I stop; look back.
Hand over my eyes to block the
manic light,
and I see
salt pillars.

They glower, vaguely
outlined with my own face.
I’ve peeled their chalky skins for years.

And I try
not to catch their eyes –
Midas, Medusa,
basilisk, Balor.

It’s a fix.
I’m ripped off and stacked up and left here.
A new me moves forward,
and I’m frozen in the reflection.

What will she be 

after the last peel;
just salt?


I thought I might give it a name.

It was sweet and it played; it was tame.
The West told me, why not? Go ahead.
But the East shook her dazzling head,
and said:

If you give that thing a word,
you’ll teach it hate and fear, I’ve heard.
It tends to hoard and make a lord
of names in cages just like birds.
It’ll think its word is better
than all other ones, I swear.
It’ll label you and know
your label’s different. It’ll care.

I hate to even think – but
it could learn its right from wrong.
Do not name it, please, I beg you.

So, I taught to it a song.


Bare walls reach menacingly for –

“Let’s find the other side.”
I grab her wrists and list for her
the ways she is alive.

“People on earth are safe,” she says to me.
Compared to whom?
One thousand eyes look up and then close slowly like a tomb.


Sitting, pretty, on the edge of our aphelion,
eating unseen forces like curds and whey.
In goes a galaxy, rolling underneath my tongue,
shrieking and dissolving fast; a tasty display.
Wash it down celestially with pure electron water.
Knife into dark energy, a savory filet.
Suck deep on a sour eclipse and giggle at the stir,
dip candied kings in quasar oil,
you want this one?
I’ll trade.

After we’re full,
we contemplate beginnings and the end;
I’ll fold today like a receipt,
don’t need that in my head.

You ready?

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Spare at first seems like a catalog of lucid dreams but soon reveals itself as a map to an ancient dimension still lingering among us. It is a place both mystifying and damning, where the earth itself speaks and the strangest creatures living there are people. One cannot be sure whether the pieces within it are recollections or incantations. “There are traces in the sky of what I mean,” writes Lundeen. Those traces are Spare.



Leather and wood in my house;
crunch a crying carrot
amidst the bones and souls
of the once-alive.
Watch my cat
eat a box-elder bug
with a broken leg
even though it crawled on my journal,
which was its way of asking
for help.
Don’t think about the
fingers who stitched together
your t-shirt,
sweltering in the healing sunlight,
forcing their glorious eyes to
quiet. Mercy.
Use death and
death and
to animate your ruthless
and levitate
your peaking breath.


Your life is an egg.
Push on the colors in your lenses,
just watch;
they’ll crack,
fall like walls.
Everything that’s ever happened to you is yolk,
fluid firming into feathers;
feel them bristle when you see
an especially interesting tree
and know that it’s more real
than you were ever meant to be.
Don’t be afraid.
One day we’ll leave our starless,
sharkless cocoons,
break through
our amniotic rooms
to join
a new parade.


I swallowed a bad wind;
fingernails in my
chalkboard throat.
Made me pale
and impatient;
lined my tongue with soap.
I struggled,
spewing filthy air,
and everywhere
I looked
there were canopies
of fallen trees
and sages burning


Vines creep their way into my bed,
slither up the headboard like snakes,
like sharks curving over my head,
like scales on the wall, rainbow baked.

My home is a forest green tomb.
Silent minds whisper, “Go back to sleep.”
But I roll inside them like a womb,
dripping voices like veins in the deep.

I’m chill, pale pink, buttery soft;
all my hair has been spun on a loom,
and the whole of my life up ‘til now,
was nothing but a still afternoon.

Napping quietly beneath the trees,
jungle humming with howlers and swans.
You were never yourself, you were me;
in the aftermath of a good yawn.