Author Archives: Krysia Jopek

Lost, this. Lost, thus. Goddess of sleep descends. Stream-of-consciousness wages a feeble war to defy her armor. Her edges pull down A tent for the now-superior stupor. The brain—an organ of electro-chemical relationships, toxic or devoid. Transactions missing syn- apses, useless … Continue reading →

Early mornings with café con leche in the Poetry Garden with an assortment of titled notebooks and markers and pens. (Some are permanent. Some with blur in the rain when I forget to fetch them before sudden rainstorm.) Before the … Continue reading →

The silver-mercury train pierces night with fleeting clarity. Write this down. Dump the other notebooks you dug up in the woods (after days of torrential rains) this morning when night hadn’t yet given over (so no one would know)–into the … Continue reading →

Dusk returns. All the colors have changed. The French vanilla begonia appears a soft peach on the childhood picnic table bench; the first periwinkle flowers of one butterfly bush seem blue; phlox petals have taken on a tinge of lavender … Continue reading →

Z:  Does it hurt very much? A:  Yes.   Z:  How so? A:  Everything hurts, darling.   Z:  You should talk about it. What it feels like. I want to feel it, too. And tell the others what is happening … Continue reading →

I left my assortment of pens and markers in the rain again. Now everything I write and touch is softer, more fluid, more beautiful, less defined. The things I painstakingly named of late have already become something else—defying porous borders: … Continue reading →

The dream fractals were particularly vivid in early hours of morning–once daylight crawled up through the open blinds. A scattering of crickets and birds exercised their instruments in the backdrop of the conscious world, while she dove repeatedly, without freewill, … Continue reading →

A:  What day is it? It’s so confusing that day of smelling fire, miserable parents rushing with their children to see the magical cascades of broken inch-worm green, peony fuchsia, red, white, and blue—tiny fires cascading down—like the Christmas ornaments … Continue reading →

I was ravenous. Insatiably so. So I ate the House again. The cedar shakes, warped shutters. Then the window and screens—spitting out the glass. The doors gave me indigestion, but I soldiered on. Eating the sandpaper roof shingles. Smiling with … Continue reading →

I hit the reset button because my thoughts were taking too much time And the yellow primrose and fuchsia sweet pea were stunning this year. How the primrose folded in their yellow pages into an obeisant origami when the sun … Continue reading →