Posted in Almost Dorothy


Suicide Bird | Photo by Neil de la Flor

Yesterday, just as I finish my post on Ma’s rough night working the suicide prevention hotline at the Switchboard, a tiny grey bird commits suicide against us. In the middle of winter in Florida, she slams into the house just outside our dining room window. At full speed and full of life until the end, she flies as if she were taken by the sky or love and blinded by the promise of heaven.

Like a freaking bullet, ma says. Then she finds the light. At least she tried, I say. Tries to find her path to heaven.It is such a beautiful day. We are listening to Stevie Nicks sing “Rhiannon” on YouTube.

Now she is the darkness, ma says. And she ruled her life like a fine skylark, I say. Now the sky is starless. The sky is insanely blue and the clouds are hiding.

Ma and I pick up Rhiannon–the cats lying in wait in the dark– and we prepare her final resting place beneath the palm trees in the backyard. The ants have already found her. We clean her off. Tuck her wings in. Close her eyes.

Interned | Photo by Neil de la Flor

Finally, ma says, I’ve seen a woman truly taken by the wind.

Ma kicks the shovel into the earth with her right foot. Then the left. Then turns the soil until there’s a six inch hole. The shovel is blue. Rhiannon is gray. The soil too.

Today, we will be her lover, ma says, and we will stay by her side forever. I believe ma, but I don’t believe in forever.

Ma lowers Rhiannon into the shallow grave and then covers Rhiannon’s body with soil. What were you thinking, ma asks Rhiannon. Love’s just a state of mind. Rhiannon doesn’t respond to ma from the depths of her final resting place. She can’t, anyway, even if she wants to. She just lays there beneath six-inches of earth. In peace. In solitude. And probably believes that she has finally won.

Final Rest | Photo by Neil de la Flor
Posted in Almost Dorothy, Squinny

Still I Rise by Squinny Angelou

My name is Squinny Angelou and I can’t wait to tell you I’m not dead. Ready? I’m not dead! And I’m not related to Maya Angelou either even though she probably wishes we were related. I rose from the dead yesterday and my dad is missing. I miss dad but I’m not waiting around for the missing. Jesus didn’t. I think it’s almost noon or midnight. There’s always someone missing and time is just a waste of time.


The Resurrection


If you can find the scar, the purple-black-and-blue bruises and/or any of the identifying marks on my body from the unidentified accident and/or disease and/or  fists that originally killed me, I’ll give you a dollar because I can’t find any. It’s like nothing ever happened, which is fine. I have better things to do.


Frill at the neck,
then the flutings of their Ionian
Then two little feet.
He does not smile or smoke.

The other does that,
His hair long and plausive.
Masturbating a glitter,
He wants to be loved.

Sylvia Plath, Death & Co.


When I rose from the dead, or resurrected myself as Squinny Angelou on behalf of all girls-in-transition everywhere on a bed of red and white roses (or white rice) where stupid ass vultures pecked at my body, I became holy and had an e-harmony moment. My heart is not made of liverwurst. I just want to be loved.


Vultures Pecking Squinny | Photo by Neil de la Flor


When I arrived on Fantasy Island, or got home, I found a photograph of Almost Dorothy and I dressed as Batman and Robin for Halloween. It was our last Halloween together. I never ever wanted to be a bat or a man, so I chose Robin with a capital R. because I thought the Boy Wonder was a girl just like the 1990’s singer-songwriter Robin S. was. Almost Dorothy looked so angry in that picture. Maybe she was pissed cause she looked like a gay Zoro.

I’m home now and dad is missing. Stevie Nicks says I can set my secrets free but I can’t find the carpet where I hid them. I found dad’s gun with two bullets in the barrel and played a round of pinochle with God. I pinned a note to the tail of dad’s donkey and informed him that I’m home, and that I’m never leaving this goddamn world behind again–no matter how hard they pull my hair.

The sun goes down and I imagine I’m up at the corner of Demon and Disaster where my BFF Almost Dorothy awaits me in her Ionian death-gown with her two little feet peeking from underneath the hem, arms waving me home. Home. The neighbor’s front yard is on fire and mama Dorothy’s naked body is covered in glitter. She always wants to be loved. Her long hair dares the firestorm.

Welcome home, mama Dorothy screams. Her thumbs up. And I know I am here.