of love at a friend’s new apartment..
i’m much more vulnerable than i ever am usually-
every last ounce of strength is drained from me,
every muscle aches, hands too blistered to fight off any attacker
“psst..”
i walk faster still, my boots are heavy when i need to be fleet-
i want to turn around and scream in his face,
i loathe being “psst-ed” more than any derogatory cat-call
if you have something shitty to say, just fucking say it already..
the urge to turn around and scream in his face is almost overwhelming-
luckily, i have some self-control and sense of self-preservation.
nobody’s home on this block, the shops closed, the houses dark
the empty dog park looms to my left, the perfect place to drag me off
this situation is looking worse and worse
with every minute’s super-charged awareness of it..
i don’t want to be the fucking rabbit, the gutless, guileless prey
to this fat bastard’s pathetic predator,
he’s wearing a jogging suit, for pete’s sakes..
i round the corner, scanning for my destination
not a car passes, not a soul walks by.
a dog slams against the fence at my right
his teeth an inch from my face,
slavering and barking ferociously..
i see the red glow up ahead, my beacon
i duck in the door and stand in the corner
i’ve gotten away..
this city is not a safe one.
i prefer to carry weapons, even in a calm town.
i think i am not someone who needs to own a gun,
for i would be tempted to use it in fits of anger and misanthropy-
i don’t like being threatened.
i won’t stand for it.
i ache all over, and desperately need a bath..
i have dustbunnies in my hair.

now that i am older and wiser than i was the day before yesterday,
i can tell you about my birthday…
a wonderful, wonderful day it was indeed!
i woke late and lay abed, listening to the wind blowing, scattering prisms about the room..then took a luxurious birthday bath and delicious and regal repast made by miss violet- french toast with blueberry ginger tangerine compote and fancy tea and fruit tartelette and delicate egg and bula and the light coming in all golden and silver, reflecting off the wind-tossed trees, dancing on the shining leaves..
i was given the most amazing thing-
a box of cobra-lilies and sundews and venus flytraps,
carnivorous plants that i can lovingly tend,
and also a wind-up toy of two hairless pink rabbits rutting,
by my dear sweet mackling..
white edwardian kid gloves, pearl ring and la perla from my sweetheart, and more..
many, many wonderful books-
lady cottington’s pressed fairy album
cherry and the liar’s club, by mary karr
the sadeian woman, by angela carter (these from violetta)
los caprichos, goya (from my darling grampapa)
apocalypse culture II
the strange case of edward gorey, by alexander theroux
(for anyone who adores edward gorey, this slim biography is a must, written his friend and neighbour, mister a. theroux, who also wrote darconville’s cat)
we had woken too late to let the animals out of the zoo after all,
so instead we lazed around in the hazy windy winter light and purred and crooned..
as the sun set we stepped out to dinner, collecting flowers on the way-
delphinium blue and fuschia snapdragons, black calla lilies and night-scented stock..
dinner at begues was as always, the most incredible, orgasmic gastronomical experience
i could have ever hoped for..replete with a bevy of fine wines and champagne, escargots (in beautiful shells, i took them home) and lobster and scallops in curry sauce and lime sorbet in a glass flower, and creme brulee..in all the lovely places i’ve had the luck to dine in, this by far outdoes them..i love never looking at a menu, never knowing how ungodly expensive each dish is, never having to make a choice- and instead, having course after course of splendid, exquisite dishes brought before you as if by magic..the place was nearly empty, quiet and dim..light from the chandeliers reflecting off of mirror and stained glass, eerie paintings of deserted street scenes shimmering ominously from the shadows..i have the illustrious rickilane to thank for the pleasure of this experience, for if he were not the maitre d’, ragamuffins like myself would never be allowed in such a place!
we walked home deliriously happy, to find two pretty urchins peeking into the garden at something on the ground..a dying dove..we watched as it took its last breath, too late to save it- i went in to collect the still warm body and invited them to come to my birthday party..when i came in there were many smiling faces (who had all been waiting quite a long time, oh dear!) and j.k. and miss wren had brought a pinata shaped exactly like my cat! i couldn’t bear to bash his head in, so instead i was commanded to tear it open with my teeth..inside the paper kitty were all manner of treasure! candy and glitter and x-acto blades and korean fingerpuppets!
reve gave me his incredible painting of the lachrymose embryonic cherub, much to my delight and amazement, and the exquisite miss gifted me with handmade replacements for my shattered poison glasses, the thoughtful darling…
sweet miss angie came bearing gifts of vomit flavoured jelly beans and chocolate frogs, and the most lovely boudoir doll ever, the blue-tressed miss stellamara!
miss violet and kristin made me a devil’s food birthday cake encrusted in slivered almonds, strawberries and blueberries, which we have been eating for breakfast..
on top of all this, i have been told by a certain hunter in the sky that i have even more spoiling awaiting me! could it be? i’m certain i couldn’t possibly deserve all of this! and, i just remembered! i have not one, but two gift certicates for massages awaiting me..holy cow! i am so goddamn blessed, i’m not even sure what to do with myself. the next time you catch me complaining about ANYTHING, please refer me back to this entry. thank you to all who made my holy day of whelping so ecstatic, to all who wished me well, i kiss you all.

i have decided that all of you are invited
to my birthday party.
RSVP
let’s go to the zoo
and set all the animals free

I am not normally a fan of bukowski, but finding this in a book on the back of somebody’s toilet over the holidays piqued me. It was one of miss myrtle’s paintings come to life in the written word.
for
Idle in the forest of my room
with tungsten trees, owl boiling coffee,
webs cowled in gold over windows
staring outward into hell;
cigarette breath: statues of perfection,
not stuffed or whirled in cancers
of ranting:
engines and wheels crawl to gaseous
ends along the sabre-tooth;
my trees climb with monkey-rhyme,
climb out throught the ceiling
breaking the TV antennas and
the dull howl of canned laughter,
canned humor, canned death;
idle, idle in this forest,
calla lillies, grass, stone,
all nighttime level peace
of no bombers or faces,
and I dream the stone dream,
the grass dream,
the river running through my
fingerbones
one hundred and fifty years away,
leaving shots of grit and gold
and radium,
lifted and turned
by dizzied fish
and dropped,
raising flecks of sand
in my sleep. . .
The owl spits his coffee,
my monkeys chit the gibberish plan,
and my walls,
my walls help endure the seizing.
-Charles Bukowski

i don’t know why i let this happen
the way i hate to start a day
with screaming rages and bloody hands
rifts that can’t be mended
torn bits left hanging
silence that breaks bones
it makes me double up
clench my eyes shut
stuff knuckles in my mouth
and howl
i can’t be in this box
i can’t be outside
this is the abyss
this is the heart
it takes everything
and leaves the rest
mutates and transforms
raw flesh and nerves
overexposed
released without tenderness
i wish i could run