wyrdwind

Lawn Care

First Blush

It’s the fever green sweltering

in the wake of torrential rains, lethal flood planes,

the savage gasp of our fleeting spring, tuft and tooth and blade,

and She’s no soprano, that there’s a big boom, a two hand swing,

superbloom incoming,

a mounting riotous scream, every color conceived, fuck your allergies,

hurry, hurry, hurry, bat, moth, bird, wasp, and bee,

before the heat, our bone bleached dire straits,

salted raw where an ancient sea

evaporated. This

is the hottest desert in the world. 54.44 degrees Celsius

for weeks consecutive. Fifteen minutes before you stroke out.

No one sensible lived here year round, but for now,

it’s the open bedroom window, soft breath on willows,

silk pillows, down duvet crinkle and wind chimes, birdsong,

moody mountains—an unseasonably misty dragon’s mouth,

hills washed of creosote come alive, fresh and tender

as the swollen waft of a woman’s first musk,

or a man’s first full stubble, equally adorned, one wants

for a well-matched dance partner

or else hit the irons. I always said

if deadlift day don’t give you

first date butterflies,

that bar ain’t heavy enough.

Hips down. Back straight.

Gimme tempo with my bass.

Pull.

Ravens Mate for Life Too

The regional custom

is for committed couples to form

an altar of sorts, a cubby hole hearth

of their unity within the home. More

elaborate as time wears on, inside

are two skeletons, often in wedding attire,

candles and neon blooms, classic marigolds,

or sometimes more goth. Tequila and baubles.

In these parts,

Halloween, Samhain, All Saints, Dia de Muertos, all

rolled into one, so important we’ve got

twelve foot skeletons, horror gore, unlucky symbols galore

all through the year. Many

October anniversaries. Funeral lilies, zombies,

black Christmas trees and purple lights. Mardis Gras beads.

It’s one aesthetic

bikers, Mexicans, white trash, assorted immigrants,

and bar bums all get behind. Don’t ask me why. Shit,

our best restaurant is called Voodoo Cove. Got Maman Brigitte

lookin’ down with her tits out. It’s tacky and peculiar, but I guess

expired Tupperware dregs trapped in a locked car

can still develop a culture.

Casualties

One early morning,

during our usual dawn chitter,

she texted me about her dream

where every room in her house

was painted bright and bold colors,

saturated shades she’d never dare while awake,

white light poured

through the windows and doors.

She forgot soon after. Some delayed awakening

for my safekeeping. Another feather

waiting in my wings.

His father

didn’t attend the service.

Said there was no point.

He did allow

my black on black wooden quatrefoil frame

glimpsing golden dandelions

some blown away,

painted to include

birth and death date.

Unobtrusive

among the aggressively neutral color scheme, a rental,

hospital clean. Nothing out of place. No suggestion

of children.

Said in his dream,

they wept over a casket, and their son came

to say hey,

that isn’t me. Somehow

took that to mean he had a second son

…somehow, somewhere, accidentally.

And me, well I call a spade a spade.

Typically, puberty and early twenties

are treacherous waters for boys

in specific ways. This is when you most expect

to see suicide.

If it was a gunshot, it was his first

true heartbreak, bereft the skirt

of his mommy—if indeed he ever sheltered there—

somewhere between, for example,

Mama’s Golden Boy and Man’s Man, and the deceased

didn’t feel seen or heard by his family,

the pain,

the mess,

is the point.

There is a second frame, identical,

amid my general cacophony, a gallery collection,

constellations of memories, and I think

about all the stubborn fluffs thrust up, casting motes

over the city’s poison laden parks, where it only takes

one good rain

and for staff to fall behind

on their butchery for a couple days

for those nutrient dense cleansers to regenerate

from the smallest piece of their deep taproots

and try again. Pop off. That’s strong medicine. And since

I know a thing or two

about what a sensitive and destructive

boy into shonen anime would’ve thought cool,

there is a rainbow obsidian nogitsune amulet,

a spirit

known for its mischief and malevolence.

Enrichment

My favorite cologne,

if I’m ever bothered

to wear something so pungent—

I prefer the mellow intimacy of oil—

is Obsession by Calvin Klein,

particularly as it soaked

an old leather armchair I slept in as a child

when I wanted to feel held.

Fun fact—my nephew enjoyed this—

it is used by field scientists

to attract big cats

and/or repel everything else. It mimics

mating pheromones. Those felines

become infatuated

with whatever you spray it on.

Big teeth hundreds pounds rubby rubs,

loud snuffing. Chuffs. A happy whoops

depending on context. The zookeeper’s friend.

For some reason it reminds me, way back,

we were made to clean and paint

an entire dorm complex Navajo White.

Oh we found all kinds

of weird shit. Walls crusted with booger flakes,

gobs of stale jizz behind light socket plates,

an enormous beehive in an attic, frenetic impressionist thick,

dripping globs of insects from the ceiling, burst

into swarming wings. Students thought

it was haunted. Gusgus shit his pants.

But what took the fuckin’ cake

was this otherwise prim and nondescript room

where we were like oh thank god this one’s normal.

Well,

behind the sliding, mirrored closet doors,

in blood red

beneath a jagged cross, a frantic block

of scribbles. A boy’s name over and over and over,

other smudged and smeared words, half digested sentences,

furious regurgitation,

I WANT HIM I WANT HIM I WANT HIM. Etc.

Yeah. The entire surface.

What’s worse,

I’d fuckin’ met the guy like

meh

he was okay. I had his number even, but

that’s Satan talkin’. I left that mess

for someone else to find. Bless her soul. I offer

an affirmation:

if you ain’t scratchin’ Moby Dick madness

in howl font in secret shrines,

you’re fuckin’ fine,

we gonna be alright.

Solitary Creatures

They’re endangered,

the largest and most reserved

big cats. Amur tigers. One step

above critical due to conservation efforts.

Poaching and habitat destruction, the usual.

They require hundreds of square miles, each,

of taiga forest in the snow-deafened subarctic

to find prey and maintain balance.

Without helicopters and such

you’d go your entire life and never

see one in person. They scarcely even find each other.

Scientists, because the human males

of today would never, could not fathom,

as usual believed them to be asocial

and ruthless. But

upon monitoring a rare pair

of male and female blips

from a safe distance, they saw

evidence of something else.

He entered the heart of her range

and stayed there.

Groomed, lounged, shared kills, showed

affection. Care.

Then,

her light wandered to an upper edge

in search of a meal

and stopped.

His followed up and came back,

completely still

for three days.

He left.

The scientists

found her dead.

Stricken with dismay,

they investigated, trying hard

to piece together

what went wrong. But

there were no bite or claw marks,

no signs

of a struggle,

also no indication

of impending cubs. He hadn’t mounted her.

Her cause

of death had been vehicular trauma. A car.

He had gone, expended maximum effort,

to drag her corpse from the road,

return it to her home, without so much

as breaking her skin, and just lay beside her

without food or water, a 500 pound

apex predator. She was wholly

unmolested, a fallen queen, where

could they possibly have been going

in such a hurry

that it was worth her life.

Like I said,

a human male would never.

They were so careful

not to call it love.

Way to a Woman’s Heart

Make space for me in your garden,

by your bed or bathtub, above

a writing desk, anywhere

deep in thought. Save a seat

on your camping trip. Write my name

on a seasoned log. Tend the fire.

Suitable offerings include:

whole roasted hazelnuts in dark chocolate,

tiramisu or any pale vanilla dessert

with espresso powder on top in a pinch. Almond

croissants stuffed with almond paste.

Cast iron anything no matter how random,

cattle and gremlin bells, wild mica and quartz

and odd pebbles you found on a walk, good shapes,

bones, other such minor and inspired gifts,

fire,

plants.

I like trips to petting zoos, niche museums,

just fucking off into woods or mountains,

have I mentioned I love hair,

the more spirited the better, and I love

me some Behavior,

especially on a fanciful and skittish man,

I’m sayin’ his OCEAN heavy on the O and N,

and don’t worry, mama’s intense, a beast even,

but she’s benevolent, oh I’ll gobble up

your odd. Man do the song and dance,

and woman decide if she like all that ruckus,

your funny movements,

your pretty sounds.

