The Appalling Intricacies of Hexagons

A cornflower’s merciless expanse marred by ivory cataracts, illumination flitting and gliding across, across, compelled by the force of a child with a golden stone skipped on the river overhead and breaking its surface with impetuous determination. Blue virgin no more for this shimmering penetration, this thoughtless intrusion pressing between the veils hanging overhead. It rests on humanity with all the weight of a mausoleum, all the protection of a wax house. The veils are growing gray with age, soon to run black. Air slowly ruptures free from the lungs of the collective dead, swarming angry and circulating through nature’s beautiful ruins, stirring leafy columns of enough variety and splendor to stitch Roman eyes closed with phallic envy. Not the icy granite and marble of polished resting places, but the thorny precariousness of life.

The maternity ward is sterile, secure, full of

cubby holes to wall mothers in, wall in babies.

False notes in the highest octaves bashed out by

the awkward hand of a dilettante player: the hospital

administrator allows jargon to tumble from her

mouth in a steady stream, making the tour

for expecting parents more difficult than necessary.

Mia stalks among them solo, cradling her first

trimester belly and wishing it felt less extrinsic,

less artificial. The birthing suites boast the latest

in technological advancements and retractable

surgical lights over the beds and incubators

at the ready and Mia’s head becomes a roulette

wheel, always landing on black. One couple in

particular raises a number of questions about safety

protocols, so Mia is spared the spotlight, neither Asian-

Americans or unwed mothers being abnormal in the big

city, and it strikes no one as odd, then, when

she inquires about intruder-related procedures.

Each potential life-consumer is bequeathed

with a bag of free samples brochures maps guides

advice all graven with images of smiling w/omen

holding infants, admiration/envy dripping

from the background onlookers.

Parents all too often rely on their children

as conversation crutches, magnets for attracting

ferrous-oxide-coated wrecks from the recreation

area’s depths, at least in Mia’s experience, not

unlike the bachelor who lays in wait with an

adorable dog on a leash. Occasionally the statistical white

buffalo emerges from the herd: an eligible bachelor

with an infant or toddler on a leash. Mia observes

him for a while with clinical detachment, circles

multiple times, bumps into him as would a shark

examining a questionable source of nourishment.

Mia: “Oh, excuse me! I’m terribly sorry about that.”

Jermane: “Not a problem…”

Mia: “Mia.”

Jermane: “Mia. Not a problem, Mia. It was probably just fate.”

Mia: “Fate. You believe in fate…”

Jermane: “Jermane. And yes I do. Fate blessed me with this

beautiful day, and this beautiful daughter. Marlene.”

Mia crouching to stroller height, tickling the baby’s nose: “Oh! What a cutie-pie! How about a song?”

Babbity bouster Bumble Bee!

Fill up your bags, bring them to me!

Humming and sighing—with lazy wing

Where are you flying—what song do you sing?

‘Who’ll buy me honey pots? Buy Them? Who’ll buy?

Sweet heather honey—come weigh them and try!

Honey bag, honey pot, home came she!

Nobody buys from a big bumble bee.’

Marlene smiles and Mia smiles so Jermane

smiles, their teeth dominos of happiness, a tumbling

effect spiraling throughout their bodies

lending to flesh and bone a buoyancy surpassing

that of mere air.

Jermane: “You have a beautiful…singing voice.”

Mia: “I have a lot of practice singing to babies.”

Jermane: “Know any other lullabies?”

Mia: “Maybe I can sing them for Marlene some day, if you’ll let me.”

Jermane stepping forward, arm around Mia: “I call her Mouse.”

The following day is lost to investigating

another possible source. The natural birthing

center is a benign growth in comparison to

the hospital’s thrashing deformity flopping

on the horizon, vestigial limbs pinned down

by Gulliver’s architects, drones buzzing with

effort to add new combs to the hive mind. What

medications are you on, ma’am: omega-3, vitamin

E, folic acid, bee pollen, magnesium, thiamin,

zinc, all in higher than recommended doses.

