One of my favorite journals. No doubt. This, and two others to appear in the next issue set to drop in a matter of days.
Your heart is a Sloppy Joe. No, too messy. Your heart is a vagabond’s bindle. Scratch that, too convenient. Your heart is… a scarecrow, staked in a Council Bluffs cornfield: beating, battered, bloody. The farmer is fat and forgetful. He never made you a face. Never gave the birds a reason to fear, or the chance for you to feel, stealing your ability to live up to your name. It’s sunset. A crow perches on your aorta; straw swings from the pant leg of your left ventricle. Bonnie Tyler warns of your total eclipse at a roller-skating rink beside a mall, where 12 year-olds hold hands. Messy kiss. Smile.