Amanda Kay Writes

  dawn peekaboos over the horizon stirring the sky with navel orange and pink lady apple cotton candy dotted with whipped cream sprinkled with birds and abandoned dreams   a pompous sunbeam breaks through the trees antsy to awaken the day for adventure   let the night owls sleep for just a moment pretty please, if you don’t mind   theirs is the rapidly fleeing sunset stirring the sky with villainous violets and red light district neon splashed with the ocean’s depths and the harvest moon’s slow rise to authority

  I wonder why my user name Adnama 17 is so hard to understand it’s just me backwards   I wonder why my maiden name which is cool and Swedish gets all the study, why it’s preferred to others   I wonder why my daughter chose not to give her daughter the generational name of three strong women   I wonder why do my kids snub their full names the goal was if they married royalty they would be ready   I wonder if I’m loveable no one here seems to care strangers online give more love than my family

family pictures never hung up junk art shoved into closets no need to child proof empty packages piled up like one night stands stray screws with unremembered vocation wire tangled beyond utility   it is strenuous to clean out sort through organize use what is useful, give away the rest as a solo act too much command, not enough cooperation you cannot solder flesh and metal   keys are on the cabinet would rather go hungry beg on the streets a bum looking for odd jobs or free bread that is true revival   hallelujah!

Christopher Black, Bart Glass, Betty White (27th time’s a charm?) Remind Rebecca Abernathy our deal expires next week Make a chiropractor appt for this damn hip! Buy a new cloak (maybe dark grey instead of black this time) Return library books Research upgrading my fog machine before it dies Get sickle sharpened: 1473 SE 72 nd St, Chinatown Zoom call Fri @ 10:00 HST – mediation with God re: Penny Gibson Hire an assistant Buy raven food Reschedule therapy session Court mandated highway clean up on the 23 rd TP the Pearly Gates Prep for demon training seminar next week: Topic – How to care for your skin and eyes when you’ve overdone it on the drool and bleeding tears Clean out hall closet Grocery list: fresh dust, skeleton moisturizer, bananas

abandoned by my parents raised by vultures on the streets worn thin by odious brutes who made my body their play thing as they knew they could   beaten with destroying words by a maggot husband (I would prefer he had struck me then I would have understood) my son fled his father’s fury I could not save my daughter from the same fate as my own   a woman’s place is no place her voice reticent and failed for fear her captors will retaliate with the back of their hand a discarded rag soaked through with sweat, blood, and semen   so with my death, I circumvent all taking my own life before they can pick my bones clean like hyenas it matters not my body has ceased much to everyone’s consternation I am alive and well

  take my hand hold it tight in yours don’t you see? understand? skydiving into jello should be done in pairs

  that chill of the spine you know the one crawling on its eight spindly legs fuzzy feet tickling on their slow ascent from your tailbone to your neck sending earthquakes convulsing through you do not let that disturb you   that feeling someone is watching you know who is in the edges of your peripheral you see them bleeding tears, eyes glowing yellow staring keenly like a cougar stalks its prey looking over your shoulder to find an empty street do not let that disturb you   that thing you just know you know it well though you never learned it from a book why statues weep, when the flowers will die how long dead men reach through the dirt to place their hands around your throat do not let that disturb you   that you know your death you know it is coming the where, the when, the how lungs collapsing like a punctured old tire drummer losing the beat and leaving the band one final gasp towards the light do not ...

I itch for summer’s blinding sun I pine to hide in leaves to shroud myself deep in snow drifts buried deep from my thieves   instead I’m deftly placed between the tulips and the breeze spring thus demands an audience with all its certainty

dingy sticks on life support replace forests of sage and ripened guides chalky, pacific puddles of clay take over indigo seas full of prismatic spice fuzzy smog with acrid overtones oust eiderdown clouds quilted into azure skies  weeds choke and obsidian stomps lush lime murals dotted with lemon drops sit down on the solitary stone bench the front row seat at the earth’s funeral

strike through the horehounds of hell with a pitchfork rise from the smoldering pyre of wormwood and weeds throw parsley confetti towards the nursing morningtide dill laurelling your head, a necklace of mint on your chest 

 It was a drop-dead gorgeous day. The sun was winking at me provocatively, the sky was as blue as a fairy’s butt, and it was purgatory warm. I was on my way to work, on time for a change!   It was so nice out in fact, I was distracted by everything, the wind blowing through my hair like lover’s breath, waving to puppies, kittens, unicorns, and small children, and singing along with “Good Morning Baltimore” from Hairspray, at the top of my lungs of course.   Unsurprisingly, I missed my first turn. I could take the next left though, but no one would let me over. No “Nicest Kids in Town” today!   Eventually made my way to the far left lane, only to see my second turn option in the rear view. ugh… The next left was in sight though! Apparently “It Takes Two” missed turns for me to learn a lesson.   Construction. Grr… “(The Legend of) Miss Baltimore Crabs” making me as mad a baby whose binkie is jjuusstt out of reach. ...

A foundation, a bass Beats in the corner, keeping Time with such exacting precision God is green   A rhythm, a cymbal Interrupts the hypnotic throb, composing Cadence and fidelity so effecting God is blue   A tinkling, the keys Reveal long buried landscapes, unlocking Damp cellar doors even though God is yellow   A chatter, a melody Parallels in the discord, thwarting Hoary, outdated division such that God is red   A finale, a trumpet Soars above the clouds, exonerating Transgressors on a whim because God isn’t white