Strangely the tour group is as large as that for

the hospital’s maternity wing; however unlikely,

none notice when Mia’s prosthetic pregnancy

belly slips and has to be ratcheted tight. Pastel

colors and granola-crunching decor devour

fear—intact and screaming—in the unhinged jaw

that poses as a lobby. Nurse 4 is a slattern with cyprian

lips jade eyes a Stage-2 trull in her heart and she

will make out/off with one of the husbands on

this tour; Mia knows this, because the w/oman

watches the men the way she herself watches babies.

She exits before nurse 4 can recognize that selfsame

criminal flesh-greed and sound the klaxon,

exhorting the workers to swarm and defend this cluster.

The next encounter with Jermane is an affair

of escalation. The afternoon is spent performing

for Jermane and Marlene/Mouse, demonstrating

what a good mother she would be, selling what

a good wife she would be, peddling her quality

as a playmate. Their apartment is the garden

variety, not one of the poured concrete hive

monstrosities she herself prefers. It is littered

with mismatched decor struggling to convey

a sense of quaint homeyness, a tattered veneer

hastily slapped over the gaping hole left by a lack

of female presence. Undoubtedly for Mouse’s sake,

that, to engender some sense of an unsundered

home. Mia is thankful for the distraction of

Jermane’s own song and dance to mask

shortcomings, as it prevents him from noticing

her own. In fact it serves as an “in” for her…clearly

he lacks confidence as regards homemaking. She

begins in the kitchen, regurgitating the sweet

honey of helpful critique. This would make cooking

so much easier, and that would keep Mouse’s

feeding from involving a floor scrub, et cetera. And,

only organic foods are allowed to infiltrate Mia’s presence.

Jermane: “Health nut, huh?”

Mia: “Don’t you know a third of our food comes from pollinators, and they’re being wiped out by all the chemical pesticides we use?”

Jermane: ruminating on it briefly, before nodding and saying,

“What the heck, it’ll be good for Mouse.”

The bulk of his goods are thrown away. She sinks her soul into him with all the desperation of a tiger bent on survival as it clamps down and bleeds a water buffalo to defenselessness.

The enormity of the cornflower is maddening, stretching from horizon to horizon, as is the sickly sweet stench of its decay. With a bloodshot blink the cataracts run red, the communal rage seeping, festering, composting under the compression of a shrinking world. Such is the dwelling place of—and the compassion of—a God who hurts you as the world does bodies. The limitless suffering that is creation contracts, no longer content at playing mausoleum but desiring to cling to humanity’s virtue as coffins cling to single-use suits, as splintered thrones cling to queens, as cells cling to bees, as honey clings to cells. Light bleeds through the cracks, spreads over surfaces with the efficiency of arterial spray. The prayers and hopes and dreams of untold multitudes filter up through the graying fishnet to provide kindling for that incensed pyre as it sways through the heavens with a hypnotist’s precision.

Mia’s fingertips trail over her scars, interpreting

the braille of her agony. She assures herself it

does not have to be that way again. The cycle is

broken this time; attempting her death is needless

now that she has scared up Jermane and Mouse.

Besides, she reasons, her strength lies not in

taking life out of this world but in bringing life

forth. Jermane can never know of her femininity’s

malformation, what the doctors and specialists

quite abstractly explain is an embryogenetic

failure in the fusion of the Müllerian ducts. More

technically termed and deceptively elegant:

didelphys. Hers is the most exquisite didelphys

they have encountered, rendering her the bearer

of twins…double vagina, double cervix, double

uterus, each with only one fallopian arm. How many

deaths have those twins caused? Self-terminating

pregnancy, the doctors tell her, hesitation in

their words inspired by sympathy, or so they tell

themselves, although the true cause is plain to Mia:

disgust. The noose, the blade, the pills, the car. They

all failed her. But Jermane, Jermane, Jermane and

Mouse…it is a pity they cannot know of all the

live births she has assisted in., of all those lucky w/omen.

