Not a micropoem 19


Responsibility: a fairy tale

The blind, mad Oracle is everything I want to be. She’s alone, eats pine nuts from the comb and snatches yellow jackets out of the air like an orb spider. Her lips love poison and she cannot die because she is already dead. Her heart does not beat and she feels nothing she does not wish to. She gets to sit in her dappled, secluded grove, where there is always good weather and relax all day until someone like me comes along. Then and only then does she have to work, only then does she have to sift through the sparking grains of the void to find where the enemy lives. It’s me what has to go and kill it.


I’m thinking about expanding my micro poem a day thing to micro fiction and poetry. Just so I can keep myself entertained.


Lupercalia, Poetry

The fake ones eat

the bones and gristle of cats

to see the future. They drink

the blood of rattlesnakes

and wear sharks’ teeth in their

long, flowing hair.

The real ones hide in caves,

hang their dead

in cages, suck

the fallen vertebra

(when the backbone falls

like a clump of grapes)

and the cracked bodies of sun

dried tomatoes when gobs

of red blot their mouths,

where their teeth

have knocked upon the stone

floor. The woman’s eye

is an inkwell; pecked pious

and unfathomable.

She goes naked in her

sagging skin.

Listen to the recording here (as Jessica Otto).