I know

there’s a good boy in there somewhere

and I’ll find him

if I gotta blow your back out,

lick red wine from your mouth,

there’s that iron,

a prickle of salt. Papa knows

I’m a gourmand. Share my

crisp 100% barley malt—Singha

pairs well

with spicy dishes, like scalp sweat

ears wet hot. Sichuan pepper, painted kernel

Indian corn, cherry or apple smoke salt,

paprika and chipotle. Long noodles.

Garlic. Onions.

Butter. You know what,

food.

January 10, 2026

storytelling
Beauty and the Beast: A Concept

Kindled Spirits

Well it must have been my late teens early twenties,

and chalk it up to my subconscious doin’ her goddamn best

to hurl a meat stuffed pumpkin in my tiger enclosure—

you’ll’ve seen this motif before—

smack dab in my banshee ass La Llorona phase,

I dreamt

the hunt for my fictitious other half, my ultimate

imaginary friend, my Wilson,

took me over the hills and into a twilight forest, long blue grass,

galaxy awash above, radiant carotid, tiny flowers crest ultraviolet firefly glow

rushing against the heady darkness, vibration black, a dense stand of wood,

I soared and dove four legged (?) swift as the wind, bit o’ wing,

this n’ that and the kitchen sink,

and there he was,

and by “he” I mean

a border-less jumble of artful blurs and smudges,

visible primarily through patterns of movement,

think octopus camouflage or mirrors in space,

frolickin’ in them woods tryna get got,

like oh no whatever shall I do,

I’m just a simple boy with the two legs blues,

and of course what other reason would such a creature,

who was clearly a Shapes like Me, or tryna be someday,

invite this game?

Obviously flirtatious behavior. So I said alright

I’m a big scary monster

and I’m gonna getcha, so you better run, love

like to get my blood up, but once I bore him to ground

he was all aflutter, actually scared scared, strangely

dulled, temperature off, lost his fire somewhere.

Not fully aware. Out there

havin’ a completely different genre of evening.

I waited patient but firm

for his feeble struggles to settle, grow inquisitive,

like oh wait this is kinda nice, oh, oh my, and took the form he found

least menacing, whatever that meant,

until at last he reached the same page somewhat,

and the longer I went about my fiend business,

all up on that muladhara we’ll call it,

the more solid he became—

human I guess—

y’know I know how to put a body in a place,

whatever plane,

my breath over embers inside,

Audhumla on the cosmic ice,

tongue tip traced and fingers splayed,

arched and rooted

where my ministrations did indicate,

everythin’ assembled in workin’ order, my lips

the conductor, the significant bulk

at my disposal

held him down. Shapes remember. All’em. Everywhere.

Wherever gone I met him there, currents outmaneuvered, oh

he had to stay put, I gave him no choice, the freedom was me.

My pretty little sleepwalker given over

saw stars in the end.

One with the Earth, a beloved loam. My bed.

When I woke,

for the briefest moment

all was right in the world, the eye

of my hurricane, my instincts

all a choir like yes that’s him, that’s your man,

and I said are you fuckin’ serious?

Vaguely a Guy?

Pile of Vibes in Disguise?

Nothin’ Shape?

Make for a Silent Hill ass milk carton, pass the salt,

call an exorcist and a shaman rope that missing person.

Thanks guys. Thanks. So helpful. I know for certain

exactly one of his traits, but it’s hardly

polite conversation.

@~^~

Auxiliary material for some larger projects. Hi res rendering of this key piece of my…creative thesis if you will. Pleasant dreams are few and far between for me, so this one really stood out. When I kicked off this whole journey, I’d just taken several big life swings back to back, including the abrupt termination of a ten year relationship. When you’ve gotten by sustaining yourself in every environment, none of which are your natural habitat, you don’t necessarily think much of continuing to do so while pursuing “milestones” that ordinary people have long achieved by your age. Until your body lets you know there is indeed a hard upper limit to how heavily you can mask or suppress your true nature.

And as everyone around me assured me that I’d find the right man one day, that he just needs to be xyz, this or that way, I kept thinking to myself… wow all of those guys sound terrible. Zero connective ports or pleasing parts for the enormous love I’m capable of. It’s like no one really saw me at all, which isn’t anyone’s fault, but still. So I thought back to all the pleasant intermissions I’ve ever encountered in my dreams, and said, what if I made a man out of these? You know like that which you seek is already within sort of thing. Even if he only exists as my creation, it’s worth putting my pen to, like maybe someone else enjoys my favorite meat pumpkin too. Maaaaybe someone sees my meat pumpkin and says oh shit that’s me. Girl can dream.

It’s like that one quote about how you don’t want to die, you just want everything in your life to change. I’ve got something in captivity that must express herself or else she chews all the furniture in the house and kills her handlers. All this to say, you gotta stay true to yourself! Especially if you’re weird.

January 4, 2026

Adventures in Slumberland, humor, storytellng
Epilogue

Dark Matter

It was like clutching a permafrost coal,

wandering empty streets several degrees below,

wondering what it was like to live in each house,

who would I be, if I were that girl? Lamplit rooms,

flicker frame lifeboats, distant shores.

Every night. For years.

However long it took, whatever came first,

water run out or ice numb my heart,

fiddled a little mp3 player, but nothing

ever sounded quite right. I was trying to find

some collection of notes, timbre, melody,

anything I recognized, a song so beautiful

it allowed me to exist in this world. I could sit so still

I’d jump scare folks in broad daylight, tread soft as snow,

play dress up guesswork at what was expected, is this

who belongs here? Will others catch on? The smile

never reached my eyes,

yet the concept of normal never crossed my mind,

was no aspirational height. Absolutely no desire

to be a productive member of this society,

moved by deepest love exclusively, neither money

nor ease nor prestige held the power to sway. Motivate.

Insufficient mass. Boring. Tedious. I am not an easy woman

to know.

People expect a reaction. Bright commotion.

That it’s only sparks leads to connection.

You must rely on my words, my

physicality, terroir. Enter inscrutable,

a black cavern older than life on land, whose size

you cannot grasp, where the slightest sound

folds and multiplies and carries back

as the cosmic ocean frothed with jasmine. Twig snap,

bone break. Butterfly, hurricane. My voice

is such a weight. I prefer to listen. Envelop.

Perhaps in some small way, on some wayward road,

somewhere you were hurt,

we’ve met before.

December 28, 2025

storytelling
Lady of Miracles 2/2

Red Handed

Got him Bambi twitterpated,

ain’t know what to do with his legs,

how to address a spirit him mama sent,

he a boy again, licked lip, flutterin’ lash,

and before those buttons snap I’ll ask,

“Are you a good man?”

Come all ye faithful, tarry the tune,

if you can match the grace my cloven hoof,

and the female caribou, she has antlers

all through the winter, guards the source,

sheds them only to see her babies born,

tread soft little hunter, these woods

snow laden, lichen scrabbled, deadly cold,

belong to Her. Hold them out.

Did any daughter suffer? Did you take

because she would not give? Put boots

under another woman’s bed?

Serve your mother last?

Do I smell disrespect?

Say devil’s in the details, scribe away the entrails,

mince the fuckin’ words, redefine your terms,

make a gentleman’s agreement, sign here,

see that X, that’s consent, we’ll hold summit,

more peace talks. Bitch I’ll say it once,

they write laws ’cause they mean to do wrong,

money exists to obfuscate human cost,

a pathetic attempt to assign worth, only a woman

holds rank of confessor, fuck ass white man’s paper,

papal parlor tricks, I mean pardons, Mr. Pwesident,

must mean sewious business, I’m circumspect

as machete’s caress on official’s cheek, shout out Brazil,

Native women ain’t meek, shit we’ve seen,

four in five on that DV, thousands missing,

affected disproportionately, who we gonna call,

the police?

She was no Deer Woman, a fateful Sioux,

Walks With Her Robe brought Custer low,

donned the iron oxide of a warrior,

mounted her black horse and rode,

said her heart was bad, revenge! Brother dead.

Weren’t a woman alone, three more in defense,

one forced dismount and she stabbed his back,

where he fell, a mother and daughter descended,

from a peaceful village, drove sewing awls into his ears

and an arrow shaft up his penis, said

“We do this

so that you will be permitted

to hear better in the next life.”