At the park the three of them exist as if

coated in the thick tempera colors of Renaissance

masters. The Last Lunch, circa 2010. While

Mia and Mouse lose themselves in skylarking

Jermane purchases ice cream from the vendor

nearby, lemon and liquorice.

A man approaches Jermane: inquisitive, overly-familiar with the subject of Mia.

Jermane: not interested in whatever this fool is selling.

The man: “Whatever. When you’re ready to get abstinent and sober look up SA. Saved my life.”

Jermane: nonplussed to the point of subtraction, because although

he knows he wasn’t the one to deflower her, he cannot endure

envisioning the depravity the stranger suggested Mia capable of.

Eyeing Jermane eyeing them, Mia does her

best to stay engaged with Mouse but misses

a step, discerning a subtle shift in the atmosphere.

Has some portion of her costume slipped?

The anatomy of benevolence is alien to her,

rending a tear in normalcy impossible to detect.

Or has a clue come to him via other means?

When she is confined to bedrest he does not delve into the why, press past her discomfort or his own, instead settling on admonishments.

Jermane: “Is this how you spend your free time?”

Mia: struggling to piece the words together: “Only when I’m not feeling well.”

Jermane: “You do realize you’re gonna turn into a chubby if you

keep this up, right?”

Mia: “Why don’t you come exercise me, then?”

She claws back the covers, but lacks the strength

to undo her undergarments. No matter; he

understands and supplies that service. Yellow

has bled into her visage…a sign of renal

derangement correlating to the didelphys? In

addition to the problems arising from her lack

of degenerated endometrial septae partitions,

the specialists had warned her of potential

kidney deformity and malfunction. They had run

tests, but…circumstances arose that prevented

her checking back in with the doctors. Ever.

Jermane: “You sure, baby? Don’t look so good.”

They always ask, but they plow on ahead

regardless. The men never dive deep enough

to dislodge the vivisectionist slumbering within

Mia, are unable to drive their stakes through

the heart of the tormentor residing in the space

intended for her progeny. She is the crumbling

hospital teetering on the horizon, just concealed

by a tree line, whose rusted water tower inspires

silent thanks for health codes with each accidental

glimpse. Her maternity ward is piled high with

crumbled asbestos and half-empty pesticide

canisters. What drunken, feebleminded architect

cut a plea bargain to escape punishment for

the poor humor that is Mia’s internal structure?

From the exterior she could be a model, but

like model houses the interior was never

intended for use. Her museum of pain is

tucked away in the basement, below

the maternity ward, each millimeter an

exploration of musculoskeletal frailty.

Each caress along her surface dislodges

another section of her plumbing, and another,

until stagnant fluids spill out. She keeps a bucket

at the bedside for this eventuality. A few

convulsions later she collapses onto her back,

wipes at her mouth without care, breathes: “Don’t

…stop…don’t…stop…” And the sperm donors

continue. If she forgets to breath through her

mouth, allows their scent to invade her nostrils,

the next round of convulsions will begin

instantly rather than being put off for a few

minutes more. The arching of her back

grimacing eyelids grinding teeth developing stress

fissures claws tearing through sheets uncontrolled

tremors is mistaken for an Adult Video

Award-winning orgasm of the year.

Every male: “Damn I’m good today, baby, you know it…” The men will never be hired as interpreters.

If Mia can summon the strength she lays face

down, imitating a corpse discarded in an

alleyway, hoping to conceal the dry heaves

once her stomach hangs its vacancy sign. The sudden,

shooting pains contort her body at random, five

minutes between, an hour between, sometimes

half a day before the next strikes. And each

moment the men cultivate her agony: Please this

time please let it happen this time please pregnant

PLEASE fuckin’ PLEASE god DAMNIT it has to

be over OVER please. The unwashed hobo

squatting under her decaying maternity ward

traps the curious, those who cannot read

posted Condemned Structure signs, kills any

who might stay. The foundation sinks, slowly,

dislodging bricks in the once-beautiful façade.

