Alice's House

Enter
into a room
adorned in red
for the Queen of Hearts'
birthday.
Floor to ceiling
slanted shelves
burst with
books from
under an ivy league,
but notice the rhyme,
a bedtime story
tucked here or there -
Then up the spiral
staircase to
a throne shrouded
in blue with erasable pen
attached to the wall
and parting words
scribbled above
and around
the Cheshire Cat's
claw footed tomb.
Then down again
the spiral stair
and out the door
to a star studded -
what can only be
described as
constellated -
veranda.

Alice drinks tea
from a mason jar,
mixes mohitos,
then serves it up
in tiny japanese glasses.
No matter the poison, as long as it's organic.
Oh, but no dairy for the Queen,
so the cake is vegan chocolate
decadent and sweet -
a bit dry, but made
for the Mad and i
so eat, so drink.

Fuck Starbucks.

Here
The Queen of Hearts
may pet your leg,
mistaken it for the
neighbor's dog -
but it's all good
because the other guests
wear 3D glasses
and all in all
Alice gives one
badass parting gift.

Trite

Today I almost ripped out my veins
poured blood to the page
and killed you.
I almost shattered every CD,
called you up to scream
about an empty tank.
I almost did as I dreamed -
and ripped out my veins -
Splattered the french divide
with

F - STOP DO NOT EN
CALL 911

and went to sleep.

But F - is gone now
that message means
nothing now,
an empty threat because
the translucent walls
hold more
between them
than just me
so instead
I silenced my wrists
with white bandages
and closed the document
I had double checked for attachment.

Instead of opening veins,
instead of exploring
an invaded space,
I waited - patiently
until it was safe
until it was posted and
published for all to see.

I'm rhyming.

It's late.
I'm drunk.
And not pretty.
It's all very trite, really.

But...

How about I am better than that.
How about I am better than the overlap,
the goddamn rhyming couplet.
How about I am a liar, and the worst kind,
fucking posing for a poet.

I am a contraction upon myself that I can't release -

And I have a terrible habit of getting everything I ask for.

Exploritorium

Yesterday, I died.
I was warned,
I had notice,
from the
Cheshire cat.
With muses
circling the room,
I lay down,
dressed all in blue,
and boarded the ship.
Please, tell Headlong,
of my death.
And if you see my twin,
please tell her:
"Beware the embrace of
the Cheshire cat."

untitled

Learning how
to wake again
to a smile
with the memory
of your existence

Still.

With the break

Now
without need
or want or plan.

It’s been a while

Since deepset grey
had cause to
Notice
the
sutured scar
under her
pale straw
Feathers -

Since she was
Plucked
Bare
Prepared
for
Roasting
Basting
Grilling

Waiting

Just out of
reach of
the glare of
the Cheshire Cat.

Incantation

Shhhhh.

It will come to you
unexplained
without pretension
or expectation.

The addiction
from a past
no longer yours
or
never yours
but for your
blood

Will
wane with the moon,
never subsiding
but becoming
full then half to the
cresent smile of the
Cheshire Cat
laughing at you
from above.

But

Remember
the eclipse
and your moment
of redemption,
the Sun,
in your blackest
hour of replanting.

Shhhhhh.

Rest your black heart,
your weary mind,
your cramped hand
for a moment
in the space
between.

Rest for a moment
beside the candle
of your hand and

Pause

to see –

if blind
with your
ears –

if deaf
with your heart –

if dead

with the life
that surrounds you
with eyes
and ears
and hearts
Open
to images
captured
repainted
replanted
relived
in the

Silence

of the
space between.

Shhhhhh.

It will come to you
unexplained
without pretension
or expectation.

The muse you
crave is there
no here
in hand.

She is you.