Documentation of Contrasts 9/16/18

Silicone phones,

Silicone hair,

Silicone breasts,

Silicone air.


Organic eggs,

Vegan bread,

Pasteurized milk,

Natural peanut butter spread.


VR life,

Made up games,

Online dates,

Social fame.


YOLO saints,

Couch depressants,

Baby money,

Senile peasants.


Left-wing man,

Right-wing woman,

Middle-ground Lincoln,

Middle-aged Buren.


Diyana Love,


It was Warm that Night 9/16/18


You held Pernod, balancing

So slightly through your two fingers-

Pointer and middle,

Your others gripping slightly.


You wore dark red lips- they formed

Beautifully in conversation.

Your eyes were just as beautiful.

Your dress swallowed the light

Shining through that glass of Pernod,

That night.


My heart was broken. I couldn’t look

At you the same way the other men seemed

To do.

The piercing glance you gave me

Pricked my heart;

Your sips were few

But your jabs consistent

With each swirl of that blasted Pernod.


Diyana Love,


perfect 09/3/18

How can the human brain-

a worm-like mass in our heads-

contain so much information?

It corrals in sights, smells, sounds,

it stores savory flavors. It recognizes my husband

and children. David; Mallory, Reese, and Theo.

It knows my favorite pregnancy craving:

Pickled radishes. Yum.

It knows how to beat up taxes’ butt.

It knows how to make my body warm in the winter and

cool in the summer. The brain is amazing

and mysterious.


My brain doesn’t, however, let me move.

That’s the one thing my brain isn’t amazing at.


I can’t move below my hips.

My legs are numb.

But my brain is still amazing

enough to produce a baby.

I can move my arms, those are fine.

My head is good, too.

My nose still crinkles when I laugh

and my hazel eyes are as sharp as sharp can be.

I just can’t walk.


My children suffer from this handicap-

They’ve never ran with me or went swimming

with anyone but their father.

I watch from the sidelines, cheering them on.

They know I would if I could.


My brain began to deteriorate at 12

years old. My favorite pasttime- running-

became a struggle. My legs wouldn’t put one

in front of the other. I felt like I was in molasses.

My legs felt dead and cool, like lead stubs

instead of fleshy limbs.


But I can still do plenty with my imperfect brain.

I can cook the best chicken mole tacos you’d ever try.

I sell a good amount of homes in the city four times a week,

and I love my family with more capability than

I could ever do with a perfect brain.


Diyana Love,

Morning coffee 09/01/18

It’s cool outside now, but still shining brightly. The weather almost seems to be on the fence about raining or heating up to 80 degrees. Blue pines surround my home on all angles, creating a gradient wall. The windows begin to sweat.

I’m sitting on my couch and skimming through a Chef magazine. Soon enough, my eyes trail to the side window.

On days like today I sit and stare at people. I usually stare at people outside my window. Specifically the two young men who laugh, pantomime, shift, and flick at their cigarette butts not even 3 feet from me, besides the glass barrier between us.

Tft, tft

I turn back to my magazine despite my curiosity of these two. They stood outside my window every morning- but only the mornings I didn’t work, which intrigued me. Did we have the same schedule? Had I met them before but just didn’t recognize them?

They catch my attention again. The blond one drops his cigarette and makes a frustrated motion. They laugh and his friend lights him up another one. He takes a drag and flicks.

Almost for a quarter of a second I catch a shape, no, a figure full of light twirl until it disappears. I lean closer. He flicks again, and again. Several tiny dancers prance across the smoke resting amongst them. Then the smoke begins to fade away in the cooling air and so do the dancers.

His friend flicks his cigarette several times and then takes a drag. This time the small figures dance with each other, leading and following in a waltz up toward trees. I seem to recognize their dance, in some sort of odd way.

I jump up and walk to the window. They notice but choose to ignore me. Even though I feel shy, I muster the courage to stand outside and stand with them, maybe only several inches away, pretending to be associated with something only I knew of.

I study the sticks in their mouths. The men continue speaking to each other and their cigarettes bounce with each word.

The one with blond hair takes a long drag and, while peering deeply, I spot several fiery pixies drawing back inside the cigarette, cowering in fear and shivering. Their crackling hair pulls backward dramatically.

One of them offers me his used cigarette saying, “You seem to really want it.” and laughs. I chuckle shyly but decline it.

I only accept one when the two men decide to go back inside. I peer inside and see crammed pixies, crying, and reaching to escape. Their mouths open wide as if wailing (though I don’t know what they’re saying) and they frantically jump up and down.

I decide to flick the cigarette. Tft

Two fiery pixies jump out and dance away. “Oh,” I say, “I understand now.” I flick three more times and a group of more than 15 leap in unison down toward the pavement.

I’m not a smoker and am not willing to start now, so there’s nothing left to lift them towards the skies.

After flicking a few more times, I realize that although the strong gusts inside their prison were fearful, it nonetheless kept them alive. Some of the pixies began to whimper and cool from a much lesser brilliant red to black. Some desperately leapt out of their cage to dance their last when I released them. Others waited to cool.

An hour passes and the cigarette is almost empty and the tobacco is roughly lining the paper. The last of the pixies dance, twirling away into their next lives. I watch in awe. They dance beautifully, not even thinking of what may await them after this last dance.

It may have only been for a moment, but it was a brilliant lifetime.

Diyana Love,


Concrete Flowers 07/11/2018

Full with joy,
that glazed ice shallow roof
She plucked a flower in between and found
A daisy at the bottom

Diyana Love,

Reach 9/1/2018


We’ve finally made it.
We’ve moved past the mark,
caught the moving lines,
nabbed the ribbon-rush.

We flew to the highs and
pumbled the lows.
We crushed the serpent’s lush.

The waters rise and typhoons
spread. But we’ve finally,
finally made it.
And we’re safe on the misty peaks
while it gains amongst the underbrush.


Diyana Love,

Reflections 05/31/18, 6:00pm

The image I stare back at
isnt’ me. It’s a tree.
Tall, very tall, and spread out

I didn’t expect to see that.

I glimpse again; a man is in view.
A man I knew,
His kind eyes on me (or maybe the tree?)
And I smile.

My soul seems to yearn for him.
It’s almost like I’ve missed his warmth, his presence,
His kind smile.
It melts my heart. And so I smile brightly and turn.

I realize he is the man I knew
And he knew me.
He smiles again and my
hands twiddle a bit.

I want to kiss him,
But he walks away.
My soul trails after.


Diyana Love,