BABY IS THE CURE BABY IS THE CURE

With alarming clarity the clock that is their

relationship slows, first the hour hand dying,

then the minute, both demises capable of being

ignored. The second hand weakens, and then

the spring coil is undone. Nothing binds the man

and woman together beyond a mutual desire

to serve their own needs. That, and the child

who lingers like last month’s malady, one

previously believed to have been vanquished

by syringes full of cure.

Jermane: “I don’t think having you around creates a safe

environment for my child.”

Mia: “Mouse needs to sleep. We can talk later.”

She cradles the darling, frail thing in her arms, forces air over her vocal cords…

Hum-a-bum! buzz! buzz!

Hum-a-bum buzz!

As I went over Tipple-tine

I met a flock of swine;

Some yellow nacked, some yellow backed!

They were the very bonniest swine

That e’er went over Tipple-tine

The vitality seeps from Mouse’s flesh. Her

limbs flop as if inanimate when Mia places

her in the crib. Jermane is at the ready, anxious

to run her reasoning to ground. What possible

excuse could she have for her past behavior? To

explain that childbearing is considered the cure

for dysmenorrhea, that giving birth would rip

the agony still alive and screaming from her flesh,

fling it to a far dark corner never to invade her

tissue again, well, that would let on what is really

happening with her. Would scare him away.

Her brain skids along the Autobahn losing sacreal

meninges and spinal fluid before hitting the exit

ramp to believability…just as the bee harvests

the male reproductive portion of flowers so, too,

did she collect male seed for future consumption.

Mia: “The Book of Mormon, ancient Far East texts, the Talmud and

Koran and Bible, they all hype up bee pollen!”

Jermane: “Bee pollen, Mia, bee pollen. You know the difference

between people and bees?”

Mia: “Yeah…bees are better, than you at least!”

The apartment is torn apart by the emotional spasms that follow.

The cornflower is withered away to a veil of blackened rot draped over the canopy of trees. It is barely a box with air-holes hastily poked through by blunt scissors in the hands of an indecent child. The graves have been robbed of their sweet morsels. Every virtue smolders, filling the narrow confines with smoke, slowly, slowly, with the unstoppable certitude of a juggernaut. Supplications howl through burnt-out pillars, empty as the gust of a death-rattle. There is no world without end as there is no end without a world.

Wide open spaces sow in Mia’s mind the kind

of agony dysmenorrhea relays through her body.

Her hatred for the out-of-doors is typically only

overcome by a need to gather intelligence.

Today, though, she has run out of bee pollen,

and her mail order pharmacy service proves

hapless and heedless. Thankfully it is not the week

before her menstruation’s onset or, even worse,

during her flow, because even artificial light is

impossible to endure through those shattered

weeks, much less the actual sun’s full onslaught.

On the way to the store there is only one random

lightning bolt of agony, this one running through

her right side. Its aftermath brands her joints

with lingering heat, her skin with the sensation

of freon exposure. This happens occasionally,

not optimal but preferable to the weeks-long

version. In the pharmacy itself she never bothers

with the bee pollen purchase, as she spies a bloated

young w/oman conversing with the pharmacist.

This vessel is forty weeks along and the doctors are

pushing for caesarean section, but given the gaping

chasm of risk to the mother, and the exponentially

increased chance of substance abuse in the child

if the regular cocktail of birthing drugs is

administered…well, she just cannot do that to her

child. Mia’s smile is that of stockbrokers noting

a national spike in cancer diagnoses. Although

it runs at odds with established protocols

Mia follows her, leading to…

Jermane arrives home from work to find

dinner ready; much to his surprise Mia is

the culprit. He thought they were through

after their cataclysmic fight, and that the neighbor’s

girl was supposed to be watching Mouse. These

thoughts are cut short by the sight of the dining

room table. A crystal bowl overflowing with

decorative gourds and autumn foliage dominates

the center, ensconced by silver chargers

with matching plates on them, crowned by

fanned napkins. The good silverware left by his

Grammy Evans flanks the plates. With even greater

bafflement he discovers the waiting bottle of Dom

Pérignon Rosé. He takes note of Mia’s bloody

apron, imprinted with a pseudo hand-scrawled

“the” rammed between “French” and Chef.”

