Posted in Almost Dorothy

A Prayer for a Red Room

Red Velvet | Photo by Neil de la Flor
Red Velvet | Photo by Neil de la Flor

1. I had my money on him like I have money like I’m sick of him trying to get to me like Jesus.

2. He walks through my red living room to the other red room wearing a jockstrap and high-heel boots.

3. He carries white roses in case it’s Christmas.

4. He is not a jock or Christ-like, but his chin is sanctified.

5. The strap pulls strangely around his cheeks looking like the jowl of a skinny pitbull.

6. He sits on the sofa and the sofa is surrounded by candles that are lit and not lit and he is lit and I’m unaware that he is.

7. He is positive yoga will solve history. And dance. And cartography.

8. Life is interesting, I say, when you become interested in life.

9. He is in the corner of the room kicking at the demons and blames me for leaving the mattress alone.

10. He shaves his or her hair and Lakshmi doesn’t want anymore children because Shiva has turned blue and cold even though he is dancing.

11. Always dancing.

12. He reads the illustrated Holy Bible in my red red room and the red room reads with him. The red velvet curtains seal the red room as the incense from New Mexico burns on the fireplace lined with paper dolls—

13. of Jesus & Mary, of all the saints & all the apostles, of the one true God–as the archangels swoop down and set fire to them.

14. An effigy of the burning boy burns in the red room of paper dolls.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, The Mother

14 things ma resolves to do for 2013 in alphabetical order

Chicks | Neil de la Flor
Chicks | Neil de la Flor

1. Ma resolves to solve the unresolved issues that plague her nanosphere with grace and humility as she tiptoes across the front yard barefoot wearing her pink biking shorts and “I Had Sex With Jesus” tee shirt.

2. Ma resolves to brush her teeth on first and second dates.

3. Ma resolves to have sex at least twice a week (with humans).

4. Ma resolves to have sex at least twice a week with the windows closed with at least 2 humans in the same room at the same time with or without sneakers and resolves to have each client come back for seconds so the neighbors don’t think she’s only into one-night stands. One-day stands don’t count, she says.

5. Ma resolves to stop reading self-help books with titles that suggest she’s half of this or half of that.

6. Ma resolves to hurl herself into the delta quadrant and kick species 8472’s ass.

7. Ma resolves to use protection even when the men of her dreams offer protection with their super powers and magic tricks. A condom, she says, is more important that the Second Coming.

8. Ma resolves to Kool-Aid.

9. Ma resolves to hug and kiss me twice a day even when she feels like punching me in the face.

10. Ma resolves to wipe from front to back (at least 3 times a week).

11. Ma resolves to be intelligent, competent, reliable, responsible, honorable, trustworthy, centered, grounded, coherent, sympathetic, empathetic, less pathetic and soulful; and she resolves to live by the code of justice even if it means wearing underwear in the most obvious places.

12. Ma resolves to fill her half-empty heart with ginger and jasmine while she drains the other half of Tabasco sauce and curry; and she resolves to stop buying into the scheme that a heart can be half of this or half of that because if it weren’t full 24/7 she’d be dead. Only the non-living, she says, believe in this symbolic bullshit.

13. Ma resolves to make fun of angels and everything holy because nothing is sanctified.

14. Ma resolves to celibacy, but I think she really meant sobriety.

14.5 Ma resolves to reveal what’s inside.


Posted in Almost Dorothy, Angel, The Mother

Ma: The Healer & The Destroyer

Sometimes ma is glowing in her fruity apron. Sometimes she is sad and sometimes she is a glowing lizard on a bed of velvet roses. Sometimes she is angry and sometimes she is awake when she is asleep. Sometimes she sleeps when she is alive and dead.

Sometimes ma is aware of her biceps and that she is the anti-Christ. Sometimes she is aware she is a vampire annihilating the anti-bodies that enter her canvas. Sometimes she is the quotient and the quadrangle triangulating the quadraphonic sound of blue whales. Sometimes she is a whale and the woman between me and her and sometimes she is the man between me and him. Sometimes she’s a clown.

Sometimes I know what makes ma unhappy and filled with darkness because it’s the same thing that makes me unhappy and filled with darkness. Sometimes I curse the healers who enter our home and try to destroy us with their crystals and incense. Sometimes I destroy the curses that heal us after the healers who have come to destroy us heal the room of wounds. Sometimes I curse the curses who heal the hell out of us for the hell of it because they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about when ma’s heart goes boom boom boom.

Sometimes I walk silently through the house of healers and destroyers, ma and me, and tell each room “I’m sorry” for our trespasses and transience. In sequence. In solemnity and solace. In slippers. In every room, a ghost wants to say “I’m sorry”, but the ghosts are rouses.

