It’s in the cards, that’s what they say. The cards always know it all. It’s all in there. It’s all in.

I’m in the cards, for sure.Every card tells me something, and I hear it even when I don’t. It’s gotten to the point where I see a card and know all about my relationship to it. Sometimes, I just have to see the back of a card to know what it has to say.

I’m almost able to feel one card in a group of cards that wants to jump out, turn itself over. I call it with my mind. I say, ” I’m here, come on out. Tell me what it is you have to say now.” That’s the next step, I think. It’s in there for me to find out next; how to know which card is clamoring to share its contents.

There are cards, and then there are Capital Letter Cards, that’s part of what’s going on here.

It’s the capital letter CARDS that can tell you what’s in them without you ever actually seeing them, or choosing them.

It’s in the cards. That’s what they say, and the cards always know it all. It’s all in there. It’s all in. I’m in the cards, for sure.

Every card tells me something and I hear it, even when I don’t. It’s gotten to the point where I see a card and know all about my relationship to it. Sometimes, I just have to see the back of a card to know what it has to say.

I’m almost able to feel one card in a group of cards that wants to get out – turn itself over. I call it with my mind, I say, “I’m here. Come on out and tell me what it is you have to say now.” That’s the next step, I think; it’s in there for me to find out next…how to know which card is clamoring to share its contents.

There are cards, and then there are Capital Letter Cards, that’s part of what’s going on here. It’s the capital letter CARDS that can tell you what’s in them without you ever actually seeing them, or choosing them.

Nature opens according to schedule.
We think it wild, I laugh just to think it wild,
Doing as it will, willy nilly to the world
Of rules to survive, that we live in. 

But the blossoms,
The blossoms open and close
On date, and seasons change
Like clockwork, the haphazard field 
of the wildflowers
Knows itself with precision.

It is not the wild we envy, after all.

We want the repeat button 
The knowledge of the rains
To mark our years
To remember our tears
The snow will melt in a few months
And look longingly toward
And away from fears
We will mark our pain to cherry blossoms popping 
And Iris’ death.
They die so weak.

We can’t wish stability
our souls sold to the
Randomness we have 
Been gifted, we can’t
Trust health and its tiresome
The stealthy wish for love and wealth.

But still, we say, we blossom? We say we blossom.

It’s a way we sum up our growth.
Find nature in our brutish vain.
But we don’t. We don’t grow in that way.
We merely stumble and struggle

While the flowers open and close 
a Fibonacci sequence
a geometry of patterns
a time-lapse video
on the National Geographic Channel
But of us 
standing and kneeling
Then laughing
And crying trees growing and dying
Gasping at the continuity
That only a flower or a leaf 
Truly knows.

– Arianna

April 19, 2026

Lately I’ve been thinking of

him.

My blond bass player Georgia boy

how terribly it ended

w/ bruises & broken shredded

hearts

& the party where we met

at the Craftsman in Echo Park

was it really Halloween?

We escaped to the rooftop

& under the stars

we kissed — it was a melding

of bodies & fates

we blended then & we joked

about being Such Good Friends

I never fit w/ anyone else

in his life

a loose cannon ball on a

field of war

it was painful. So there

is that, another truth I

feel compelled not to tell.

I once met a slick rich dick

at a party in Austin

when I came back here

in the heyday of SXSW

mid-nineties

& he asked me in that

Los Angeles way

“What do you do?”

The question I can

never answer w/o a story

so I said “I’m a writer.”

“What do you write?”

“Oh, screenplays and sometimes features, and websites and poetry.”

“Oh,” he said, his eyes darkening.

“You’re a hack.”

I mean, sure buddy, if you want to call it that. I like to think I’m a jack & a jill

of all trades, but sure, I’m a hack.

I had to agree & then

I gathered up all the spit & vitriol I could

and I made him choke on it

w/ these words right here

March 29, 2026

You’re taking off your clothes and he says, “You look nice,” and it’s an incredibly kind thing for him to say because you are a middle-aged woman, bending over to remove your leggings in a very unflattering pose.

