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Summoning Margaret

Here is a very unfinished poem for day 13. I spent most of the evening decorating a prop Necronomicon, so unfortunately, I didn’t have a ton of writing time! Just normal evening activities.



So there you go again – dying
all over the place and you know,
I never really got those sigils right
with the hot glue and paint so
probably this is really the end.
So. Remember the time I forgot
myself and said there has never
been a day I did love and carry
you gently, like a katra, like a silk web
I had woven into my ears? Margaret,
is it strange how much I think of you?
Brave as a brass cymbal and singing
twice as loud? Some kind of emotional
quantum entanglement connects our eyes
through portraits always or maybe
it’s just that I was also flung through a portal
at the top of the world and found myself
worshipped. Daily we must file our nails
to points to stop them all from interfering.
Margaret, I’m sorry about the sigils, yes,
but I swear, it’s nothing a top coat couldn’t fix.

The Right Kind of Manifesto

Day 12! Kinda can’t believe I’m still going!



I bought a can of pineapple at the store like
it was a thing I might enjoy and now
it stares accusingly at me from the kitchen counter
because I do not know myself.
This is a golden age of suffering.
You can trust me because I am writing a manifesto.
I say with absolute confidence – I can no longer
hear the wind chimes on the balcony and so
they have surely flown off and impaled a nearby human.
The ones who walk by my balcony screaming about
the undignified death of radio. I am a grief-seeking
missile with my head loose and sparking and threatening
to fly at someone like a neighbor. Locate the source of pain
when pain is really the bug guts on our life-lens pretending
to be the cosmic microwave background radiation.
I would like, just once, to reroute the Large Hadron Collider
through my brain so it could teach me about my origins.
The one who eats the strawberries out of all your sundaes
and lights her candles for Ada, the Countess of Lovelace.
I am exactly what you are looking for, all you time-traveling
assassins! I leave my heart chakra open like a wormhole.



Day 11!



We weren’t raised
on scythes and needles
though we sometimes dreamt
of Death in elf-toed shoes,
lazing around the city streets,
playing dodgeball with dusty
happy children. Why
do we have so many questions
pulsing in us like heartbeats?
I am only the sister of Destiny,
who liked to steal my dolls
to cut their long golden hairs.
I don’t believe in sharing eyeballs.

We made a pact – let’s fill
an hourglass with our ashes
and always run out of time.
Truth be told, we’d rather live
forever. Truth be told, we’ve never
been more alive.


Sine Qua Non

Day 10! This poem came from an exercise I tried once or twice in undergrad. We had to “translate” a poem from a language we didn’t really understand and then turn the resulting gibberish into its own poem. So this poem is loosely based on an incredibly poor sonic translation of a Neruda poem called, “La Carta en el Camino,” – “Letter on the Road.”

Fun fact: I learned the phrase “sine qua non” from a Battlestar Galactica episode. Not the four semesters of Latin I took in high school or anything…



Goodbye, but you
will be
my conspiracy,
like vultures,
for blood in my veins. O fire,
O love, kiss me bravely
with roses,
like an island,
like an outlaw,
like a torment
hung in air.

Cleave the earth!
Bury your lanterns!
Don’t watch for me now
in the mirror-smooth sea.
The sea, the night,
like a lathe,
turn my heavens,
the muttering rain,
my body cut free.

I live on your lips’ unfurling red banners,
twist through my fingers the vines
of your hair. There is nothing
but this, O and this
is: I love you.
I love you, your hands,
like a sun,
like a prayer.
This, heart, is how
I could call down a highway
from the middle of stars
to the firmness of earth.
If I know how to sing
your breath is my anchor,
my sword through black water,
my cheek on the shore.

There is a hole in the Great Pyramid of Giza

Day 9! This one is a real work in progress. It kept wanting to rhyme, and it’s so sing-songy… I don’t really know what to do with it. Definitely needs more time.


There is a hole in the Great Pyramid of Giza

Like a black cloud blooming in the depths of my heart stone –
remember, remember and call my vizier!
Build me a nap-land to shame other nap-lands
and pour me down slowly with honey and wine.
King Khufu’s Horizon, the south road of Memphis,
shake off my casings, and tumble my walls.
Fill me with breath like a foreign beast panting
and weather my sunsets on the wheel rims of time.
A slinking slow scarab like silver drops leaking
slips through my cracks toward the soft space inside –
beetle, oh beetle, oh – where will you find me?
Hide the hole in your pocket and drag it outside.






