The house is aglow with weird oranges. Not the warm oranges of winter hearths or camp sing-alongs; these are the good faith hues of Christmas tree five-alarms—a craw kiln lit by Judas's brought inside under pretense of joy and tradition—a belching orange feeding upon swaddled children and house pets.
The bright casts billowing smoke in relief against starless black. The air is sulfur and sunscreen—chlorine and lunchmeat. The house slowly shrinks, pinched by the horizon into a twinkling smudge, a poor man's star.
It lingers, straddling the bucking horizon. Ma's dinner's ready! two-finger cuts the air, and the speck snuffs out.
Pure dark.
A quick flash.
Dark again.
Another flash, closer now.
The light takes flight, limping through highway chicory, sputtering towards suburbia.
A lanky wallflower stands in his yard; hands cupped up like two C's; mouth caught in idle yo-yo between wan hyphen and turned wine anus; eyes twisting Brownian to touch the dying light of summer.
When it comes, he holds his breath and sneaks below, willing it towards the grass. He cups his C hands around it; it ping-pongs palms like spooked fish and flashes his skin vermilion. He smiles at his insides and, if asked, would swear the light tickles.
The mosquitos chew his stilled legs, their proboscises eye-deep in his flesh. He appreciates their gifts of math class companions—needy, garrulous lumps pining for fingernail Xs—friends to take his mind off his closed mouth and fuzzed gut.
His mother's at the screen door, calling him in. He gallow-walks to the sidelong mason jar, savoring the grass whisper of each step.
Alarm set for 06:00—lights out—the jar flashes green-yellow on his nightstand, his mouth slicked with bus leather and diesel, mind full of jeering faces: Loser! Weirdo! Faggot!
He snoozes the rude alarm, blinking sleep fog, awakening vision checking the mason jar: the light is belly up, the sky sour with ash; it's a school day.
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daisy broth
Walking tarantulas of cast grain peacock betwixt the daisies I once mistook as weeds. I carry your too-new self around the yard, shielding you from the fading delft blue. The new puppy scent on your breath tickles my lips.
good etiquette
I found her hunched mantis-like over my dishwasher, rummaging through food-crusted kitchenware.
Mystic gnarliness, trying to unravel it but not really bothering that much as I like the cryptic bits just as much as the apparent bits.
gorgeous, i can feel this like I'm picking gravel out of my knees