Sometimes I walk silently where angel once roamed the surface of the house where ma fears to tread even in her best Jacqueline Smith dress. Sometimes I am too much for ma and she is too much for me just like she was too much for angel and his medicine chest of chests. Sometimes I am too much and never enough even though I know I am a button and ma is a shoe.

Sometimes the knowledge of this differential is enough to heal the equations of the world, the wounds in the room of curses and moans. Sometimes the knowledge of this is forgiveness and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes this knowledge is just knowledge to note the difference between two unknowns. Between healing and destroying. Between practice and partition. Between ma and me. Freud and Jung. The curses between us were promises.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Angel

Angel | Ma: The Autobiography of Binary Stars

The Autobiography of Binary Stars | Neil de la Flor
The Autobiography of Binary Stars | Neil de la Flor

“The more we know about our universe, the more difficult it becomes to believe in determinism.” (Ilya Prigogine)

Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars ends in green. Sometimes their story ends in red. Sometimes the story never ends and sometimes their story becomes an addiction without substance or matter.

Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars is governed by the laws of physics—quantum or otherwise—and is predetermined and fixed by a universal constant that is neither universal nor constant.

Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars is a story written half-asleep beneath the same stars that haunt the blue moon while one star mumbles some mumbo jumbo to the other with their backs against a wall marked with the names of deities—Vishnu, Krishna, Christ. Even though Christ is not a deity, logic doesn’t matter in the vacuum of a thermodynamic relationship.

Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars begins beneath two disco balls orbiting one another. (A stormtrooper stands on the north pole of the largest star. ) Sometimes their story is illuminated by green or red or blue light and sometimes their story is illuminated by background radiation that stores the history of the universe in every ionized particle that enters their bodies.

I was the mirrorball on the left. He was the one on the right. In the middle, an army of wingless angels said nothing that wasn’t already clear. This was their way of telling me, “this is up to you”.

Sometimes the relationship between binary stars exists in a space governed by the laws of angels and sometimes these laws breach the outer limits of reason and hope, patience and providence—and flies in the face of prayers and promises.

Sometimes the relationship between binary stars is a boomerang unaware that it is a boomerang. Sometimes the relationship is unaware of the boom and anger that fills the void between what was and what was wanted even when the void continues to give it all for just another moment in the arms of a wingless angel.

This is the memory of one star bound to another. This is the memory of a language that never existed. This is the memory of two imaginary numbers—11 and 22—that equaled catastrophe, not genius. This is the universe at left and right angles. From above and below. Beyond and between. This is a photon and phosphorescence and the cosmic power of the electromagnetic spectrum. This is discordance and dissonance. This is (or was) an accretion disk around a black hole at the center of a manufactured galaxy.

This is the real autobiography of binary stars which means this is (or was) real, yet determined to be de-iced and deactivated. This is one star’s stand against the theory of dissipative structures while the structure itself dissipates like sandcastles do when built too close to shore. This is one star’s deranged child disturbing a flock of insane seagulls on a beach that washes away or disappears or disperses his (or his) tiny footprints (discreetly) over time.

Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars is bound and subjugated to the impossibility of escaping gravity and hope. Sometimes it’s not. Sometimes the stars find their present selves wrapped up in a past of their own comfortable invention standing on tiptoes in a graveyard beneath an impenetrable sky oblivious to the sloppy writing on the wall.

This is an autobiography that ends with old friends sitting on a rocking chair on opposing sides of the galaxy looking for a light in the dark that’s just a photon reflected in eyes of angels.

Posted in Almost Dorothy

Mostly A Super Plastic Model Barbie Girl/Boy


This is what I look like when I’m mostly beautiful and stunning. Mostly human and humming. Mostly blue-eyed and eyelashed out to there. Mostly smooth skin with just a few chin scuffs. Mostly in my blue head thing with dangling beads that I whiplash. Mostly human and plastic. Mostly aware of the world around me which is me mostly aware of everything but me. Mostly interested in little red cars from the 1960s and fingernail polish. Mostly not Polish. Mostly ready for the pink ass hot air balloon to sweep me away from the laws of nature or New Hampshire. Mostly afraid of shires full of newness and meadows. Mostly I’m tired of most things, especially eggs, and the way the human race treats the animal race. Mostly afraid of the Easter egg hunt and the resurrection of Christ. Mostly afraid of mass and communion. Mostly afraid of mass communication and munchkins. Mostly I’m a replica of Annie Lennox and I’m mostly just a head, a bust, missing a body. Mostly missing my body. The body of my memory of language. This memory mostly holds my head up. Mostly high. Most days. It’s in my most memorable blue feather headdress.