Old Money

Funny how violence just a hop skip

removed looks like destiny manifest,

divine right of kings, take your pick,

all that gold and silver, cash crops and timber,

sugar, cotton, tobacco, dye, slave labor,

everything that made Europe,

you stole it all from us.

Talk shit ’bout Muricans, fair but

where the fuck these na hullos from?

Same shit, different stall,

shoe the other foot,

just ten percent of us left alive, total,

across two continents, the brink of extinction,

Ima need that tongue seasoned, taste the salt,

tell me ’bout the feats of your civilization,

tout the frippery of your culture, high brow,

your fancy school, your summer house, my bad, estate,

some pappy’s supposed nothing, industry, legacy,

look if you ain’t broke ass Irish or a musician

I do not give a fuck. Bards I respect. The flame,

true spirit, love of the land. My clan

was Panther, for the darkest month of winter,

warm banaha and wild game, hunter warriors

once upon a time, don’t keep prey close quarters,

blades up when the crops fail, taut bow,

oh I do go for the throat,

blood or song there, breathe fire blue hot,

tummy rumble meat scorch, that good bark,

best off the bone, marrow lip gloss, baby fuel

of any kind, I go all night,

rhythm circadian, infradian, planetary respiration,

stars aligned, real gold passed down

generations, strength of a matriline,

good medicine.

Hollow Point

Lover below spare me this shit,

two white man friendly debate,

askin’ if free will really exists,

not my not my fuckin’ circus,

playin’ YouTube school booth Socrates,

that arm chair circle jerk flick,

masters of logic against anecdotal evidence,

arrogance still an emotion bitch,

assumin’ you exempt make you twice inept,

had kiss on every ego boo boo consequence,

in a world caters your whims you’re never upset,

someone’s trauma is your fun thought experiment,

that calm don’t make you superior, ignorant pup, but hey,

men’s ignorance built governments, invented church,

oooh you an atheist, big whoop, real cut above,

no sense of magic, mystery, or wonder, it’s sewious,

woman says walkin’ alone dangerous you ask for a source,

your house that’s who does all the chores, gave birth,

passed that fat head and shat on it, that’s your gut biome,

bet she’s real proud when you fap over the horrors of war,

crack jokes ’bout a man put his wife in a blender,

clever buddy hyucks how you measure self worth.

In the first four years after 9/11

twice as many civilian women were killed

by a current or former intimate partner

than soldiers died in the field. That don’t count

what our best and bravest did to women abroad,

perhaps you’re too young to remember Never Forget,

fuckin’ obnoxious, take your sad lil tapir snoot,

go seepy ’cause he went achoo,

that’s called a soft target, be cute weren’t such a prick,

jump to give instead of inflict,

well I go em-dash superscript specific,

blast radius maximum tissue damage,

one shot and it’s colostomy bag,

’bout as tough as a pair o’ table grapes,

could go either way, wrinky peach in my palm

go pop hallelujah or pop scream vomit,

men fight ’cause they wanna jack off,

but make no fuckin’ mistake,

I’m here ’cause I want you

to stop.

Green Tip, Black Tip

Really a lavender menace,

I play it close to the nest,

if I’m at all dangerous that’s just

mama goose grim, see some little ones

don’t even ask whose they are,

don’t act a fool sniffin’ ’round here,

neither forgive nor forget, try me

and it’s on sight,

see you ain’t smile how everyone love yo papa,

see how low his hands go, think respect mean obey,

how he readjust sudden seen I saw, skin crawl,

that spider strand thrum,

I’m never wrong,

and I don’t talk to Jesus, don’t call the cops,

I face myself and ask if there’s a God today,

’cause behind every great man

is a fetid kill garden where his victims fell,

the stench of excess, species invasive, unsustainable,

it’s guilty ’til proven innocent, what he stole,

him compass only point himself, root rot

is fungal, mercy won’t wash it, empathy

requires theory of mind, pacifism a conscience,

you pay out in sufferin’ when you buy into an afterlife,

some bullshit retirement plan, pain makes course correction,

money don’t make a hard target, man ain’t sportin’ Level IV plate,

son I’m a freak, drew unicorns impalin’ monsters as a girl, burst guts,

and right now yo mama ain’t strong in her house,

well I make house outta nothin’, make it wherever I please,

wee hours that’s me, wing beats, come away, come away,

and it’s never too late to reclaim, my faithworn, weak, and weary,

you may be grown

but you all my babies, and as for yo daddy,

he went out with a bang.

Sheela na Gig

I wanna see some fine motor skills,

vagina dentata confirmed kills,

says he need clear signals,

that so that so well guess what,

inner two thirds don’t feel much, sorry son,

you ain’t good, she hollerin’ that’s performance,

penetration don’t define sex, fuck about your length,

crusty ass digits don’t respect the real estate,

wanna call it home you gotta maintain,

arms, thighs, belly, nape, kneadin’ hips spots they ache,

not a soul ten mile radius guessin’ at who your missus,

you’ll know what it’s worth when you barely gotta touch her,

amp hum, rolling fields, monsoon,

murmurs in your neck, busy kisses on your jaw, lil bite,

can leave the panties where they are, it’s cold outside,

she done doubled in size, quite the catch

teemin’ in your hand, strum a wishbone lush and fat,

brace your wrist she buck that, puppydog startin’ understand

the assignment,

the rubric, woman’s joy NC-17, capacity obscene,

weaponize a bank account ’cause you don’t measure up,

pourin’ from an empty cup, flavor flat as your back end,

now I seen some sexy scarecrows in my time

but honey that’s vibes you don’t possess,

and ode to the monster fuckers, those girls get down,

make priests put they eyes out,

goddamn anythin’ better than a man’s man,

real Shape of Water shit, Adam the corpse quilt,

fuckin’ Fallout ghouls,

I’m sayin’ the problem’s you,

remember them bonobos,

cuddlebug fuck-a-thon peaceful unless,

unless you’re an overly aggressive male,

forgettin’ him own self, and the girls,

they circle up different kinda pound town,

lead by example, beat him half to death

and chew his balls in public,

touchin’ they ladybits and each other,

reaffirm the bonds of civilized society,

I said you gotta maintain,

see there may have been a serpent in that garden,

but darlin’ Adam was the snake, tough swallow,

it’s not this one’s rotten aw shucks,

one bad apple spoils the bunch.

Well Played

That’s one left in the chamber,

six days work on seventh rest,

nah that’s shots in a revolver, keep hold

those bullet casings, can’t find me no ID,

pray the Pleiades,

gotta count seven sisters wanna set sail,

keen eyed ghost of the Star Gauge,

author Su Hui a child prodigy,

she the best ever did it, woman poet,

prismatic complex palindromic,

color coded reads in every direction,

all of it rhymes and makes sense,

universe of loneliness contained in a single box,

bit like Emperor Wu Zetian, not Empress,

that’s a matter of rank, sphere of influence,

board set for her sex required ruthlessness,

and shit you know at this stage of evolution,

discussion of a worthy man is purely academic,

no matter how exceptional she is, stone brilliant,

he’ll hurt her to feel important, well Zetian

ruled behind the scenes long before she took her seat,

brought fifteen years of stability and prosperity,

one could achieve rank from any birthplace, literacy,

promoted skill and talent over funding and family,

the least amount of court corruption ever seen,

she was betrayed.

Greedy eunuchs destroyed her legacy, though not entirely,

dashed a vision of what China could have been, and Su Hui,

lost in the verse over some supposed love of her life,

that fool boy cheat, left her for a concubine,

and at the center of her stunning devastation, why, why,

frantic at limitations imposed by form, eloquent misery,

an empty space where Heart should be.

December 21, 2025

history, rap-ish, storytelling
Lady of Miracles (1/2)

Mandrake

Catch this fuckin’ update,

the goal of every state,

think Her corpse can incubate,

they saw that clot up in her brain,

Adriana say her name I’ll wait,

c-section out of time so surprised,

curdled and deformed no drugs suffice,

no man’s supposed height can override

the power of the mother’s mind, unviable,

those filthy traitors failed, that baby won’t survive,

will never open its eyes,

she has to be alive, She has to be alive,

only woman can create a life,

that’s right, you don’t have the fuckin’ gametes,

the size of these, double X double decked gene bank,

that sperm don’t succeed, it’s chosen by the egg,

he didn’t swim fast, she rolled out the welcome mat,

and you’re all just shootin’ blanks and trash,

out beachin’ decrepit microplastics,

your sack’s a senior center, janky nails piss pants,

can’t even give a woman pleasure, just one orgasm?

