I found The Devil in ordinary places:

The answer “no” to if he liked me on the note I passed him.

Sandalwood hair and ginger root eyes.

My heart touched his, but it was a surprise

when he let out a laugh and showed all his friends

that the dumb little fat girl a love note had penned.

Losing your way in the darkness.

At night I took walks to burn off the skin

hanging in rolls off my stomach of sin.

Even though I hated those cold foggy eves,

I walked all alone and rolled down my sleeves.

Shampoo in your eyes.

Pieces of straw hanging limply and stiff

with one stupid piece curling up as a quiff.

When it burned hot and clouded my vision,

I felt the ends split in a lime-litten schism.

Caution tape and soap-soaked sponges cleaning underpasses.

Tunnels of paintings accessed by the masses

transcend any gallery and transcend human classes.

The first time I sobbed was when the best installation

was scrubbed from my vision by our cold corporate nation.

Newly-seeded dandelions.

Stark-cotton clouds on a yellow-green sky

dissipate into pesky white raindrops from high

that float over dirt, rich and ready for seeds,

and deposits a pesky, hated, and white stubborn weed.

I found God in the strangest places:

Backs of passed notes where I doodled to forget him.

Ignored by the faces and forms who passed by,

white pages and pencils were never too shy

to ignore me or hate me or call me cruel names.

No boy with brown eyes could destroy an artist’s proclaims.

Startipping in a forest with close friends.

We looked at the stars and spun in a ring,

ashes, ashes, and falling down without wings.

And though two bruises grew purple and sore,

the stars still shone soft in my forest of lore.

Smelling her hair after she washed it with a new conditioner.

My theatre seat was behind yellow-corn hair,

and a face that could brighten the darkest of stares.

Teeth like new stars, laugh tinkly and merry,

with hair that changed scents from rose to strawberry.

Highways with graffiti still intact.

We jumped in the car to explore our new city

until the car stopped when one girl saw a pretty

institutional piece by a stoner street artist:

The once-grey slate bridge, kept the coloured and the smartest.

Dandelions blown for wishes.

My garden has plants of laurel, scarlett, and wren,

named after my friends who I care for, and when

one is wilting, they must be saddened and pained.

I’ll blow a white cloud to spread wishes and warm rain.