Mia: “Have a seat.”

Jermane: “What is this?”

Mia: “It’s a special meal. Czarnina. It’s a kind of Polish duck soup. I had to improvise a little.”

Jermane: “I like me some make-up food, mm-hmm. Nice and…hmm.

What’s that taste? It’s good, not sayin’ that, just different is all.”

Mia: “The base for the broth is blood.”

Jermane: “Blood?”

Mia: “And vinegar, to keep it from clotting.”

Jermane: “Aw, babe, that’s enough of that. C’mon.”

Mia: “You’d be surprised how hard it is to come across two cups of blood.”

Jermane: “What’d you end up using, anyway? It’s sure not duck.”

Mia: “They call it ‘hairless goat.’”

Realizing his daughter does not accompany

them at the table Jermane inquires as to her

whereabouts. Mia sets a mirror across from

Jermane to serve as his dinner companion.

His reflection is the flavor of something

parasitic, watching his mouth eating his mouth

eating his mouth eating his mouth eating. Jermane

served on a mirror makes poor company, crossing

Mia. Something about all this strikes him as improper,

but his thoughts are a little fuzzy. And the food is delicious.

Mia: “Maybe a lullaby would be nice. I’ll do the same one I sang Mouse earlier.”

Buzz, quoth the blue fly;

Hum quoth the bee;

Buzz and hum they cry,

And so do we!

In his ear, in his nose,

Thus do you see;

He ate the doormouse,

Else it was thee.

The meat, in light of Mouse’s empty seat, is

indeed less alien now that Mia sings. But

inexplicable petrification pierces Jermane’s limbs,

dwarfing cannifilicidal fears with mounting consternation.

Jermane thinking to himself: Is this a heart attack? This what it feels like?

The muscle relaxants have taken effect. Mia sets

down her utensils, dabs at her lips with a napkin.

From the kitchen she retrieves her

well-used bone saw.

Mia: “The most wonderful thing happened today. I found another baby donor. I don’t need you any more, and you made it clear you don’t need me, so…”

If one’s intent is to butcher the flesh of another

it is best to use unexpected blows to stun

the food source, or a bullet to the head, otherwise

adrenaline and increased heart rate render

the work ahead problematic. Mia has no desire

to allow him into her mouth ever again. Tears

overcome the flood walls of his eyelids, surge

over the flood plains of his cheeks as the circular

saw blade is pressed against his forehead.

Mia: “You could’ve been the one. Now you’re just another one.”

It is easy to tell herself that with this new

death her heart is missing in action but the truth

is her mind and very soul are missing in action.

Mouse and Jermane remain where they are as

she leaves, because “it will make a statement.”

Mia draws close to her secret lair. The gabled

roof intrudes progressively into the vista’s

flesh, piercing the blue diaphragm overhead,

deflating the lungs of existence until the house

looms over her, a decaying underworld blotting

out all else. The cracked slate scales of the roof

would surely slip free to decapitate her, their

iron pinnings long ago rusted to uselessness,

save for the cage provided by its balustraded

parapet. Her feet know all too well the safest

path across the sharply jutting porch; the familiarity

of her fingers with the lock are as a ballerina’s

feet skimming across the floor of a dance studio.

