This catacomb has lain untouched for centuries, the stone covering its entrance not having been moved since the last body was entombed here. The air is stale, old, stagnant, and thick with dust and decay. The silence is heavy and overwhelming, save for the stones and bones rattling and crunching beneath my boots. The pressure of being so far underground weighs on my chest and the darkness is nearly impenetrable. I carry a torch; the fire casting shadows against the walls and tombs. Skeletons wrapped in disintegrating adornments, surrounded by sentimental treasures. Not even the rats seem to be here anymore; any remaining corpse long past the time when they ever had any flesh on their bones. Unexpectedly, the moths come to my light. Awakening from their centuries-old slumber, to flit and dance around the warm flame, bumping into my hand, their soft wings brushing me in ancient dust. Have they been sleeping here among the dead all this time? Had they ever even seen a light before? If they had-would they even remember it? These moths must be in awe of me as the light-bringer, much how I am in awe that they are alive here, in this forgotten place, where there has only been darkness and silence.
Tag: 2019
The Sound of Loneliness [3-12-19]
The sound of loneliness is
The lighting of a cigarette.
The noise of an all day Netflix binge.
A dog snoring in my bed, instead of a man.
The sound of loneliness is
My own voice thinking aloud and giving me pep talks.
The turning of pages in a book in dim light,
The shuffle of my feet as I pace across the floor.
The sound of loneliness is
The ignored notification dings on my phone,
And the clicking of keys as I text someone who doesn’t answer.
And audio books I don’t have to play through my headphones.
The sound of loneliness is
The tickle of a fish tank filter,
The soft rumble of its pump,
And hearing my parents talk in the next room because I moved back in.
The sound of loneliness is
A car pulling away,
A plane taking off,
A call being dropped.
The sound of loneliness is
Being sent straight to voicemail when I call,
The silence after I say “I love you”
The beating of my heart,
The taste of the salt in my tears.
Black Hills, South Dakota [8-17-19]
The formations of the Badlands breaks the line of the horizon,
threatening to swallow the sun lie a massive Cretaceous era beast.
The Black Hills rise like the shadows of distant mountains beyond the trees.
The Ponderosa pines stand upon the hillside and granite outcroppings like giant sentinels.
The wind blows steady through the trees, sounding like the rolling tides of the ocean.
The moon hangs low and full over the rolling prairie like a polished rune stone,
illuminating an endless sky full of worlds a world away.
The nights here are darker, longer, deeper.
The distant echo of a dog’s barking seeming as a wolf to the imagination.
The ground shines like diamonds from the mica deposits exposed among the dirt like broken glass.
The crickets, grasshoppers, katydids chirp their songs in the underbrush,
which is entangled with wild raspberries.
We fill out hands and mouths with the tangy sweet morsels,
soft like velvet and delicate as baby birds between our red-stained fingers.
We trek with our packs among the forestry lane,
feeling as though we were the first European explorers to lay eyes upon this ancient land.
Every sight, sound, smell, and taste; a wonder.
Dream: The Night Stalker Richard Ramirez [8.26.19]
Richard Ramirez was in my dream.
He was tall and we danced. We had never met before. He didn’t know who I was, but I knew him, and that he had already murdered women.
I said “I know who you are, night stalker.” And to prove it, in the middle of the noisy packed bar, I pulled down the collar of his t-shirt a bit, to expose the top of an upside down pentagram that he had carved into his own chest.
He was super confused and shocked. He stared and then motioned for me to follow; he wanted to take me outside somewhere. I kind of blew him off, because I was dating someone already and so I started gathering my coat and bag, muttering excuses.
He turned away from me and went outside with his friends, who were wearing black and dressed like punks. After a few minutes, I thought better about it, and followed him outside. I called out “Richard” and he turned and looked at me, and then turned away, went into the street with his friends to set off some kind of m80.
There was a cop nearby watching them, whom I started talking to, to distract her, while they set off the explosives near a Cota bus. The shockwave blew out the bar windows and was visable to the eye; a color like blue fire.
Stockholm Stalker [10-16-19]
His eyes are upon me again, I can feel it. Sometimes he’s a tall looming silhouette on the path behind me when I walk at night, or a whisper in the wind outside my window. Other nights, he’s the noises coming from the darkness between the trees, or the warm sticky breath upon my neck while I sleep. But he’s always those eyes; piercing and dark, with such depth and hunger.
