On the eight day, 
God was so tired that he fell into a deep sleep, 
saw you in a dream, and when he woke, 
he scrambled wildly for paper and pen 
as the image of you faded 
from the pink walls of his eyelids.

You don’t believe in God; you say things like: 
“I am breathless about the spinning atoms of you.” 
“Let’s become scientists with curious hands.” 
“I want to melt you down to your chemical compositions.”
“Baby, I like the way you look tonight, why don’t you
slip out of those molecules and dissolve with me?”

I thought I could change you. 
I thought I could touch you and make you a believer, 
but instead I fell in love with your ferocious hunger for 
knowledge, the immense awe you hold for every blade 
of grass, or grain of sand — it reminds me of worship. 
There’s something so unmistakably holy about it. 
I recite psalms when I’m afraid, and you whisper 
equations under your breath until they sound 
like scripture. This is how we pray.

You’re always trying to fit the pieces together, 
always making incisions in the soft underbelly of life 
to study and dissect its coiled organs, always trying to 
bury the uncertainty. Am I wrong for finding you lovely? 
Am I wrong for seeing the beauty in your blasphemy, 
the grace in your godlessness?

I’m not like you. I don’t need to understand, 
or make it all mean something. I don’t want 
all the answers. I don’t want to spoil the mystery, 
so I will leave you untouched, the science of you 
vast and unexplored. Please, do not tell me how 
this ends. I don’t want to know.

Let’s leave the questions unanswered 
and problems unsolved for now. I’m not interested 
in the mechanics or the math of it. I’m not looking 
for a method. I only want your madness—
majestic, divine — all on its own.

Gen II - Pokemaniacal Colour

By popular request comes the Pokemaniacal design containing the greatest and most fantastic pocket monsters from Generation II.

Check out my other works for the other Pokemaniacal Generations!



When all the stars and nebulae came hurtling 
out of your body, it felt like déjà vu, like the Big Bang 
happening all over again and you were a beautiful mess 
to witness. Your last breath shattered the glass bowl 
of night and since then I have not seen a sky that didn’t 
look broken to me, but let us not speak of such violence. 
I’m still struggling with this swirling planet of grief you’ve 
created inside me, its gravity that threatens to devour 
me if I scream, and my own madness collecting in rings that 
encircle my head like a neon halo, a diseased light 
that singles me out in crowded spaces, draws attention to 
how my body is riddled with the cancer of loss, every tumor 
a malignant mass of guilty cells for each day 
I didn’t cry for you. I keep wishing we could be more 
than this, more than these words I’ve been stringing around 
my wrists like a rosary, more than gallons of blood 
and folded tissue bound by all this unholy flesh. I’m
pulling at the seams, hoping to tear my muscle and sinew 
cleanly away from the bone, hoping to come apart for you. 
To unravel my own cosmic wreckage so we might be two 
neighboring galaxies, my constellations reaching across 
the light-years to tangle with yours, but it’s never 
been that simple, has it? No. Instead, I will settle for this 
rudimentary science. The solemn undertaking of mourning 
the dead. Plotting coordinates along the grid-lines of 
my despair like some jaded astronomer. I’ll dedicate 
my time to pinpointing specific locations in the universe 
that once held significance, like here — this was where 
I loved you most, this was where I lost you, and this was 
where the silence broke wide open like a dam
and I learned how to howl. Tell me, dear sister,
dear first love, dear sunshine that once drew my
shadow out of hiding: How do we solve the equation
of you subtracted from me divided by space and multiplied
by time to the tenth power of loneliness? When two souls
are separated in a parallel journey beginning at point A,
how long does Soul #1 wait at point B for Soul #2 to arrive? 
Never mind. Forget the numbers. I’m tired of trying to
quantify the pain, my measurements always fall short.
Math has an answer for everything but this. 
For what it’s worth, I’m still that wounded
animal. Still that wailing coyote pawing at your grave. 
In the belly of the beast which is myself, I haven’t forgotten 
you. I’m still your big sister, your Little Dipper, North Star, 
my neon madness beaming like Polaris. A lighthouse 
on the shores of eternity, illuminating the corners 
of every dimension just to find you, 
bring you home.