The behemothic ruin exhales its mephitic

atmosphere with all the portentous intensity

of a death rattle, but this structure is far

from collapsing…Mia has seen to that. She has

reinforced its bones during long hours of

rehabilitation, her crude work somewhat less

pleasant than a barbed wire corset, but it holds

everything in place. When her operating/culinary

equipment is at rest once more she scans

the horizon from the widow’s roost, glad to remove

the respirator required inside the home’s moldering

confines. A child’s jacket, tattered and bloody,

dangles from the razor wire fencing surrounding

this blasted, barren patch of earth. Her closest

living neighbors are the factories assailing

the hundred-acre property on three sides. Lurking

at police auctions has its advantages when purchasing

a second residence. Her gas-powered generator

roars from the backyard, reminding her that time

continues passing through her fingers as if it

were happiness, stability, satisfaction.

The vessel waits below, underground, in

the structure’s one immaculately clean room.

Great leaps have been made in devising humane

restraints: the locking leather six point

restraint system displaced only seven hundred

dollars of her funds, yet does the work of three

attendants by maintaining an unrelenting grip

on the vessel’s ankles, wrists, lower chest,

and knees. W/omen such as this latest catch have

not earned the right to scream or even cry; having

their bellies slit once is laughable in comparison

to the sensation of having one’s abdomen carved

day and night for half of your existence. Their

attempts to assert ownership of such pain is an insult

so unwarrantable that murder can be the only

proper response. The vivisectionist within Mia stirs

to life, this time to paint its mural of agony on

the temple of another deity, an innocent god ripe

with unfamiliar divinity. Stainless steel glimmers

under the worklights: angular arms and blunt

prongs of the contoured abdominal retractor,

the titanium bulldog clamps, vicious ring cutter,

German carbon steel scalpel blades in the hundreds,

offset by the blue reusable surgical gown tied at

the neck and midback covered by an evergreen

heavyknit vinyl butcher’s smock, the hemostatic

sponges, the baby blankets. The strands

of blackness issuing from her scalp are covered

by a translucent surgical cap and bound in a long

tail trailing between her shoulder blades.

The w/oman distastefully passes out from the metal

tipped invasion; Mia’s own blackouts are also

associated with penetration, although it is by

men, and when she wakes they continue to reside

within her pain, as will the knife within this w/oman.

Boy or girl it shall be Kelly, to whom she will

bequeath undying devotion and attention, and

the very house in which he/she is born, gargantuan

as it is it can afford Kelly the space to grow

into whatever variety of adult he/she chooses,

taking however many mates might please

the heart and raising a multitude of grandchildren

for Mia to cherish, to direct in how to remove

the wicked blood of the iniquitous from earth’s

stained face. This vessel herself remains nameless,

unlike so many of the others; Mia’s personal

attention is usually required in cultivating

circumstances to the point of bearing fruit.

The Caesarian courses absorbed via the InterWeb,

the CPR certification, all the long hours of

training have been put to the test time and again

using social networking sites to befriend pregnant

w/omen, arranging exchanges of baby carriers,

breast pumps, cloth diapers, or anything else

the w/omen want to hear.

Little Kelly does not survive Mia’s attentions.

Even an expert would be hard pressed to

anticipate the entire spectrum of neonatal

disorders that may present themselves while

“in the field” as they say, so who can blame

her, call her a bad mother? Although it is

disconcerting that some variety of complication

occurs every time. Perhaps this is fate whispering

bittersweet nothings in her ear, salivating on

her neck, the same “fate” Jermane had cherished.

Poor Jermane. If fate will deny her the joy

of motherhood, deny her respite from a life

of torture, then perhaps she is staring at her

curtain call. She has disappeared before, reborn

in a new geosocial structure with a new scent,

but this time there will be no miraculous revival.

The queen bee also possesses a stinger, but need

not die using it unless she so chooses. Weeks

later when a Victorian house is featured prominently

by media outlets she is unable to witness the spectacle.

