(Note: I am helping LilEnigma judge this challenge, so my entry isn't eligible to win but I couldn't resist entering)

Like the Father, Son and Holy Ghost

the Maiden, Mother, and Crone,

and Birth, Life and Death,

my END will pour threefold

On the first day:

Lie me on a simple slat of wood,

in a room fragranced

by the smoke of Nag Champa

and draped with cloths of purple, blue, and red,

surrounded by fixtures of mixed metal and stone.

There are roses on the walls, one laid on

every seat, and petals spread across the floor

with a sprinkling of tobacco for Legba's quiet guidance.

Prayer candles for Mother Mary, Parvati, and Oshun

must crackle quietly on every open surface.

Cover me with mint, as deemed by Aphrodite,

and place a crown of thornless

Joseph's Coat roses atop my head.

In the background, plays a soundtrack

of delta blues, soulful jazz,

psychedelic rock, ethereal prog-metal,

haunting southern gothic guitar

and the occasional hymn, starting

with Hear My Train A' Comin'

woven with The Parting Glass,

Come Away With Me and

Box Up My Bones, then finished

with Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.

Each guest has their choice of mantra or

verse from whatever belief seems

to meet the moment, and must speak it

into my listening ear or tuck the written words

between the roses atop my head.

There will be no speakers, no public declarations

of mourning, reflections of death will be

our secret, sacred bond.

Everyone will leave the viewing with a stone

from my personal collection; may it bring

them luck and snowballing peace.

Dress yourself in clothes that allude

to our favorite memories; as casually or

formally as you please.

On the second day:

A day of silence, of meditation and reflection

in nature--garden, sea, or quiet wood--

and poetry or prose must be written

about whatever comes to mind.

Psychoactive spirit journeys are not required,

but highly recommended.

Collect pieces of the earth in my memory,

but keep them for yourselves on your altars,

your mantles, your ofrendas and your hearts.

And while my loved ones mourn

in the temple of Mother Nature and Father Time,

grace me with fire, burn me with all the flowers

from my service and the holy texts

that frame my skull.

And finally, the third day:

Make a mandala of ash, bone, and

vibrant sand, a careful, colorful

arrangement to remind us of quiet infinity,

of the ebb and flow of the cosmic tide.

Then gently sweep my ashes and sand

and pour them into beads of glass,

one each for my children, one each

for the loves I leave behind, and finally,

one for the Earth, intended to be buried

with the Mother who cradled

me for a century near--

--for I am from the dust

and to dust I shall return.

I wasn't even allowed to drink in January because my friends and I had declared it "dry January." I was bored and sadly sober one night when I saw that a literary journal I sometimes submit to had submissions open for their March issue. Free of charge, just send the editor an email.

I wrote in my new crooked, fragmented style - something I hadn't published on Prose, because it has to be previously unpublished. I laid out my childhood and my awful ex-boyfriend like they were being hung out to dry.

I couldn't have even summarized what I had written after the fact, I had submitted it close to midnight and am usually forgetful of what I write anyway. Something about trauma, etc. etc.

7:54 a.m yesterday: an email from the editor. 'It is our pleasure to inform you...'

Wait, what?

Sipping coffee slowly, and then more quickly. This was my second submission to a publication outside of Prose since the year started.

Perhaps no one had submitted?

It feels good to be recognized, as mortified as I am that I laid my past bare, a midnight submission I had emailed for the hell of it. Now it will be spelled out to the world, trauma and my name together, separated by only a comma.

You never know until you try.

Three, two, one... can I make it better?

I wrote about love, a wandering down the aisles and finding the wrong brand of ice cream on the shelves. When the dictionary said my poems have to rhyme, I decided to use it as a door stop instead of wasting my time. The magician pulls the rabbit out of the hat, only to find it's his reflection. The joke's on those who believed they would see a new perspective.

Intakes of breath, free writing until my mind pops - stardust that falls lightly on her red sweater like snow fall. Quotes from the internet that inspire tattoos, a young girl’s fantasy in her childhood home. Perhaps we’re all trying to be known, a lifetime of experiences leading us to the watering hole.

Baileys that pours through my brain, rocks that diminish to sand grains. Irish bars that reflect inner chaos. I find that writing about space and time interests no one. I am a hashtag that was spelled wrong, and my domain is: "504 - an error was made a long time ago".

Who is to say what is good, what impresses the judges? The good stuff always dribbles to the bottom. My writing might not speak your truth, but it exists somewhere in this universe.

You can find it under: "404 - your existence was not found."

Maybe we are all just waxing philosophical, stars that become supernovas: orange, and nothing rhymes with orange.

