Posts for June 22, 2025 (page 5)

Here’s my gardening outfit. *photo*

Cuntyyyy.

Supreme cuntiness.

Anyways… We bombed Iran.

Shutup.

Godddd. We are so fucking cooked.

You know I used to have this fear as a child that one day I’d die from a war … bomb dropping on my house and well..

I just started my ice machine. I’m about to crash out.

Me too.

Me too.

Maybe I’ll make some pasta or buy some crack.

Where’s Bernie.

Fuck it I’ll buy a Labubu if we’re going down.

Clip it to your Lamumu.

You know what.. you’re onto something.

I’m not gonna lie I could go for a pack of Pall Mall Menthols.

Remember
your focus is on 
delivering and not 
receiving 

I leave my first grave and beg it to forget. I leave and I leave and I leave. My first grave is my first death, my first grave is where I always return.
One, two, five, twelve, twenty, thirty, fifty.
My death is not always new and it is not always death. My first grave overflows but still I come back, get down on my knees and clasp my hands together. Like it will change anything. Like it could. 
Please forget me, I ask. Please forget me. Please stop thinking of me and pulling me back.
My first grave is not a comfort but I feel unsteady when I’m away. I leave and I leave but I cannot stay gone. I beg it to forget but I still remember. My first grave and all my deaths come back to the same place.
I always return and I cannot quite leave. I leave and leave but how much of me stays     behind?
My hands, clasped together in prayer or forgiveness; my eyes, wet and wide and unseeing; my mouth, overflowing but dry of words now that I’ve returned.
What stays? What calls me back? This first grave is the last is the only grave. Don’t I deserve     more?
I leave but I never find it. I leave but I can’t find it. I leave. I leave. I always try to leave.

A long time ago, there lived a bungalow
Below the grove, tucked in the undergrowth.

Three sisters lived in a single row—
                             witches, they said—
                         but who was to know?

The middle was a bridge between worlds:
Left, or right—which would delight?
A harbinger of words, these woods endure.

The right was a fighter, polite with a bite:
Right wrongs & write songs, all night long.
Bleeding heart of passion, a smile of style.

The left was loyal, never to leave:
Leaf-by-leaf, by autumn’s fall, to haul
Stitches to riches, which turn to kisses.

Sisterhood is woven into the neighborhood.
Trees would fall; paper births a covenant.

Blood promised, mud on us, we were honest:
In nature we trust, to nurture we must.

Bewitched is the daughter who finds her coven.

I woke to darkness
thick as doubt—
a silence pierced
by the thunder
pounding in my skull.
Sweat soaked the sheets,
not from heat,
but from the panic
my body whispered
without words.

A pulse behind my eye,
pressure blooming
like something about to burst—
the kind of pain
that makes you count
each breath
just to be sure
it’s still there.
My hands, foreign.
My chest, tight.
A thousand thoughts,
none of them kind.

I lay still,
afraid to move
in case movement
meant goodbye.
But it passed.
Not the worst.
Not that.

Still, it left a bruise
on the edges of my peace—
a discomforting echo
that I am not immune
to the clocks
that stop mid-tick.
I wish God
would only speak through
sunrise or birdsong
instead of fear.
But would I listen
without the ache?
Would I slow down
without the scream?

It’s strange—
how the cold realization
that one day
I won’t wake at all
has sparked a new way
to open my eyes.

I’m not promised forever.
Not on Earth, anyway.
I’m promised a relocation.
That thought alone has 
me seeking a new life.
A new beginning.
So I go,
like it might be
the start
instead of the end.

Her tail swishes back-and-forth as she grazes
on dark green spring grass. From time to time,

she sways her long neck from side to side,
sheares off chosen blades. Now she shakes

her head towards the sun, her caramel mane
lifts and falls. She hasn’t heard about the heat

advisory. Nor of any news. She soaks in the elements
day by day. Instinct leads her to graze in sun,

to move to shade, to stand under the roof of her barn.
To drink her fifteen gallons a day and lick her salt block.

She sees me next time she lifts her head—
gallops up and neighs, nuzzles me,

though I am the one who keeps her corralled.
Yet, she seems so much freer than me.

One Hundred court stenographers,
each trained by
the same online course,
(recorded in a basement in Lincoln, Nebraska)
race to input
the full lyrics of
“Ice, Ice, Baby”
in an attempt
to crown a valedictorian.

One hundred clear glass spheres
(not a cateye among them)
stampede,
God’s marble collection
clattering from leather pouch
into Waterford crystal,
cheap plastic irises
stabilized
by righteous souls.

One Hundred ordinary gray mice
learn ballet
(lacking the rhythm
necessary for tap)
and congregate on a June afternoon
to recite
on the corrugated roof
of a Little League dugout.

One particularly observant mockingbird,
hearing the three hundred,
calls back, reproducing
the sound of raindrops
wetting the shingles above
my attic bedroom.

despite disappointment
dilly dallying
and otherwise minor distress
caused, of course, by others

and plan my overcoming