Rev the engine once and done, she barely warm,

shit she best take her business elsewhere.

Fuck yourself. Die or do better. You men,

you’re expendable and ill-bred. Look around

that’s the best you’ve done six thousand years,

most defects are caused by nasty sperm,

that meal ain’t fit to serve, call yourself a chef

so you feel special slingin’ slop, chawge extra for staws,

you’re not the cream of any crop, shape the fuck up

and pray she wants your best shot, pray the scent

of your sweat alone makes her wet and do the most,

shit, was that my outside voice?

She won’t be there to raise her boy.

Dirty Laundry

Out damn spot I say—

Lady Mac those in the back—

step the fuck off Magdalene,

you’re unworthy of the Mother’s name,

tired ass dichotomy

Madonna-whore titty babies

I’m a secret, third, far worse thing,

mean and green, Solid Snake operations,

grind priest bones in these metal gears,

best believe he’ll rise again, His body is my bread,

sleepin’ on a giantess, I do it big and blasphemous,

climb a fuckin’ beanstalk in my Sunday best,

did you know a pussy’s got scales?

Of a sort. Swallows what’s good,

sheds what don’t suit her,

that’s holy gore, that white’s gone

without peroxide and ice water,

leave that shit to swans, ain’t talkin’ Lir,

wanna speak on curses when you’ve got,

checks notes,

155 women’s corpses in a mass grave

and, what, 800 infants?

Tell me more ’bout that wicked stepmom.

Oh I smell the jealousy of women alright,

was anyone fuckin’ surprised?

Hur dur church church, fee fi fo fum,

some fool wrote on An Gorta Mor

like naked babies mud huts but but

the women were beautiful, chaste, and pious

like that’s fuckin’ important.

Oh I’m sure you love

a woman don’t know what she want

and won’t demand it, look what Grace did

to get a seat.

Take it all off boys, drop it and leave,

walk until you see trees—

not what you deem suitable for forestry,

waa waa my licensing—

walk until your feet bleed, no daughter of mine

stoop to anoint, loose not a lock from braid,

I’ll have you fresh as a daisy

come Spring.

Mantle

I throw down like amanita,

drop a bitch like pop that kneecap,

watch that pop pop poverty percentage,

got fat on bread and circuses, this land

belongs to Herself, ain’t no rest

for the wicked, yo ass, dressin’ like a man

jumpin’ on yo mama back, divide Her

parcel out lots and grovel to the church,

one two punch so she don’t stand up,

well I fight a fuckin’ corner, best call the coroner,

give a cause o’ death, magic girl transformer,

go ski mask luchador slap like old Morrigan’s paps,

least you know how to suckle, buncha hogs,

say you want ten brats work your farm.

For what? For what? Your mark,

it’s shit-streaked underwear,

what’s another pair at the river ford, your culture

blames wolves when a sheepdog did that,

nothin’ more aggressive than an inbred mutt,

lustin’ after more than we need our own selves,

perhaps another son.

That’s right, that’s right,

the danger’s inside. Nothin’ worse

than a dog don’t know its place,

it’s women who domesticate, remediate,

made basket and fire and stood upright,

sought game to feed our growin’ brains,

this was paradise when women ate,

ain’t king for life that’s stud service for today,

good lovin’ gets a torc on it, favorite gets housebroken,

sits at the hearth, shades under what sprung

all around from the best acorn,

has the privilege of her heart,

the purpose of his hands,

it’s about balance.

A woman’s choice is sacrosanct.

Oak, ash, birch, and hazel,

holly, alder, willow and elm,

vines, moss, lichen and ferns,

the ancestress of all polar bears,

the greatest elk to ever live,

well you can’t tranquilize my ass.

Highs are ineffective,

lows make me horny and mad,

I only settle in the mist,

under my canopy of consonants, belly full

with vowel sounds, look around I say again

and ask me now,

from your tomb of ash and oil, glass and brick,

was it worth it?

Fury Road

Unsee un-unfortunately

I stay on task relentlessly,

twice as bad when I’m asleep,

ring a ring around that henbane,

this will only end my way, all

all rivers lead to me, my water

oaths inviolate amniotic endless night,

daughter of the deep, oh I’m a heavyweight,

hit open air as a babe and every man cried,

seen old soldiers all my life, stand straight,

“Did you serve?” Nah but I know the drill.

Meet military standards ’cause our district

is dirt poor, half this hovel ain’t got a floor,

kids’ hopes ain’t high, scholars not,

that’s the catch, poverty replaced the draft,

I’m pullin’ up with Nux and Praetorian Jack,

you wouldn’t understand, woulda loved choir or band,

instead I’m Miss Mad Max with the cramped pen hand,

here for my songbirds and warriors without homeland,

backdrop Nazis, Harleys, and Wasteland Weekend,

think fast someone ask you Odinsdottir, -ing or not,

loaded fuckin’ question, math montage, full Sherlock,

how much word of mouth until full gulag, sundown town,

like first of all I’m Choctaw, gods I just wanna fuck off,

river’s struck drought guess I gotta wreath up and walk,

so heavy is the head beneath this crown,

lamp in the black aboard ferryman’s boat,

shit’s ’bout to get real if I’m above ground,

darlin’ this everyone’s last stop.

Persuasion

Ain’t exactly ballet,

like rock rock hard place,

hurry up and wait, steady heart rate,

I’m the stone or the stream and the bottom,

that’s a position of strength, there’s no leverage

if we’re chest to chest, who wins

is who drops hips lowest, if I strike

it’s with the Earth,

your head ain’t harder than Hers,

then there’s small joint manipulation,

my good bitches leg lock and flyin’ armbar,

that’s assumin’ I like you enough

not to smack the bridge of your nose,

if I just wanna cuddle it’s a two point hold,

maybe play a round of flip the turtle,

best tuck them feets up under your butt,

keep all hands and limbs inside this ride,

come at me hot and it’s like fwwwp

black ice,

too much fuss to fight you’ll find,

look an old man eat shit shoutin’ at the sky,

don’t be That Guy, coulda been set for life

but Nope fights with his wife,

fuckin’ two ball clown honk spite,

cut the nose off your own face, greedy eye,

like okay Bictor Fwankenstein,

well no woman’s gotta give you the time,

best for all involved you pipe down and realize

I’m always right.

Hydration Break

Her many legends begin differently—

no man was worthy

so she wed a dog some say—

but they all end the same.

On a fishboat out to sea, by one

to whom love is the only responsibility,

Sedna is betrayed.

To spare himself the trouble, her father butchers

his daughter’s hands, this man

she trusts most to care, this mighty hunter,

watches his child drown, her frozen fingers

dismembered,

she sinks still reaching for help from above

and none comes, light sputters out, salt

water crushes her lungs.

Something answers in the dark.

Her passion, fury, and anguish flourish, the arctic

claims this daughter now, she’s not lost,

she grows a tail, mutilation multiplies her,

she leaves humanity behind,

those fingers become all the fish, whales, and seals,

who call her mother beneath the ice, upon whom

everyone relies. A goddess among spirits. When she rages

shamans do not patronize or beg for mercy,

they venture below to comb her long dark hair

which holds Eternity,

put fresh water in every mouth for she

is always thirsty,

thank her for every catch, remember

when a wrong’s been done

we all must carry that, you don’t say enough, the hurt

decides when you move on. If.

December 14, 2025

history, rap-ish, storytelling
To the Tune of Isobel by Dido

I kept watching as you dropped your gaze

Said you were full and yet barely touched your plate

Your clothes grew baggy and you hid your arms

A tree falls in the forest but does it make a sound

.

There is a hell

I know it well and see it in your eyes

Oh where shadows dwell I cast a spell

Keep your dreams sweet tonight

If it’s a death knell ringing, pray it’s not your last

When you can’t reach the shore, I’m holding my end

One rope overboard

.

And who would he become, all the things he’d have done

Would she have loved you, and not let you down?

And would he be softer than his father?

Empty casket, that’s red caps in a grove

.

