Author: flowerwords

When Captain Planet Can’t Save Us

It snowed in the Sahara Desert. The Great Barrier Reef is dead. Texas has no winter and still I always need a sweater.   The Great Barrier Reef is dead but Disney/Pixar didn’t get the memo. I wore a sweater during Finding Dori, did not cry or finish the movie. Disney/Pixar still don’t know their formula is like Australia’s coral. I did not cry or finish Finding Dori, was not interested in movies made after. Australia’s coral is dead, bleached and faded. Less than 100 Florida panthers roam the wild. Stories of their sharp teeth do not interest me. Nature documentaries make me want to die. Less than 100 Florida panthers know freedom. They will say, “Better captive than dead.” Nature documentaries are too life-like, too real. When we burn, the flames are called beautiful. Cages are offered as the only alternative to death. Last year it snowed in the Sahara Desert. When we burn, our captors call it beautiful. Our bodies have never known winter.

Birds, Clouds, Earth

Blue Jay says the rain tastes funny. The Air got a new feel. Not new like shiny. New like off somehow, like the Clouds are confused and forgot what it means to make love. The Earth tries to remind them but they can’t hear her. It’s not that she’s too far away or her voice is too soft– she knows how to project. But even she can’t be heard over people and people and people. Crow says Blue Jay is late– the Water has been rotten a long time, but what can be done? We must drink to live. The Clouds, heavy with poison, are still beatiful. When the Earth speaks to deaf ears, her voice does not stop being holy.

daddy in alabama

what sustenance found body was there food from home spiced heavy to make man remember brown faces surely there is a safer way to pay bills that excludes seeing death each day on the shoulder so many lanes of strangers who do not know the giant squid of their sea holds half of me holds someone who curses when they dart into his path just feet away his feet do they hurt is the neuropathy taking over did he take his meds does he have his meds does he doze as wheels move tonight how many hours will he sleep how much time on the wifi card will he use before closing curtains of trailer and stretching out in tiny bed how long have eyes remained open in log of stops and rest what is true and false what truths does he find on the road alone with thoughts postcards of mountains and fields and snow blurring past casinos and strip clubs and churches all begging to save soul all rejected for patches of grass …

profile photo

please be suspicious do not let me in your home i bring bad fortune with deceptive purrs and massages made of knives i smile while i kill mice too slow to live soft flesh pink red wet fills mouth i am beautiful in all my blackness

this i believe

in a biological anthropology class today, a student prefaces his answer to the professor’s question: “well, if you believe in evolution and that kind of thing…” the universe is infinite. life lives on moons and bathes in starlight the way we bask in warm heat of poison water on earth. god is in the dirt. in the stones. in palmetto crawls through window crack to avoid cold, asks to be spared from death outside. sunshine kills germs — hang clothes on line between trees. old light purifies in different ways than powder soap. everyone knows their own truth. jesus was a man with siddhartha and mohammad. wise men of the past would laugh at us now. belief in change in a population over time does not conflict with dreams coming true next day or color flushing whole room or way unseen ones respond to minutes still and quiet. science and god are both beautiful.

DRESS CODES: Stitching Stories Together in Texas

Texas. Images of cowboy boots, desert and oil rigs come to mind. That’s all I thought I’d find after moving here in high school. I never expected that my voice would blossom in a land that felt so dry and barren, so opposite the garden on the sea I called home. Texas gave me poetry. In north Texas, it’s possible to find a poetry slam or open mic where people speak their truths uncensored almost any day of the week. There are academic readings of published writers, critique groups in coffee shops and collections of 20 or more people packed into living rooms laughing and giving each other writing prompts. My home lives in these words. My home is in this community. My home is a place of cowboy boots, desert and oil rigs. Everything’s bigger in Texas, including the politics. We could reserve a spot in the parking lot of national news coverage and give it to someone wearing a suit who wields pen as weapon. That someone would probably be a man, considering …

For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn

Hemingway didn’t mention a color. These are violet. They catch the light like a cat’s eye in the dark. They are too small to make me feel such big things– as was she, in dream after dream after fucking dream– until I stopped sleeping all together. Is there a scientific name for an obsession with the imaginary? Religion! Haha, clever joke. Told by someone without the answer skirting serious talk, because Why do you have to be so dark?

The Good Darkness

At this time, we are unable to provide status updates for previously reported outages. Something about the smell of rotten food that makes you recognize privilege– that you could have all this, sitting, and not think to buy cooler. Buy ice. Something about looking at clocks in the store, imagining nuanced tickings and tockings keeping you awake, being disappointed there is not one with two bells for ears and the closest thing you can find to what you need is too fashion magazine, too simple masquerading as avant-garde, too white. Something about candles– driving home from aisles empty of flashlights to see flickering yellow against windows, taking off clothes to sounds of shadows dancing on walls, Black Wings and Blind Angels by black gem of blue hue being read to moon’s music courting fire. Something about trees made horizontal by the hands of the earth herself, death in plain view, roots older than you will ever be plucked up as though string in cat’s hand, you made to remember all that is life.