September 30, 2015 § Leave a comment

Scientists theorize
in timeless, soundless, lightless
emptiness, all the vastness
of the universe
was confined
to a single


that        e            x              p             l               o             d             e             d.

Scientists theorize
in swaying orbits, flinging planets,
the enormity grows infinite
cosmic in scale
as our world


our atoms crashcollide
as we reel
through the cosmos –
your nebula eyes

Nicole Best


The Botanist

September 23, 2015 § Leave a comment

Most succulent plants
die, oddly, from over-

we think we know about
plants seems not to apply
to succulents.

Aloes flower
wracked by winter,
shooting up vivid constellations
in hot defiance –
setting the world ablaze.
For this they need
two things:
little water,
much sun.

Euphorbia tirucalli
resembles nothing
than a stack of sticks.
But if weather is icy;
water a trickle;
its tips roar
green to blistering orange.
Struggle manifest,
it grows like a weed.

Consider rock roses;
piercing petals grow
staunch rose-clones if torn
and tossed into dirt.
Each rose itself prepares,
grows plumy pink roots
from its stem, just-in-case.
Slice it off, rip it apart;
there will only be
more roses.

we think we know about
plants seems not to apply
to succulents.

They are made
for seared earth,
and rare water.
They are made
for mountainsides,
and fractured rocks.
They are made
for extremes.
They are made
for survival.

Much like me.

Nicole Best

The Big Questions

September 16, 2015 § Leave a comment

But what does it mean?

I don’t know,
everything, nothing.

The cosmos flickers
on the back of my skull
like a silent film;
it taptaptaps
frantic fingertips
on windowpanes of bone
like spun sugar;
nails strewn
with twinkling star-gems.
I know it burns to burst
right through, fill me,
test my edges.
I strive to transmute
world to word –
alchemy rewound.

But what does it mean?

I don’t know,


Nicole Best

Apocalypse Later

January 29, 2015 § Leave a comment

In the morning, my sister
wanders into my room;
I am still dozing in bed.
She tells me about how
the Ebola virus
is mutating.
Doctors are stumped.
People are dying.
“We’re all fucked,” I say
as I roll over.
“Yep. We’re all fucked.”
My bed is comfortable,
and the rain is sweet
white noise.
If the world is ending soon,
I am going to ignore
my alarm clock.

Nicole Best


January 28, 2015 § 3 Comments

Observe the chrysalis.
Like a fruit
suspended, pendulous,
obscenely full.

Observe its hot globe
its green curve
the mystery of
its bulges.

Is it still?

Is it silent?

Observe the chrysalis.
Like a prison.
What entered once
will leave, flayed

Observe the chrysalis.
And what terrible
beauty is wrought
by change.

Nicole Best

On Our Edges

January 26, 2015 § Leave a comment

My ankle
and the razor
cannot seem to part;
much like us. I want only
to bleed with you.

Nicole Best

Cut Scene

January 24, 2015 § Leave a comment

Limpid pools of yellow light
like honey on slick tar.
An empty bottle, label
ripped mindlessly.
Jaundiced morning sun on
the stained floor of a nightclub.
(In)human debris.
Nothing has changed, but everything is different.

Nicole Best

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