Celia Guggenheim.
I turned a corner,
Finally, some import for wander,
Red Sunshine Girl leaning over the balcony
Smiling, the mutiny she started,
Breeze lifting skirt,
Doing us terrible favors.

Bush swing set.
Single hibiscus,
Curling, blood red hair.
Yellow dress, gusted and stopped,
Thighs make an appearance,
Ankles, white and pained.
Dangling feet behead grass,
A bright green sandal.
I have since carried death in my pocket.

How quickly we make history,
Upset the circus,
Anything is possible,
A man walked on water,
Hope fell for this misery,
An ugly bastard,
A no-good hack.

Of what good is this art now,
If my misery is no worse than my neighbor’s?
I spent sunshine cooking up this misery,
This work, corrupt before her,
Worse now,
I cannot endure the things now composed,
Vomit and beg and slit my wrist with another cliffhanger,
I cannot live with what I have become,
Love begets little,
Horse shit and muse,
It contaminates.

Dear Hem, sense the white noise in the lines now?
Dear Buk, hear the dry laughter in the editor’s box?
Dear Fante, see the energy to harvest even small?
Dear friends, I am becoming a real nothing.
Every day I ask the same deadly asking,
I leave the room, the answer lingers, unstirred.

Someday, these walls will sprout magnolias,
Someday, soldiers would rape the village,
Someday, a dictator would die from a sneeze,
But this beast in my rib cage shall be just undamaged,
And nothing else will be the same.

Because we killed time and time we killed again,
Holding that rotten fantasy in one perfect pose,
Head to the left dear child,
A little more to the right,
Hold still…wait…perfect.
And just like that,
Sunshine and pain,
Trapped forever in pixels.

Listen you red, cumbrous devil,
Let the firmaments rent in two perfect halves,
Now, tomorrow, and the quiet after,
For you, Red Sunshine Girl,
I will always die twice.

When the art will blotch ink,
When the magic starts to show its hems,
As is often the curse of choice,
We kicked wooden chairs thru windows,
Empty bottles flying to head,
Rent our pillows and beds with jack knives,
Set fire to the drapes,
Sipping that miracle water silently as dawn purples,
Onwards, unto glorious darkness.
Celia Guggenheim.