The Reveries of Orlie Greene

Eighteen-year-old Orlie loves breaking into abandoned houses to bring home goodies like record players and hula hoops. She grew up on the outskirts of Kansas City, hiding out on an old farm. She and her parents are the only survivors in their family after pandemics killed billions of people throughout the 2060's.

Naïve like Alice in her garden, isolated from a world of politics, money and fuel. Rather than singing with the flowers, Orlie smokes them. After a puff of blue lotus, Orlie meets a beautiful girl named Queenie wandering through the woods who tells her that a music festival is springing up in Arizona. Apparently, they've built a tower that can harness energy from the sky.

Having always dreamed of finding a way out of Kansas, Orlie doesn't hesitate to say yes when she's invited to hitch a ride on Queenie's solar powered motorcycle.

Orlie's world turns inside out when she drinks a hallucinogenic beer called "the Kykeon brew" and somehow she ends up all on her own.

Stranded in the middle of a disintegrating highway with a deep, bloody gash in her leg. Orlie tries to piece together what happened. Luckily, she meets a couple who are headed in the same direction but their fungus-fueled car breaks down.

While they hike the rest of the way, Orlie's mind plunges into psychedelic dreamscapes. Whatever she drank in New Mexico still has a stronghold on her psyche. To make matters worse, mushrooms have started growing out of the gash on her leg.

Read the first six chapters here!

Citilily

autopilot
cruise control
white sandstorm of thinking
busy, eager, 9 to 5ers,
crowded, climbing, piling 
stacks of buildings
swaying slightly 
condensed culture
in a tin can
pour it into coffee
longing for a forest
moonlight, florals
naked skin
readjusting freedom
break out of the slime shell
shaking loose of patterns
space in stillness
ecstasy in breath
I find surrender when I come
into my body
slipping sideways
in my soul

The maze of me

rippling
throwing stones into an ocean
searching for the wander
that has been me

the twisting butterfly
can’t go back
once cocooning is complete
welling waves
get me every time
why can’t we stay
with the water
the sweet milky place
carving at the story
over and over
she teaches me
to love the act of letting go
it makes the sunset everbright
it makes tomorrow
less dark, less scary
I could stand beneath
volcanoes I’ve imagined
learn to harness
the intimate energies
working within my body
soft, strong
finding peace in distant callings
in the words between
long silences and longings

drifting
in that sweet soulspace,
pulling guidance from
the maze of me

Plaestasione

money grow hard
cold and straight
hard eyed
thick doobie to your lips
green buds like hey
good morning
terpenes
drip while I make
another bacon and egg sandwich and
good morning
silk flowing from my nostrils
mountain martian station
mind wanders to children
of the corn and shining
Jack-like eyes streaming through
slammed in jaded doorways
perception is stalks I
grow alone and bold
strong and full of colour
no shame, no promise
when you can’t allow the sight
of hot eyes or hear sighs
groping yelps while I hold my thighs
I tossed my wallet like my self
my esteem was the only thing
that didn’t make me animal
if you think this is treason
I’ll throw up my thumb
a Kerouac white flag a
sigh you won’t hear
I’m just a messenger
life’s still a bitch
no matter how pretty
you might think her face is

Paper Doll

I’m looking for my paper doll. The one that I’d put super hero capes on. I’ve had it forever. Tucked away in a little box somewhere. Where the fuck is she? I used to draw these Wonder Woman outfits, sometimes she’d be an Amazonian goddess.

It really was the coolest thing.

I can’t find her anywhere. My little paper doll. The one that used to be so strong for me. These little outfits that I’ve drawn. They’re not big enough for me.

I drove this puttering, white convertible in my dream. She wasn’t a doll. But she was paper. Flip flapping when I looked into the mirror. I had this crinkly face, but not like wrinkles, I wasn’t old. I was her. I was paper.

I’d park the car and open the trunk. All the outfits that I’d dream up as a kid, they were real and I could put them on.

It was in the middle of the desert. There was this spinning contraption, this hobby-horse of sorts. It had these streamlining, spinning whirls of colour. It was this levitating sort of alive box. I was headed straight for it in the middle of nowhere. Like it contained all the answers.

But that image kept distracting me. My face as paper. I guess the more I focused on it, the more this world would shatter. The corners of reality coming undone. I stopped trying to get there. I couldn’t control it anymore.

I pulled over and starting tearing at this paper all around me. The skies, the distant contraption, whatever the hell that thing was. It all came undone. Then I started tearing at me. Pulling and ripping apart the very fabric of my being.

It was just this whiteness. This blank. Nothing.
The peace of it.

I found the doll. She always looks so different than how you remembered her.

I’ll rip her up into a million little pieces and let the quails eat me.
What happens when I don’t have the totem anymore.

When I am her?