all delusions were set out in the meadow for scavengers
along with all the seeds she didn’t start this year
she had prophetic dreams
she barely touched her tarot
he now lives entirely outside of her heart
she showed up first, but only as her second, or third choice
then, she died days later, in hospice, at 56,
and presumably,
knows now that she couldn’t take it with her, Egyptian-Pharaonic style
blood and cultural descendants of holocaust survivors are revelling in an ongoing genocide
and someone finally inspected his spots,
but leopards cannot change theirs
some of us, are just about ‘dat’ life, she re-learned
others, lie to themselves about their innocence,
or responsibility, including me,
we are all stereotypes
radical self-promotion and self-reinforcing mediocrity are apparently the new power couple,
she didn’t make it to the Remedios Varo show at the Art Institute of Chicago – with, and on, purpose.
her bones began to ache during sunlight, too, so that’s new,
”People incapable of guilt usually do have a good time.”

she lost interest.
she can’t recall a time in her life where she was so significantly bored,
but this, is all, so boring, now,
feigning interest is too much work
and i have become rude and abrupt – or wholly silent with truths.
most, if not all, art is meaningless, self-or patron-indulgent tripe,
but consensual pretense and personal investment prohibit that utterance, please bring back petroglyphs and geoglyphs
there are behemoth pyramidal dunes of discarded clothing, fast fashion, in the south american desert, visible from outer space,
this is the hottest year on record!
electric Congo cobalt blue! photovoltaic white saviorism!
she wonders if the Lake will ever freeze again
all these books yet to read, i’ll never get to ’em
there are hardly any glaciers, dark skies or old growth forests left
and if i truly purge, truly, truly purge
all that will remain
is this rug and bed
a cup, a pot, a spoon
so why not plan a trip to the D.F., Teotihuacan and Casa Azul?
i’d go, but even Kahlo, tamales and tequila, unmove
and all, know this: i adore my son,
yet, he alone, is not enough.

this woman in the looking glass,

“is that all there is?”

there isn’t anymore.
there isn’t anymore.
there isn’t any more.

in this year of unmagical thinking.