Trickster figures often show up in my poems. They spin elaborate, entertaining lies which speak to conflicts within their souls (or so I imagine).

The Misfit Holds Court

An ugly burr on the side
of this impossible rhino
has prevented me from
getting sepsis of the soul…
or so the old fairy tales go.

My fairest witch, the one
who ate gold and fleshed
out the perfect revenge
fantasy, called me last night.
I hung up on the old bitch.

A small god of consequences
played out a random melody
on the bones of my fused spine,
and I kinda dug it, kinda didn’t,
but I left regret in the dust long ago.