You are taking off your clothes in the kitchen looking out the picture windows, high enough on the hill that no one can see you unless you walk directly in front of the glass. Still, chances are limited, as the two nearest houses across the street are vacant anyway. It’s a great sense of freedom, being able to see out into the world while the world cannot see you taking off your clothes as long as the doors to your office are closed.

You are taking off your clothes and it is cold upstairs. The little tubular space heater is humming as you crawl under two blankets, no top sheet, a concession, and the heater bakes your naked body in its little cocoon and you are very warm and comfortable, very soon, enough to turn off the heater with its gleaming red eye in the night, the only source of light in the room.

You are taking off your clothes and I am watching you in awe, amazed at the shape of your shoulders, the firmness of your belly, your excellent ass. I ask how you look so good when you spend most of your time supine. “I spend eight hours every night,” you reply, “sitting on an exercise ball.”

I visualize you, sitting on a giant red ball, your head visible above the front desk, bobbing up and down as you bounce…

Beth Borrus, August 17, 2025

On the front porch, well I don’t call it a porch, of course, but the deck is the best part of the house, even though the climate only allows me to use it about half the year. Custom-made like everything in this place, the upper deck has wrap-around benches where I like to perch and observe. We are up on a hill, and I watch the cars and trucks go by, the activity of the birds on the shoreline, the movement of clouds around the mountain.

There is a lower portion, with built in flower boxes and a section with a tin roof, providing shade and a great place to watch the rain come down all around you, barely getting wet. More wrap-around benches on the lower deck. My cafe table and chairs, the rainbow hammock, the flowers. It’s my kind of heaven.

Out here, where it can get so dark. Out here, where there are so many stars. A million fireflies in the dark The sound of water lapping at the sand, the sound of birdsong, of my songs–

Why I like to sing in the open air, an audience of avians. Set up on something like a stage, audible but invisible, singing to the water, singing to the moon.

Soon, I’ll be stuck inside, snow piled up on the planks. I painted in April or May-trees across the street bare of leaves, revealing quiet white silence behind.

Someone Cheated

Someone cheated and got caught, which is where the real trouble begins. It’s one thing to cheat with no one else ever being the wiser, but it’s another to cheat, enjoy the cheat for what it is and keep the secret in your pocket for all time. It’s one more thing to cheat and feel guilty for the rest of your life, but burden no one with your shame: Some confessions are weapons and one should use them wisely, if at all.

It is another thing altogether to cheat and get caught. There are multiples in this scenario, as well. For instance, maybe you got caught because you wanted to be caught. Maybe being caught was the whole point of the cheat. Maybe the cheat depended on the concurring caughtness.

Or maybe being caught was accidental and is the cause of regret. Maybe there was no shame at all until you were caught, and what is the lesson in that? If you are not good at cheating, don’t cheat, maybe. Or was it an opportunity to get better at cheating: Is that a goal for non-sociopaths? Maybe not.

And if getting caught was a staged part of cheating in order to confess to someone to make them feel hurt and betrayed by you…well, that is another can of worms.

BETH BORRUS

December 14, 2025

“Do not fall in love” is easy to say. Like, “I don’t believe in love,” or “love is just a sociological invention.” These things. A conversation I had earlier today. “Do not fall in love with two people.” Maybe that. “Do not fall in love with someone who will outlive you.”

Very bad advice. “Do not fall in love with the wrong person.” Well, it’s way too late for that. “Do not fall in love unless you’re willing to take your life in a completely different direction from the one you had intended.”

Do not fall in love if you are afraid to lose. Do not fall in love with the babe in your arms. Soon he will be struggling to fight free.

Do not fall in love with your possessions–give them away. Do not fall in love if you are under investigation. Do not fall in love if your pockets are empty. Do not fall in love if you are unwilling to laugh and cry, often at once.

Do not fall in love if you care what others think. Do not fall in love with your kitchen sink–well–okay, fall in love with the sink. You put it there, after all.

Do not fall in love with four-legged creatures who will break your heart. Do not fall in love with the image on the screen. Do not fall in love with a place you’ve never been. Do not fall in love with the first flavor of ice cream you choose.

Do not fall in love with a car or a sports team. Do not fall in love with the fickle sky, the flickering stars. Do not fall in love with the inconstant sunrise. Do not fall in love with the truth. Do not fall in love with your eyes closed.