There is a hell

I know it well and see it in your eyes

Oh I know that smell, that wishing well

I hope you’re safe tonight

It’s been a long wave breaking, long lost to its path

When you think nothing’s left, you’re fooled by the sand

I’m bringing you home

@~^~

So there’s a homeless schizoaffective character on a dumb show I watch whose story arc is being handled in a cloying upper-middle-classy way. They’ve sanitized his situation by heavily emphasizing that he doesn’t use drugs/self medicate (statistically unlikely, also he went from being in college and having dreams/expectations to being a shell of himself and most people in that situation either kill themselves or do drugs) and responds so very well to therapy and a few kind words from doctors (this doesn’t work if you are fucking homeless). Meanwhile they play Light Years by The National while a traumatized man grapples with losing his personhood/autonomy due to a brutal diagnosis (which I saw right away the actor actually has). His marriage is in shambles because he shut his wife out. Also handled in a cloying upper-middle-classy way.

Something about the juxtaposition of unearned kumbayas got me salty and here we are. Everyone knows I will shiv God behind a gas station dumpster over my baby spooks especially. Grumble grumble you can’t help anyone without first acknowledging/fully comprehending the grim reality of their situation up to and including the merciless levers of oppression under capitalism. Grumble grumble these Hallmark style depictions only serve to further demonstrate/encourage the very mechanism of alienation that afflicts such people in the first place (don’t get me started on that Kiddie Gloves Tone the Good Characters use when they’re trying very hard to Understand). Grumble you can’t help anyone if you can’t get on their level and work from there using only the resources immediately available to that person on their worst day. Which for some of them is every day. Such as when they’re homeless.

Guess I shouldn’t hold everyone to Reservation Dogs/True Detective: Night Country standards.

December 7, 2025

lyrics, music, pop culture
B-roll

Anxiety

I never left my room

unless my brother was home,

in the summer, per custody arrangement.

He’d carve his initials into the table,

any wood anywhere, whoever woke first

immediately went to wake the other.

We never fought.

Not one hard or sharp

remark our entire lives, no matter what,

and that sets a certain standard

of acceptable behavior. Drift

compatible, pilot a Jaeger or bust.

He didn’t like the other boys,

loud and crude, baying and shallow,

and I found most people

painfully dull.

We did everything together,

day in day out, he’d respond

to my thoughts as if spoken aloud.

He taught me to draw. Wilted

under confrontation or unknown terrain,

but we’d spend hours on RTS regardless

at his behest.

If I was hungry, he’d ask for food

or drive to get it himself. On Thanksgiving

first to the table

just to make sure everyone and their dog knew

my favorite was legs.

When I fell and tore my knee open

on a mountain in the dark

and he wasn’t strong enough

to pick me up, instead he walked

in front of me and announced

every rock, divot, root and branch

until we made it back down.

Reprimanded our parents

for their carelessness that whole trip.

His infant brother

had stopped breathing

and died in his crib

and he just

became the most Goose,

fully embodied the brood.

I did nothing alone.

Prepubescent boy out here

doing the work of ten mothers.

Would I sleep forever?

Not on his watch.

You know

he’s said it three times

in thirty-seven years.

Woke every morning at his house—

sunshine yellow inside like mine,

goth shit everywhere—

to find coffee and a protein pancake waiting

on the counter.

I don’t need to hear the words.

Ear to the Ground

I typically operate

on actionable sympathy

rather than empathy.

Much like the grasshopper mouse,

I resist paralysis, venom

turns pain killer in my veins,

I’ve got binding proteins

you wouldn’t believe.

Nocturnal predation

in the most secret places,

closing my eyes on the new moon,

I hunt by touch. Sensation alone.

You’ll hear my howl

100 meters around scaled up,

the call to battle.

Life on Earth is fungal based,

the mycorrhizal network

a vast consciousness fed

by all of us.

When I’m tapped

for systems maintenance,

my sleep cycle brings a problem

to my attention. Non-linear,

no tense, full circle,

all at once.

I dreamt

a stranger’s coffee table in the night,

traffic running through, mundane discussion,

nothing to see here, city lights blurred outside.

Mexico.

I just know.

But the longer I stared

at that table, what I felt

was choking despair, frenzied

for an exit, a helping hand,

the absolute certainty

of demise.

So many.

Trapped.

State sanctioned USA

concentration camps.

Children dead of typhus.

Women giving birth in chains.

What’s more,

I felt the land, a gaping,

festering wound.

The bone chilling ache

of a silenced mother.

Not dumb, ignored.

Call it what you want,

sometimes words

are like photographing the moon

with your phone. Dreams

chart data points, make what’s distant

real.

Personal.

I felt Her desperately

asking me to hold

a barely swaddled baby,

shrouded in tattered threads,

a shrieking void in need

of a name.

They Grow Up So Fast

He was a picky eater,

I cleaned my plate.

I’d be ugly on purpose

because he hid his face—

so what got skin like a toad’s butt,

I like toads,

toads are good, anyway,

they put him on Accutane,

so we avoided sunlight.

I’d always dig in

and stay up late. Do whatever,

talk about anything. Watch how

your inner monologue

starts to sound like mine,

ugly duckling blues?

Not in this house.

He’d reinvent himself

every few months

and I kept in my closet

every piece of every version

dead and gone.

If he threw it out,

did some inverse Dorian Gray,

I picked it up,

gave it new life or a final resting place.

None of those guys were trash.

He liked slow mopey folksy metal-ish

and I jammed to anything sounded like

two titans fighting to the death—

we met in the middle on Dax Riggs

and some jazz.

He found all my favorite bands,

brought Word and Culture from the City

like it was the 1700s. Scottsdale man.

He came to live with us first chance.

Where he drew warped corpses and gore,

graphite only,

I drew wild and colorful beasts and fairies.

He asked me to sing

Small Two of Pieces from Xenogears,

and I couldn’t fathom why,

but I complied, for I would never deny

him such a shy thing. I really hope

he deleted that file. His wife

proposed without hesitation

after one year. Always says

he’s a fucking unicorn.

Asked me to perform

the handfasting

which I then had to learn

on the fly.

When asked after all that time

how she knew,

what made her decide,

she said you gotta look

at the most important

woman in his life.

Sleeper Agent

When you combine

maximum Arizona drawl

with maximum poetic efficiency,

on paper, what you get

sounds a helluva lot

like an Irish accent.

Found that out the hard way.

The Bear Mother assortment

dredged from my older works

needed a name. I dreamt

someone held out a silver ring,

two knots winding side by side,

a disembodied voice

cut in and out from behind,

fuzzy signal, baby’s first quest shit,

wizard nonsense,

something like

trust that was broken

will be restored,

what was lost

will be reborn,

when two rivers

flow as one.

And like a fool

who’s never read Tolkien,

I put it on

because I wanted to boost the signal,

got me right in the fuck it why not.

Magic 101, fuck.

Suddenly I was surrounded,

someplace else entirely, a deep

sun laved forest. A massive congregation

of very much not Christian Celts

bustled around each other

to have a look. Their leader,

who wore a pelt, told me—

mind you I don’t speak Gaelic,

I understood

with my heart—

that their home was lost.

They could not return

though the way was clear,

because they could not rest.

Instead they would move on

here.

He explained

how a land should be,

how a living fortress

repels ill-intent, the importance

of remaining unseen

in both times of war and peace.

The relationship

between a people and their trees.

I saw what once was,

what could yet be, a golden horizon

in every direction.

Then it was just me,

but the land was alive

with very much more

than I could plainly see.

The only building

was my little cottage

and wouldn’t you know it

a baby bear was inside

tumbling around my skirt

in the kitchen.

I’d left my door open

to the forest.

I said

your mom’s gonna be pissed,

you can’t just trust humans,

joke’s on me though because mom

was asleep in my living room.

We all just lived there now.

I said

I gotta go to the bathroom,

and the goddamn baby bear

came too

because that’s what babies do.

Mothers never piss alone.

Have you ever tried to squat

with a baby bear half in your lap?

Fuck.

I woke up

endorphins run over, levees bust

with my mysterious photosynthesis.

Weightless, neither itch nor ache,

pure joy eternal everyone. What I call

Real Gold. The Sacred Heart. The opposite

of a black hole. Wellspring.

First thought,

gotta pee.

The next,

why the fuck

are the Irish here?

