Monday, August 29, 2011


In the closet, under the stairs, in the fridge, on the shelf, in the drawer, was a shiny wax box. In the box was a cake made of yellow covered with frosting and painted with flowers. Under the frosting was the happiest cake you ever knew. It sang and cooed the prettiest song under it's frosted blanket, deep in its box, tucked in its drawer, high on its shelf, deep in the fridge, behind the cushioned seal door, in the closet, under the stairs. No one knew how happy it was. No one could hear its song.

Then, one day, someone came into the closet and opened the fridge, slipped open the drawer, pulled out the box from the shelf. They opened the box and pulled out the cake covered in frosting. They stabbed it with candles and set fire to the tips. The candles dripped wax on the frosting while voices sang in joy and the cake was cut. It was split down the middle and columned and rowed. After it's body was chopped and put on plates and carried out to tables under a bright sun. Forks were jabbed into each of its parts. Teeth sunk deep into the yellow flesh that once sang. Tongues rolled and mushed the cake into tiny balls that rolled down the throats and into dark little bellies of boys and girls. Deep in the dark, the yellow cake was happy again and sang a beautiful song.

Monday, August 22, 2011

When love touches me

When love touches me.
A butterfly tickles my finger.
A creek whispers my name.
A trout winks under a crystal curtain.
Love fills my cave and I lay drowning.
My last sorrows gasping for air.
My old self becomes an empty cicada.
As my fingers make camp in the valley of your spine.
Gone are all the hungry coyotes.
This fire crackles for you and me.
Sparks blast off into the milky way.
Love, please don't let me go.