I don’t understand blind trust of the media or the government.

Have you met human beings? We lie. We cheat. We steal. We lust. We murder. We hate. We divide.

But somehow if you put a whole group of flawed human beings who are proven to be flawed, they should just be trusted?

One example: media and doctors lied about cigarettes several decades ago saying they were good for you. You don’t think they still try to do that?

When Donald Trump was elected four years ago it was all Russian collusion and there’s no way he could have won and whatnot. Yet this year, fraud is not possible? Yet the articles alleging smaller elections in states had voter fraud that doesn’t muddy up how much they can be trusted?

I understand the benefit of the doubt, like I don’t assume every customer that comes into work is stealing or lying to me about something.

I just don’t understand trusting the government and media and “experts” when we don’t truly know their motives...

"How are you ?" my sister asks inspecting through a video camera my obvious black eye.

"Oh walked into a door again." I fabricate , smiling down the video lens with an another obviously feeble lie.

"You need to get out of there." She says with so much concern in her voice it makes me want to cry.

"I'm fine." I reply even though yesterday I was so beaten and broken, it made me want to die.

Hey, friends! I am very excited to say, I have a chapbook coming out on March 30th! It is being published by Witches N Pink and will be available on Amazon. If you prefer ebooks, you can preorder now - https://www.amazon.com/Expulsion-Emily-Perkovich-ebook/dp/B085T94C9G/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=emily+perkovich+expulsion&qid=1584433586&sr=8-1

Old men with boxes full of pretty princess hand sanitizer, greedy women clutching toilet paper like it's her very breath of life, people hoarding bananas like the monkeys have come to visit...

"Your total is fifty-three dollars and seventy cents?" the cashier asked with her last ounce of draining enthusiasm. "I know! I know! Don't rush me. Just shut up and let me concentrate! Don't you know it's the end of the world here?" the woman yelled, viciously stirring through her purse, "Just shut up and let me find my dang-on money, lady!" The cashier looked up behind the rude woman to see a long line of angry-looking customers clenching on tightly to their packs of toilet paper and bottles of hand sanitizer. "Huh," the woman huffed as she threw a fifty dollar bill onto the counter. "Excuse me, ma'am?" the cashier gaped in shock, "You gave me the wrong amount." "Keep the change, though you don't deserve it," the woman scoffed, walking away. "No, I mean, this isn't enough," the cashier called, "You still owe me three dollars and seventy cents!" "Don't you raise your voice at me! This generation never learned how to respect their elders?" the woman screamed, not even looking back. The cashier stood in total disbelief holding the fifty dollar bill.

"Ma'am, I'm next in line thank you," a man said in an authoritative tone. "I'm sorry. It's just that now my drawer is going to be nearly four dollars short," the cashier pouted. "Heh, not my problem, lady," the man laughed, "Now ring me up, will ya?" Shaking her head, she placed the fifty dollars into her till and began scanning the man's items.

After ten more rude customers, the cashier began to feel woozy. "Manager assistance to register two," she called weakly over the intercom. "Come on now, you don't got no time to be talkin' on no phone," the next customer said, rolling her eyes and smacking her gum. "I'm sorry. I was calling the manager," the cashier breathed, "I don't feel well." "AWWW heckie nawww! Don't tell me you done got that corona," the lady screamed, "Okay, tell you what, don't touch none of my stuff, okay. Just put it in manual." "But, ma'am," the cashier started, attempting to use her nicest voice, "I need to see the barcode so that I can type in the number." "Uh uh. No, you don't. I used to work in retail. It's a button on the register," the lady said nonchalantly. "But I'm supposed to scan each item for inventory purposes, and to make sure I'm charging you the right price," the cashier retorted. "Pfft, girl, please. I know the prices of all this stuff. Don't you got a sales paper up here? You can just go off of that, can't you?" the lady said shaking her head. "Well, ma'am, I'm going to at least need you to remove the items from your cart," the cashier pleaded. "Naww," the lady said in disagreement, "You can see what I got from up there, cain't you?" "I actually can't," the cashier drawled. "Well then you blinder than a mug," the lady clicked and turned, pushing the cart directly through the doors without paying. The sensors went off, but the security guard waved her through with a smile. "Oh, come on! Seriously?" the cashier whispered to herself.