But when I looked back,

retraced my steps, I realized.

Oh,

I built a house.

Somewhat Stubborn

The very first time

I defeated my brother

in battle, he won’t acknowledge.

He always picked Undead

and I always picked Night Elves.

He played for maximum destruction—

how the game was designed—

and I played for maximum variety

of life.

My structures were alive

because they were trees. Walked,

though very slowly. Additionally,

elves possessed Shadowmeld,

stationary invisibility.

All that remained

was my mother tree.

I memorized the map, manner

and speed of his patrols, recognized

every unit’s pattern.

We walked.

I kept on

for hours.

Unless every single one

of my creatures were dead

he could not claim victory.

Hours.

Finally, exasperated, exhausted,

he came back to my room and demanded

that I concede.

I looked him right in the eyes.

Never.

And he believed me.

In what nonsense world

can corpses fight forest?

Forest eat corpses.

That is the way of thing.

I am not fooled

by your little game.

Green Gables

The inspiration for The Sisterhood

came from a dream wayyy back.

I was a spirit hovering

around a busted cement lot

next to an abandoned old-old

stone church. Guessing Catholic.

That jagged foundation was a junkyard gym

full of topless, jacked nuns. Fucking shredded. Also old.

Yeah, I know, what the fuck.

Moss, vines, ferns, and clover

burst and sprawled from every crevice.

They were waiting on a sign.

I tried to introduce myself

since this looked exactly like

my kinda party,

but they couldn’t properly hear me,

must’ve been the bad habits,

and I was like hey guys, helloooo,

why are we waiting?? For fuck’s sake.

When I peeled back the chain link

to survey the terrain beyond

it was a hideous city,

fresh industrial revolution poison,

devoid of trees.

A friend recently said

she couldn’t look at pictures of herself

from before her Baby died. That girl

knew nothing of the world.

Started going to church with her daughter

because she found solace in the companionship

of all the older women. Recalled

that time I told her about my cat

who wanted nothing more

than to drape across my chest

and gaze at my face purring

herself to sleep, one paw outstretched

to touch my cheek.

She’d met a lady

whose grown daughter a state away

with children of her own would play

her mother’s testimonies

when she tucked herself in

for her nap midday.

She said it was the same, head on the heart,

the Big Mama.

She never had one.

That girl

was dead, and every day

she wondered if she was strong enough,

if maybe she needed meds to function, I said

feelings demand to be felt,

you carry your babies all your life,

dead or alive. No one else

knows what your path must look like,

how much of yourself must die

or cauterize. But if my own mother

and grandmother

could walk off heart attacks

they didn’t even realize they had

because that pain was just

spittle in the ocean of discomfort,

then surely you can keep going too,

and whoever you’ve become

at the end of your road,

I’m proud to know her.

Key Victory

Fun fact,

grasshopper mice are so aggressive

that they can hunt and kill

venomous desert predators

54 times their own size,

whose natural diet

also includes mice. In single combat.

A particular piquant victory

over my brother, we had all gathered

for a game of Risk,

and the men were very generous

with their advice on the art of war,

and ladies we all know men are only generous

when they don’t feel threatened.

My sister turtled up

and flicked through her phone

in an eye rolling show of disinterest,

just letting the boys puff up

and duke it out. I puttered around

all 🙂 paying very close attention

to their advice. Fascinating.

Eventually,

she reached over and took my hand,

as I’d built a massive fighting force

in the “middle of nowhere”

and she knew immediately

my plan

and why I hesitated.

The boys teased

“Awww are you friends?”

And she had the look said

Go For The Jugular Bitch, Do It.

I got your six.

Oh they all looked sick,

properly aghast,

does the book say she can do that,

when I rained destruction

on their exposed backs. Bloodbath.

I was the hammer

and she the anvil. Iron sharpens iron.

It was like that side plot

from The Power

where two sisters separated

by bitter circumstance reunited

when one became a pregnant warlord

and the other killed her dictator husband

then sent his military into an ambush.

The boys pouted,

“Congratulations,

you have to fight each other now.”

To which she responded with ice,

“No we don’t.”

She gave me

all of her troops and stuff

as a present,

declared us one. Flipped the bird.

They had all forgotten

that only a map is flat.

The world

is round.

Coagulate

I can give you a peek

at what we’re up against.

The axis of my dreams, all of them,

since I was a little girl.

I’ve mentioned the atomless void,

it’s not death, it’s nonexistence,

negation. A cancer

that consumes everything. A mistake.

For so long I wandered crumbling landscapes

beneath a whispering sky, the rot

within every rapist and pedophile’s mind,

that which compels grotesque experimentation

upon our own kind. There was always someone

I was trying to find.

Time

was not on my side.

Hollowed by grief and battered wings,

I had to try.

The voices howled, screamed, chittered,

and I saw every hole I found filled

with whatever it took, made it make sense,

found a mess and put it right. Organized

aftermath, broke it down into usable parts.

Riding just ahead of the storm. Eldritch junkyards.

Apocalypse after apocalypse.

I pulled souls off ledges, whatever precipice,

at the last possible second. Found the First

ever violated and made her Watch

as I ripped the Red One apart.

A collateral save

is a save nonetheless. I wasn’t a hero,

I was looking for someone.

Asked them all,

have you seen this person I miss?

And yes, I always remember

my primary objective.

Fun fact,

all my dreams are lucid. The only rule

of control is that you don’t have it. Adapt.

My dreams are interconnected. My actions

within them spider silk, beeswax, a needle and thread.

Serve

a purpose.

If you find yourself incinerating demons—

for lack of a better term— you’re headed

in the right direction.

Most recently, a compound of scientists

fucking with shit they shouldn’t

suddenly compressed into 2D painterly

animation as It broke containment

through little more than a pinhole.

They mutated and twisted,

scribbled eyes and mouths, turned less than dust,

whatever sounds of anguish they made extinguished,

mute.

From within myself I heard

the Many Voice Woman lilting, sing-song,

leaden as a lullaby on the putrid floor

of a concentration camp.

“There’s no one left to turn to,

there’s nowhere left to hide.”

I think the fuck not.

Hole plugged.

Still looking. Oddly enough,

when my mother wanted us

to see the fortune teller once,

because she had…something to prove I guess??

That tricky island lady said

I wasn’t sent alone. She did emphasize

Sent.

Mass Effect

He bootlegged a second copy

and built me a better PC

so we could parallel play.

He wanted to know

what decisions I’d make.

I knew well enough his way.

Skipped all the dialogue,

speed ran only the main plot,

maximum aggression.

Me? I spoke with everyone,

everywhere, read every word,

equally ruthless. But helpful.

Asked a space ho on a space station

why she was sad, pimp stole her money,

so I slaughtered the whole cartel.

Gutted every den of iniquity.

I’m nothing if not thorough.

Things like that.

Farmers beefing on a haunted moon?

I got time. The human-snubbing

space UN and their favorite rogue operative

along with the Geth

could wait.

Colonel Shepherd Yes.

My brother and I

were tactically aligned

right down to the Big Space Bug Princess,

the last of her kind, being tortured

on a black site. Her children stolen

and enslaved.

We both freed her

amid warnings of extreme danger.

She said she’d sing of us

to future generations. Her children

would know our mercy. Our kindness.

This gesture wiped our respective Evil Points.

The difference

was he didn’t think she’d do it,

descend upon the galaxy as her ancestors did.

I believed

that to be within her rights. Fuck this shit.

Given the chance, Big Space Bug Princess

would become my best friend.

I’d make certain

she’d never see a cage again.

Anyway, our decisions only diverged

at the very end.

The Council’s favorite prick

betrayed everyone because of course he did

I fucking SAID, brought down the Geth

for a coup occupations whatever.

They hailed my ship begging for aid.

I chose

to take my sweet, sweet time.

All of them died. The galaxy

was without governance. I swooped in

and punched him to death in a corner

—took some doing—out of spite,

because the first thing he did from jump

was kill the lizard man I wanted to fuck—

the only one worth a hump—

I made the time. Then, I directed

patsy Admiral General Whatever guy

to rise to the occasion,

soothe everyone in the wake

of these terrible events. Humans

would become the angels.

Outcasts no longer.

The final cut scene

a blood red nebula

like I was some kinda

Sith Lord.

My brother was mortified

like, “That’s the government!”