He’s been following me for so long, awake and sleeping, that my body can register his closeness before my eyes see him. His presence, although frightening, has become familiar. There has always been that grip of fear in my core, the electricity down my spine, but now there’s something else as well.
His eyes feel like a weight or a blanket; covering, hiding, and comforting me. But sometimes it feels like the warm sun on your face after being in the cold. Sometimes it’s easier to sleep knowing I’m not alone, even if he’s always out of reach. And his eyes, only ever watching and never daring to touch.
Rhyming love poem from hell I wrote with voice to text while driving [6-17-19]
There are grounds floating in my coffee
And my red lipstick print on the rim.
It splashes in the cup as I drive distractedly
And I can’t stop thinking about him.
It’s been raining for days
There’s a cigarette in my hand
And I can’t begin to count the ways
That his love is hard for me to understand.
My fingers are stained yellow with nicotine
My lips are stained red from his kiss
When we’re together my thoughts are so serene
And when we’re apart his love I surely do miss.
I feel like we spent the beginning always in my truck
Fighting for minutes and seconds alone
I had never expected to have this kind of luck
I get weak when I hear his voice on the phone.
He asks me how I got so beautiful
And I asked him if I’m good enough
Love like this in stories is always magical
In him are my secrets and I’ve given him all my trust.
I want to spend all our time tangled up in bed
Our mouths working silently to show our love
I want his pets and kisses on my head
His eyes make me tremble, looking down on me from above.
His hands are soft and strong from hard work and love
His bed a safe port, a welcoming harbor for rest
His smile and laugh must be what angels are made of
His affections are surely among the worlds best.
He holds me as though I am a goddess or rare flower,
His eyes shine with the love told of in bardic songs
He holds me against him with both grace and power,
I wasn’t even looking and he had been here all along.
Nights spent together in the rooms of his farmhouse,
Is this the kind of man the ancients wrote stories about
My yearning burns like a wildfire needing to be doused
I wonder how I could have ever had any doubt.
Huntress [10.4.19]
It has been centuries.
While I have found pleasure in the work,
and have gained much skill through time,
I no longer get the satisfaction.
With every kill I make it gets easier and less fulfilling.
I am always searching for that perfect prey to give me what I want,
more than the things I need.
Eons pass and men fall before me.
Hopelessly bound by my love.
Rendered paralyzed by my gaze.
Wrestling internally with themselves to figure out if
I am real or only a dream.
If I am a goddess or a daemon.
Their blood is my life,
their love feeds my soul,
but they never last long;
can’t hold up against the intensity of my existence.
They worship and bend and beg for my love,
and eventually they withdrawal or attack or run.
And that’s when they are ended like so many before them,
and I begin the hunt anew, in search of another.
I grow tired, and wiser, and stronger,
but they never seem to change.
Mortal men are weak,
bound only to themselves and not built for eternity.
I eat their hearts and collect their souls.
Use their bones to build my armor
and that’s all they’re ever good for.
Their names drip like spells from my tongue,
and after centuries it seems my magic still isn’t strong enough
to find a thing I cannot eventually destroy.
When you sing [7.11.19]
When you sing, the smile lines around your mouth come out, curving along with the sharp lines of your face. Your eyes closed in passion and concentration, brow furrowed, your profile illuminated by the glow of the dashboard lights. A vein rises, running like a river from behind your ear, down your neck, and disappearing behind your collarbone. I trace my fingertips lightly along the skin of your neck while you sing, the muscles and tendons tight from your exhalations.
Your taste in music is intelligent. The taste of you is divine. The way you sing when no one else is around, makes me feel as though I’m witnessing a miracle, or something never seen by human eyes before. Your voice fills the cab of the truck and my ears and my heart.
I can’t look away from you, in the way I imagine, people stared up at saints as they were on their knees in awe.
Running Away [9.26.19]
Everything I’ve ever loved has died,
or caught fire,
or both.
I cannot seem to keep things, or people;
always disappearing,
or being destroyed,
or running away.
I want love and only give destruction.
I want a good life yet have only been dealt in ruins.
My history;
a series of inverse cards on a table,
the taste of ashes in my mouth,
and the feel of blood in the hands.
Pain can always be found hidden within the pleasures,
and more oft than not,
I get great pleasure from the pain.
Some days I rule in Hell,
and some days I serve in Heaven,
but in neither duty am I ever completely satisfied.
AEL Library & Archives 