The astronomical number of bones found in the cellar

is so ponderous investigators cannot determine

the number of corpses they are dealing with, although

the diminutive nature of many remains leads them

to believe they have solved the rash of baby

disappearances plaguing the tri-state area these last

three years. Old pain and new alike continue,

spreading in an ever-widening geometric pattern,

rhombic in dispersion. It is enough to finally force

the demise of Jermane Byron and his daughter

Marlene from the headlines. Another headline, already

forgotten by the time of the Victorian house discovery:

Police Credit Samaritan With Saving Girl

Monday, October 24, 2010 8:17 PM

A woman was killed this morning while saving a 3-year-old from an oncoming truck.

The accident occurred at 7:57 a.m. on Colm Station Road outside Colm Station Elementary School, News 7’s Valerie Avon reported.

The police have verified that a crossing guard was present, but was involved in settling a road rage incident between two families dropping off their children.

Richard Dunigan, a member of the park police service, was dropping off his daughter at the regional park police daycare facility adjacent to Colm Station Elementary.

“I felt it was necessary to help that [crossing] guard restrain one of them road rage folks,” he said. “That’s when I lost track of my little girl.”

Witnesses say Hana Miura, 28, had her arms around Dunigan’s daughter and attempted to run to safety, but instead became a human shield. The girl escaped with minor abrasions.

The truck driver suffered a concussion after slamming on his brakes. When it was discovered his seat belt was not engaged both he and his trucking company received fines. Investigators failed to uncover any evidence of criminal wrongdoing on the driver’s behalf.

After notifying Ms. Miura’s next of kin the authorities made another discovery.

“Ms. Miura had a history of mental illness in her youth,” said Coleen Watts, police spokesperson. “Apparently she was living here under an assumed name.”

Authorities in other jurisdictions have yet to respond to media outlets as to whether or not Ms. Miura is a suspect in ongoing investigations.

“Whatever problems she had in her past, she died a hero,” Watts said.

[*Nursery rhymes from The Nursery Rhymes of England, 1843]

About This Poem

Back in December of 2000 into early 2001, when this work was first conceived, I was attempting to transition from screenwriting and writing articles for hire (uncredited freelance work from the days when such things paid better than Fiverr) into being a fiction author. My initial batch of short story concepts served me well: my first, "Expectations of the Needy," was in the process of winning the Fiction International Emerging Writers Competition and getting a Pushcart Prize nomination, "Executioner's Moon" evolved into what would become Last Burn in Hell, my first published novel, and Sin Conductor grew into a novel and enough spin-off stories for a collection.

But this one, "The Appalling Intricacies of Hexagons," it remained nothing more than a title I enjoyed with a couple of visuals and one central character outlined. That's how things remained for a decade until I began work on the SuiPsalms poetry collection in 2009. It was during that process I began to realize some of my unfinished stories might serve as the basis of a poem, but that didn't quite work out the way I hoped.

Then I stumbled across my notes for this piece. Going back and reading over all the cases of women cutting the babies from other women's bellies, I couldn't help but wonder about the motivations involved. What rationale could start them down that path? What things would they live with — and die with — that nobody else was aware of?

The image-laden, disjointed narrative form of poetry made intuitive sense for conveying such a life and, ultimately, death. As things stand, I'm happy with the result, particularly the three italicized introductions denoting the thirds "Appalling Intricacies…" is divided into. These particular chunks were my response to Sylvia Plath's sequence of bee poems. Whether they are worthy contenders to her work or not, it seems they serve their purpose here and maybe help anchor the work firmly as poetry instead of merely a watered-down short story.

Given its length and gravity, I concluded the SuiPsalms collection with this piece as the penultimate entry. If you're interested in reading more, you can find the book in paperback at your local bookstores through IndieBound by clicking here or read it on your Kindle by clicking here.

Thank you for joining me here today. If you have any questions or comments about "The Appalling Intricacies of Hexagons" you can always catch up with me on social media and let me know, or if you'd like to be alerted when I publish more work like this, you can subscribe to my newsletter by clicking here.