And I was all, “So what?”

That was me out there

taking the time

to hear everyone. Listen.

Finding solutions to problems

on the ground, ones that worked.

He looked

like he’d never seen me before.

Rematriation

Well every moment you waste

is one moment more

than someone else had to spare.

Change is only gradual

for those afforded the luxury

to choose

whether or not they care.

Care is not

ritual social media flagellation

from relative material comfort.

Scooting money around.

Care makes certain

by whatever means necessary,

understands

the landscape

of blood sacrifice. Given two hands,

you must run the soup kitchen

and put Nazis in the ground.

You owe your allegiance

to the topsoil.

Where your food grows.

To the wild. I’ve said

sometimes through the mists

of night, woven wakeful between

dreams

a mother asks me

to hold her baby. A feeling,

not literally. Sometimes

I simply lay abed

and weep shuddering

before returning to sleep.

That’s how Nanih Waiya

came to be.

Imagery

from an old history

book suddenly

sprang to mind. The way

the author heavily implied

that his own people

were two-faced with a dark side, but

the behavior described

was Customer Service Minimum Wage.

Of course you smile at the racist moneyed Manager

in your impoverished right-to-work state

who bullied your coworker into miscarriage, play nice

then trash her car.

Don’t you know anything?

Tending a crop you cannot see

until exhumed by the spade.

How right up until she gave

her last, her children maintained

a joyful face.

The hollow

when it seemed

their mother’s love betrayed.

The grave was just their place.

Their grace had gone away.

You know,

first I ever saw the flag,

I went oh I know this one!

Moss, Death, Fire or

maybe Milk in the middle there.

Death Milk!

What do you mean no?

Catholic, Peace, Protestant?

Oh fuck off,

what is this

Wrong Answers Only shit?

Bad Brigid Only please.

Put some respect on my snakes.

A mother’s worst nightmare.

I remembered

from the news, pictures

and shitty comments

disparaging desperate mothers

who had walked the length of Mexico

only to have their children

snatched at the border

of those cartels’ number one customer

by people whose language

they didn’t know.

If they ever saw them again

those children had become strangers.

The look on those mother’s faces

I’ll never forget.

I remembered

a mural in my ex’s city of birth

that featured dark-skinned, Chinese,

and curly red-haired people

in the Aztec style.

He told the story

of how one day the Irish emerged

from the desert on foot,

followed the sound of church bells.

The sound of home.

The most flamboyant

piece of clothing

my Mexican boyfriend owned

was a kilt sewn

by his cousin’s 80 year old abuelita

on an iron Singer.

His favorite holiday

was St Patrick’s Day of all things.

Me? I’m not a fan

of anyone who hates snakes.

Finally, I remembered

the Eternal Heart

sculpture of my people.

The mound, the Trail of Tears,

the sacred diamond back rattlesnake,

mostly peaceful but warns you once

with a sound like sizzling rain

(if it’s of significant age),

don’t tread on me. I bite

fast as lightning.

My venom corrodes blood vessels,

unstitches organs.

I’ll swallow you whole.

As for the mother,

she did the best any could

with what little remained.

The loss of dignity,

of self respect,

when a mother must walk

with nothing and a baby bare

and pray

a stranger sees themselves

in her face. Has the strength

to fight in her name.

When your children survive

but still refuse you proper clothes,

can’t even

spit the cross out their mouths,

think the fight is over

which scripture’s dick to suck,

instead of 80% forest and ancestors housed,

they pimp you out

to the highest bidder,

keep you prostrate and overgrazed

by herds earmarked for export. Or else property

of the church. Ungrateful

doesn’t cover it. Think it matters,

makes a difference, if the pockets lined

are their own. For what?

Still paying rent to a landlord.

Placing their faith in the wrong flock.

Forgotten what it means to be a swan.

How’s that for some Goddess Guilt?

Girl, I smell the same pile of pig shit

by the hovel door

everywhere I go.

If you’ve read my work

you can’t say you don’t

know better. Cowards.

She doesn’t need to hear the words.

November 30, 2025

Adventures in Slumberland, Choctaw, family, history, horror, humor, Ireland, Mexico, storytelling, surreal
CBT

Get Real

I’m no

manic pixie dream girl

but I’ll slam shot after shot

of whatever the fuck

I’ve got going on, raw dog,

before I accept the mass delusion

that money is real.

I said all gold is fool’s gold,

normalcy bias a fatal flaw,

absolutely nothing about motherhood

is clean or subtle, cradle to grave,

farm to table, mound and maypole,

gash and guttural, bone and blood.

Oh I’m whimsical, cocktail molotov,

can drown those sorrows pretty papa,

or you can get in the car

’cause mama wants a concubine.

A companion,

I’m several hands full, keep that mouth

open. Eyes

on me. I’ll learn you a thing.

How to handle, I’ve got keys

to the kingdom, the language of dreams,

men cling to words

but I know what they mean.

The Diagnosis, bitch please,

I have this, I have this, I have this,

miss me with that navel gaze,

you can be any way

and let ’em choke on it, your purpose

is not fit for consumption, to digest

yourself in their service. For profit. Listen,

the world is just

really big.

I’m not sayin’ it ain’t tough,

but if you’re finished hog rollin’ in the dump,

I’ve got strong arms and a warm heart,

ingredients and a wood fire oven

shaped like a fat blue fish

and that’s a pretty good start.

Making Biscuits

I like a bit o’ chatterbox,

come here turn those pockets out,

rocks, leaves, feathers, worms,

I’ll help you find a place

for all your little treasures,

they make sense to me.

Dove I don’t condescend, joy

is a lifelong domain. Flowers

in a mother’s garden. Her worst fear

for a child to fall silent

at any age. If it’s got a pulse

I’ve got the skill to cultivate.

Hell, even if it doesn’t.

I’ve said,

this world wasn’t made for us,

love we’re at disadvantage,

I know, I know it’s a lot,

some better girl or boy locked

behind a paywall, could have been

withdrawal, you from before.

Before. Before. You could just

jump. Fall. Take too much. Go. I know.

I know.

There comes a time

you evaluate

the standard of life

you’re willing to accept.

Imagine then, however bad it gets,

that, but my hands in your hair,

a thick blanket,

my fingers lightly tracing your veins

on the porch in the rain,

I’ve lit candles, can murmur or sing

or observe the quiet, read

a silly story. Hold

you all night. Every night.

Make a meal

from next to nothing.

Whatever’s left to give,

I’ll take, it’s not my way

to stipulate uniform shape,

to morosely commiserate.

I am here

whatever you decide, please

don’t take offense

at my sunshine.

I’ll make a place

for you to thrive or die.

As an arborist might say,

the best time to plant

a tree

was thirty years ago.

The next best time

is today.

From Beneath You I Devour

So you weren’t born

to a good example. Ass end

of nowhere trailer, barely there

parents or straight toxic,

the addict early onset arthritis back bent

of workin’ class.

Callings and careers are what happen

to other people. Art is wonderful

but it won’t pay rent. College

equals ruinous debt.

Should you attend,

you’re surrounded by kids

with a trust fund, a cushion, a place to land,

they may have problems

but money ain’t one. Schools are funded

accordin’ to median income, there’s a chasm

miles wide and you’re alone

playin’ catch up.

Every fuckin’ day,

am I good enough?

Is this just what I deserve?

They don’t even look

at how much groceries cost, just fill their carts,

and you ate the last bag, a well meanin’ gift,

in the pantry knowin’ you’re allergic,

ate until your mouth bled

and your throat a closed fist o’ needles.

Knew just when to stop

because you couldn’t afford a doctor.

You feel more kinship

with that homeless woman off her meds,

who tags along whenever you’re downtown,

and shit, why take ’em?

So she can fully perceive

the abject despair of her situation?

Relive the rapes?

Front row seat

to humanity’s degradation.

Getting Help is a long wait

for a train don’t come.

There is no help without support.

This is what I’m talkin’ about,

sit the fuck down, look at me,

poverty is violence,

a deliberate choice of the upper class.

If they’re so great,

where are all the trees? Animals.

Clean air. Fresh water. Stars visible

to the naked eye. Food. Shelter.

They’ve built pedophile island instead.

There comes a time

you evaluate

the standard of life

you’re willin’ to accept.