Murakami at the MFA

Day 8! Inspired by a recent trip to the MFA in Boston and their amazing Takashi Murakami exhibition.


Murakami at the MFA

In 24 hours, I can paint your dragon
red – see? – reflected in the shining,
low-reclining Buddha with a thousand
wide-mouth flower smiles lying all
around us, superflat. Do you grimace?
Have you learned to love your mutants yet?
Throw your back out climbing tiny
ceramic rainbows to the moon but
can we get there? Can we pull our roots
through the lens of time and farm us
something fresh? If you leave them,
do they fester? If you love them,
do they find you? Have you ever felt
a hot and glistening breath like
lineage on your neck? And then
(you see!) my whirlwinds wind
my eyes like cloud-specks over every city,
and then you gasp in all the blooming
cardinal directions, and then you bring your
hands to mine, and then in bleating blasts of
color, and we call the Earth to witness.

Let love never be your hapax legomenon

Day 7! This is the most I’ve written in awhile and it’s been exciting to get back into writing every day. And challenging. And things are already getting strange. I blame the dictionary that was next to me when I wrote this…


Let love never be your hapax legomenon

Look for me in every glassy storefront – full of lunar music. Did I tell you I have lived like a satellite – receiving everything, against the better judgment of my aura readers? Psychics have said I am followed by spirits – no – I am full of them – brainhandled, sparked, and unflinching. There are no past lives. I am everyone I have ever loved. Shake me down like a thunderbolt. Dissolve my lissome filament. I have torn mendacity from my hedges and I will not be buying your tartuffery and star turns. Throw your pomegranates at the roadside dust like – not today, Hades! No, by now I have lief laid down my mysteries.

Wake the Oracle

Day 6! Almost a week in!



who once sat
stone-dark, immobile
and born today.
Watch my eyes
move closer
like a flounder

like a brain’s white
shyness standing
in the doorway
til the silence is
gone. I should
forget. I must and still –

I do. Don’t I?
A small, smooth
penny floats past
and I slip my soul
inside. Brash

beaten, drag me
toward my glorious
failure, my bed,
my breakfast
at the end of days.
This day, the pinpoint
I revolve on,
in my sparse field
like desiccated snakes.

What do you want to hear?
Oh tell me! To hear – you’ll see –
is not enough, when

free and low, a trench
creeps closer
and deeper,
knowing the pretense
of our delight.

Belief in me is
only an anchor.
Coming awake,
I can find you –
a moon beached
on my planet’s shore.
If you want it.

Love and Waste No More Time

Day 5 and things are already getting wacky. This poem was inspired by paging through some Frederik Pohl short stories and a Nietzsche compilation (two books randomly pulled from my bookshelf).


says everyone dead, but they never do convince us.
My cheeks aglow like the Venusian summer — come
stand with me in all this precious sunlight, caterwauling,
astonished. Good morning and now may I have the marmalade?
I have forgotten time. You stare suspiciously.
This is nice as pie, why, what delightfully impudent mammals
we are! Being nibbled to death by our nobler guilt
and 800 degrees in the shade. When did we leave the house?
When the wind blew in those aromatic reminders of our mortality,
of course, yes, your cheerful blue eyes and your wake-up needle.
Consequently, none of this is conclusive and yet —
what prudent man would write a single honest word about himself?
All of our heroes are liars, full of divine malice.
Let’s cut them apart and clothe ourselves in their better natures.

Healing for the Splendid Imperative

Day 4!

Healing for the Splendid Imperative

Lord, you are not going — god, lord god,
and god of the future — press your space face
close to mine, and sing me to my opera house.
Bring a bale of hay and a bucket of water to the stage
for the hungry piano. The chorus rings like an empty
endless river and it needs you. The difference
between an egg and an oval — yes? — is life.
God, lord, I was made to be the right hand
in your first house and I have held close
your oldest grasshoppers. I can be the one
to save the spider song from your rafters,
god! Bring forth your witching hour and
this time next summer, we could all
be driving Tesla’s on Mars.