"Ma'am," a voice called from the line, "I'm trying to be nice, but I left my children home alone, my husband is at work, and I'm freaking tired of standing in this long line. Don't you have any help?" "I'm sorry, but everyone called off sick today," the cashier yelled back. "Wow," someone else added, "Can't you call a manager?" "I did, and they haven't got here yet," the cashier puffed. She tried to breathe, but her lungs wouldn't take any air. The dull lighting began to flash all around her. "Well, lady, aren't you going to start ringing?" the next customer shouted. The cashier reached for the bottle of hand sanitizer and tried to scan it on the belt, when, suddenly, she blacked out. Clutching her stomach, she fell back onto the tile floor. "Hello? Seriously?" the customer smirked, "Is this some kind of joke? She just fell out on me like that? Who's going to ring me up now?"

Pa calls me dumber than rocks all the time, especially when he asks for my help, but also when he doesn't. He called me dumber than a rock when I was sitting at the kitchen table stirring my Ovaltine and Ma was right by us fixin' breakfast on the stove. "I didn't mean to spill it." I said, cause I didn't and then cause he made me real mad I also said, "My name is Ralph, not Dumber, not Than, and not Rocks, and then he said, "You're dumb like a fox," and Ma said afterward, patting me on the back real soft, real nice, "That means he thinks your smart, Ralph." Why doesn't he make up his mind?

Ma calls me stupid, but never to my face, only when she's on the phone with Gertie late at night and she thinks I'm fast asleep, but I'm not. Sometimes I just lay awake for no reason at all listening to night sounds, the owls hoot and the squirrels scurrying on the roof, wishing I was one of them instead of me, cause they don't use words; just screams, barks, hisses and coos, which are much easier to understand and less likely to maim.

It would make me smile if Ma could call Gertie when I do things right, like turning the compost, or stacking the wood, or shoveling the snow, but she doesn't. She only calls Gertie to tell her everything I want to forget and hearing it again makes me sad twice in one day. I didn't mean to kill Miss Sarah's kitten. I only squeezed it hard because it was the cutest thing I had ever seen I forgot for a minute how strong I am. And I didn't mean to look in Mr. & Mrs. Gimbel's bedroom window next door and see them both naked. I thought I was supposed to go help people when they moan or scream. Gertie lives so far away, I never get to see her face when Ma tells her about my mistakes. That's what she calls what I do, mistakes, and then she always says, "He's just too stupid to know better. He's really not a bad person."

So if I'm a good person, what's so bad about being stupid, or being dumb? As far as I know there are lots of really smart people, that do lots of really bad things, and not by mistake. On purpose. And as far as I know, I've never done anything bad on purpose, so why can't they just let me be just Ralph, instead of stupid Ralph or dumber than a rock Ralph. I've never met a fox, but if I do, maybe I'll ask him, "Are you really dumb or really smart, and does it matter?" Maybe he'll answer and maybe he won't.

I proclaimed “Bullshit” in full-tilt teacher voice as soon as the student finished his sentence. You could have heard a pin drop, had anyone in the class dared to drop anything.

Months later, a student would describe it to me as “that day you lost your temper,” but he was only half right. Genuine anger impelled the speech, but it was entirely calculated. I had seen the moment coming; I selected my words carefully. I had a message to send, and I wanted them to talk about it for as many months afterward as I could muster. I had only been waiting for the comment that would bring it all out into the open.

“You shouldn’t expect us to get this, Mr. Love,” John had said. “We’re just botards.”

botard, [BOE – tahrd] n. (slang) a derogatory term for one who studies vocational

education, suggestive of reduced intelligence. Origin a combination of BOCES

(New York State’s Board of Cooperative Educational Services, which handles

vocational training) and “retard.”

“Bullshit,” I spat. “That is absolute bullshit and it’s an excuse. I don’t care what you plan to do for a living, you are capable of this, and don’t you dare tell yourselves otherwise. Is reading an 18th century essay hard? Yes! But don’t you dare pretend you can’t do it because you go to BOCES. Do you know how much intelligence it takes to fix a car, or cook, or run heavy equipment? I have a Master’s Degree. I couldn’t change the oil in my car to save my life. I could write a lovely poem about it, but I have no clue how to do it. I can’t fix an engine. I can’t blend makeup. I barely recognize any colors that don’t appear in a basic Crayola box. Intelligence comes in a hundred different shapes. I don’t ever want to hear the word “botard” again. The idea that people who get trained in a trade are dumb is bullshit.”

“Jeez Mr. Love, OK,” John said, awkward, surprised smile on his face. (I was glad it was John. I knew he’d roll with it.)

“Not at all mad at you, John,” I added. “It could have just as easily been someone else. But you’re smarter than some people give you credit for, and it pisses me off.”

And then we discussed our excerpt from Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

Want people to be smarter?

Stop telling them they’re stupid.