About the Book

The concept behind SuiPsalms was not so slow to develop like that of the poem above. One day I was in the car and misheard song lyrics as I was driving. The track was on Babyland's Cavecraft album, and mishearing their lyrics made me wonder if "suipsalms" was a thing at all. After searching online, it was not in use, so that was cool, but then the next step was defining how the heck to apply the word.

Texts from the Bronze Age have connotations with poetry, in my mind, since they were often composed in verse. Therefore anything springing from the notion of Biblical psalms meant a poem to me, or maybe even a larger poetry collection. Up to that point, I'd never done a themed poetry collection, and after having published four of them, I needed that extra angle on things to get enthusiastic about working on a fifth.

Zeroing in on the "sui" prefix, given my background, implied "suicide." Naturally I jumped online and made the mistake of searching "suicide poetry." It could be things have improved in the last 10 years, but at the time I was disheartened to learn "suicide poetry" had come to be regarded as a genre unto itself, even while all the examples I read of it ran the gamut from basic art therapy exercises at best to violence glorification at worst.

That's what sealed the deal for me. It just seemed that somebody ought to jump in and contribute something dedicated to the subject with a different approach and intent.

After further research I concluded suicide is a global issue touching everyone's life. Therefore I set out to work in as many of the world's poetry forms as I could, from as many perspectives as possible. Despite my original inspiration, I decided to avoid coming at things from any particular religious perspective and worked to approach the writing without judgment of people or their actions.

The book ends with a reference section full of of resources for those who want to explore all sides of the subject of suicide. This ranges from prevention to right to die advocacy. In fact, the back cover was given up to information from the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.

Resources

If you feel you are in crisis right now or know somebody who is, this resource is for you: The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline — 1-800-273-8255.

As somebody who has struggled with PTSD and depression since before age 5 I've spent most of my life in a very dark place. To me, it seemed that was just how things were; it was all I knew, so I just accepted terrible pain all the time. It doesn't have to be that way, though. I've learned to:

• Reduce the amount of pain I endure
• Pursue my ambitions
• Find meaningful ways to continue on
• Contribute tangible value and happiness for others
• Connect with people in healthy ways

If you're in a dark place, I hope you'll embrace a way forward. I believe in your ability to build that peace for yourself. If you don't want to talk with somebody directly then here are some other online resources you can explore:

• Suicide Prevention Resource Center
• Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration
• Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network
• LGBTQIA community, families, and allies

To download a free reading guide for SuiPsalms you can get one from my website by clicking here.

Help Others

Did you know that in addition to being a co-founder of Raw Dog Screaming Press, and its various imprints — Dog Star Books, Guide Dog Books, Imaginary Books, and Anti-Oedipus Press — I'm also vice president of Diverse Writers and Artists of Speculative Fiction, and manager of Broadkill Writers Resort?

In my work as an editor of anthologies, editor-in-chief of The Dream People, and chief administrative officer of Raw Dog Screaming, I've helped hundreds of authors and artists find a path to publication, reach their audience, and move on to the next level in their careers.

With DWASF I've spent the last few years promoting diversity in science fiction, fantasy, and horror publishing through community outreach efforts and by leading workshops.

Speaking of workshops, on top of the workshops I do at universities and conventions and stores and libraries, I've been facilitating workshops and writing retreats on Delaware Bay at the Broadkill Writers Resort since January 2016.

In short: I've spent the last 20 years helping artists outside the mainstream directly and generally working to cultivate a publishing scene where new or different creators can thrive.

Team up with me to assist others by contributing here with a tip, by checking out https://johnlawson.org/ for links to products and services I'm affiliated with, or just as importantly by sharing this page with people who would be interested in reading it. Thank you!

Also, don't forget you can donate to the suicide prevention organizations I linked to above.

Bonus Round

Still here? Wow, you've read a lot. Here's something extra for you! The song that started it all for SuiPsalms, "Search and Rescue" by punk rockers Babyland. They were punk, but used synths and samples instead of guitars. It's a long story. Anyway, here's the song. Bonus points if you can catch the line of lyrics I misheard.