Seasonal.

1.

Sheridan was my mom’s best friend’s last name but my mom goes through a lot of best friends. I remember the plush feel of her hugs and wonder why dust falls into the grooves between her and people she isn’t related to by blood.

Barren people don’t mix well in the day-to-day when forced to interact with people who have grown into pairs like you. Sapphire strike, blue boycott… a heartbreakingly sore and sullen vacation from codependence.

2.

Circles of fluorescent light do not quite illuminate the whole room and we need light for this. There she was, legs and arms akimbo on the coffee table. There she was, creating variations in the skies. There she was, cluttering the surface.

Forest is lost in the trees. Trees are lost from the forest. We keep spitting words back and forth like ping-pong practice. Coagulating on the surface of the blood like platelets.

3.

Stay ensconced in the spin of the scones across the crust of the sugar glass counter. It collapses and relapses just like you, but you don’t care, do you? Every day is the same old change and every change ends the same old way. Missive to a submissive, document for a dominant. There’s nothing left to counterfeit. There’s nothing left to counterfeit. I thought all the girls were over it.

There’s a missing person poster on the pole outside my hole in the wall apartment and there’s a picture of a little girl who I think belonged to a doctor or something but they never did catch up with her documents and by the time they did it was completely over. Everything was over. It bled out in their shaking, clutching hands as it pulsed and popped.

4.

It’s always ‘people I once knew’ and never the long time muse for the painting of a new personality. Validate the strumpet. Tell her she’s in strunt and that dirty mistresses only get sassafrass blooms on Saturn. Spinning missiles may drive into the missing document, but some things don’t mix well. Some arrows point only down.

You should practice staying close because the tide drags something fierce. You should fight the tide. You should ride the tide.

prose by sirenasilver
photography by emily kelly

dialed inn.

Nats wrapped by holy fire and tinglebrush garland wreaths
Simple silver cloisters matching in size and tone. Cut cut
my heartbase out like an airfield neither above nor below ground.
Noise comes apart above my head in redsnap explosions, breathing heavy and believing will not make you understand. Breathing heavy and believing will make you lonely. Clumsy hiccups and aloof legs, feet, and other novas
fall-- defeat your prisoners and prisms,
laploose and cozyburning, plummet and
sink.

Part three hundred and seventy four years ago,
a star was born, barracudaed with backless slap shackles.
The sold hole dribbles in agreement by the
yawn credential servant plow.
Foam throws up equations
into the live sun, oranges and a perfect warrior.
Majestic piercing swan, concrete image.
The tree with aerial roots, split-level parks, and guard lions.
think?

I burn your buttons, I sew your hand. Unhappy smile centuries
build epiphanies and grape icecone delete.
Need navy waves obstruct obsidian wives, and frequency.
Slow down pick up pace tear the sky in two. Bloated silvers move
plank supply, clean white eyelids lunate.
Rubbed curves current wind in torn rose-wood color.
Glass hills cover chairs neighboring (mountains).
Don’t tilt too far into the bowl of wolverines and lilacs mercy.
inn?

For Bon Iver.

A child like him

folds like a blanket

when he’s cold in the dome.

Jet black ink tides

on the stitched flower organ.

A child like him holds the

eyes older than the broken

lilac mold.

Crouching like a crow

on the rocks

shivering

paralyzed

What could have

brought me to this low

outlined in blue yarn

shaded with shadows.

A child like him holds the

eyes higher than the flag.

A child like him

will break the sound pole.

white lights.

let people thirst for disgraceful atmosphere (trinkets, brazed bee medallion) happy face to the sun, the quiet (told told told, fold fold fold) dating keeps going towards banjo whippings (homemade donations from the money launders) what burrow are the gone? (Ask, repeat again for me) minute by minute break flower lightening heat flat world of borrowed things (upside) the awake (in--repositioned) from the beautiful artery baby bucket already jumped light, (in the crevice coroner)we will change if you lead. (a stream full of floating candles, water softened) every side cast counting later than average hymn against hymn, a cracked overture (bells pale orange free) dawning at the grove vital airs idol hanging hinges, swans, having lost my daisycutter (heavy company) heavy red aisle ancient traffic brazing time principle as cats, iced ridiculous, slowly stored unwashed fever of heart (i hate to interrupt your writing -- even to fuck you.) newbile weeds, elixirs, sobbing energy. (hollow tin hammers beating on rusted nails, half head cock) Horses, storms, lion skins rolling cottages for 25 cents. In both hands, there is a porcelain woman (sobbing green star, that’s all we ever do) calling both between cramps and mimicking (transcripts for blue bermune) the likely policy for whales,

(I just had a minute with white lights.)

tree branch!

With the tree branches pulsing, I’m not sure how I’m going to move these clapping tin cans. The clapping tin cans entrance my stares, and work it. Rooftop prayer followed by a rooftop hollowwayed drop, becoming a dance, and then a name, and then a dance again. Purple sparkled kicks pridefully, “Everything heavy falls out in earth’s nucleus.” Sixty-seven jigglebelts circus paraded their jeep between the brick in the buildings. There were fliers. A child in wriggling pigtails on horses buyers back, relax refreshments built by bottlemakers and poppied hills envy glades and dales. Clydes and rewired coonscuff, if a fox tore my throat. I mean !.

undeniable.

Sedatives provocative something to reach your hawk hunt space I’m indevoure zulu translating voltage with the rage about em, but the building cant kill cool breeze the days and times shine magnet shebang, move-it-around-undeniable.

One for the trouble, two for the vase. Fly my dove and slug ANTE11. Crazy hitters thump undeniable. Shudder drop the jewel real echo-fill doing stop handplants stop me now Brooklyn.

prose for Elizabeth Willis.

Litanities for sale in an old woman’s front yard. Somewhere in the Farmer’s Hills, where cows are born to cheese, and waking snakes doesn’t make you a snake-waker. Too many Quakers to count, she said in my cereal. My remember bubbles are fading the ceiling, or the carpet, or the once lost art of rain continuing into rain.

1. With the daisycutters, trample and trim the clovergrove to the appropriately sedated caliber-onyx.
2. and that was where we once squaredanced, dancing squares and reverently remembering what made the doors open.

No Country for Old Men.

The inside lives of cat suns and wonders, as the owner of the gettin’ store asks, “What’s the most you’ve ever lost in a coin toss?”

Alacazam goldfish.

Alacazam! Triton smells like a pirate girl--entrenched in fluorescent bowls like flighty
goldfish.

Generously contributed by sirenasilver