Empty Chair

I’m always holding two hands

when I enter the room. The child

who just got here and the child

who became a mother too soon.

Neither understands

the needs of the other,

has the patience, the bandwidth.

A woman’s hips

aren’t fully developed

until she is twenty-five years old.

How old was yours?

With few exceptions,

the presence of a man

almost always

makes it worse.

He’ll see his wife,

mother of two, drink every day,

smoke blunts as soon as she wakes,

and as long as she’s caked and he gets laid,

makes it fun, he don’t care.

Her Catholic parents frown.

We’ll be camping

and I’ll stumble across her

hiding behind a tree

from her kids,

getting high. She’ll be like,

shhh I’m not here,

I know I should stop

but I get so tired.

I can’t hear myself.

They’re so loud.

And smile and say

I’m not a natural at being a mother

like you.

You’re so good with them.

They don’t bother you at all.

You know so much

like my grandma.

And as always

I’ll respond

that I’m not a natural, I just had time

to grow up. Just because

a sapling blooms doesn’t mean

it’s ready to bear fruit.

Forcing harvest

forever stunts its growth,

overburdens its roots and limbs.

There’s a reason

human women evolved

to live on long past

menopause.

You’re not meant

to do this alone.

Hard Questions

Approximately 30%

of US households make 50k or less.

In this economy, that’s poor.

One hand out the grave dug every day at work.

One medical emergency away

from homeless or bankrupt.

Two full-time minimum wage jobs (rare)

unless you’re a teacher, nurse, fireman or cop.

You might rise above

if your family has money, connections,

or love.

People ask

why don’t we just stop

breeding.

Catholic.

Religion in general.

The pill fucks with your health.

Abortion costs one month’s rent

and the penis involved won’t drop a cent

wash his junk or wash his hands,

so that’s a UTI. At best.

That’s right class,

being a ho is either suicide, slavery, or privilege,

take a guess

which one most media depicts.

The most successful women among them

still got flesh on full display. Meat market.

Yeah, women could ignore men, forego sex,

one of the few…”pleasures” afforded to us

regardless of class and work together instead.

We’d be better off.

Kids won’t get shot to death

in school, have to cover

their tiny bodies

with their best friend’s blood

to survive

the tantrum of a boy girls didn’t like,

if they’re not there to begin with.

Holistic

People suck

at identifying specific stressors,

accurately calculating impact

of significant life events.

Me, I’ll clock your exact tone of voice,

how you carry yourself, twitch, agitate

at slammed doors or certain words,

how, if, when you cry during a movie

and be like

ah,

your father was abusive.

Understood.

Developmentally you are…here.

Plants can’t tell you what’s wrong.

You gotta pay attention,

assess a person’s quiet—

not to be confused with silence—

a body isn’t separate nations,

it’s interconnected regions,

a web of climates

and growth habits.

I sense a storm brewing

leagues off

like some kinda

vest-on dog like

slow your roll ho you’re gonna

have a seizure, you’d think

I could smell brain chemistry.

Got them animal instincts.

An old schoolmate

who grew up nearby

might appear suddenly

in a panic, suspect

an overdose but can’t

afford the hospital,

where he could be deported,

but remembers

my house, my garden

like his abuelita. Hushes

his voice like its church.

Won’t go to his mama

because she’s Catholic.

Or I’ll receive messages

from friends hours away

after a 72 hour psych hold

saying that if I didn’t know

no one did. Balk a bit

when I suggest

their husband and kids

are the source of duress.

They’re women,

how could that be?

Catholic.

Gets those hooks in.

The mind

hot wires key associations,

that’s the control panel

for endorphins.

The reason

people reach out

take shelter, cry, hunker, expose,

is because the forgotten space

I occupy

is Tree. Forest. Queen on the chessboard.

Old lady in the cottage.

And the number one thing

a forest does

is slow

the sympathetic nervous system,

turn fight or flight

to rest and digest.

Regulars

A retired man, always Clown On,

so you know there’s somethin’,

I don’t prod.

I play along as he dissembles

at length. Some people just wanna

talk.

Suddenly he looks over

and notes…somethin’ in my face.

Hands on my hips, starin’ a distance.

He cracks a joke and I just say

I’m always thinkin’. Busy inside.

Then, sheepish, asks if I’m annoyed,

that it’s been brought to his attention

he wears on some folk.

I don’t mind at all, not a bit,

and that’s the truth

not customer service.

My boss comes out for a chat

and he segues to the topic

of his wife.

How the stress

of helpin’ him overcome alcoholism

turned her to drink herself

after lifelong abstinence.

The whole time endometriosis

ravaged everythin’ within reach, returned

even after hysterectomy.

After eight years of drink,

he came home and she was gone.

They found her body

in a motel outside Barstow.

He didn’t know

how extensive the scars

until they cut her open.

So he comes to the health food store.

Looks me in the eye then,

with a fragile smile,

and says you women, pause,

endure so much. Your pain

falls on deaf ears. You all

should be allowed to carry a gun

and shoot a man

whenever it hurts.

My boss is shocked.

I belly laugh

and that’s all he wants.

After he goes, she says his wits

are addled because of pills.

Opioid addict.

Or as I call it, Lovelost.

Demeter gives us a hint.

It’s a yellow rope

frayed at both ends

like the one Wagon Girl used

to tie her best shoppin’ cart

to our utility gate on Samhain.

Didn’t write her given name, just Wagon Girl

in crayon.

A partin’ gift.

We won’t be seein’ her again.

I wouldn’t use the word addled,

I won’t even call it sad,

and I understand well enough

the mash-up, the remix, listen,

I’ll make you a promise.

You can be a jokester

with a lame hind

in my garden so long as

you keep showin’ up,

as long as you can bear it,

keep puttin’ that grubby rope in my hand

and I’ll see about those edges.

Right now, extra cases of pickle juice.

Rosary

I list facts

like pits on a string.

Contemplation beads, I wake up,

let’s see, let’s see

what can be done, there’s maybe

fifteen years—yes fifteen, scientists

from their place of privilege

and proper speak

underestimate—

until 2C.

The most deadly natural disasters

are heatwaves.

They’ve not been looking right,

crops are already failing

as laborers drop dead

from renal failure, stroke, salt deficiency,

and heart disease

in Other Countries.

2/3 of Arizona’s farmland run dry.

If your food comes packaged

from a grocery store

you’re on borrowed time.

Women, land, water.

Everything else is noise.

A castle in the sky.

Governments whine, ladies,

we need more bodies for the pile, placin’ bets,

any day now we’re gonna win,

we’re a team! The GDP! Please, just hear us out,

spread your legs, this time it’ll be different.

Just one more game. One more election. Another war.

A mere skirmish. We’ll just use drones.

Don’t you know I’m a hero,

let’s play house, I’ll even clean it, “help”

once in a blue moon. Come back to bed.

This time

it’ll be different.

Serving Suggestion

Now some of you ladies

know all about this shit.

Anorexia nervosa

is the most lethal mental illness,

cases upwards 90% female—

which is fuckin’ crazy

’cause we’re the sex put max points

into famine resistance.

Persistence predator endurance.

We store fat subcutaneous

and dimple grip that shit at no danger

to our hearts. Estrogen protects,

hydrates, insulates, balances,

mineralizes bone, repairs neurons.

The fat on our hips and thighs

is rich in omega-3s, crucial

for brain development, plasticity,

and easing the symptoms

of menopause.

At my thinnest (against my will)

I could not even fit one leg

through the waist

of my mother’s wedding dress.

She stopped touching me

at two weeks old

and found a way

to fit back into her pants.

Take a shot any of it sounds familiar.

Every comment is a veiled insult,

ignores you if you need help,

saw your first period and left you

cryin’ on the floor with no explanation

whatsoever,

imagines shared faults if she wants to bond,

only your belongings are Mess,

doesn’t understand why you’d want

more than like five clothes,

that’s definitely enough

for groceries,

what do you mean

you’re hungry?

Ladies, how we doin’? Try not

to black out or piss your pants.

Someone’s kind to you

and she makes sure you know

she knows better, finds

their affection bizarre.

Says she’s ashamed

to have made such an evil

daughter,

because when a boy

kept touchin’ you

after you said stop

you put a pencil

through his fuckin’ hand

calmly and without remorse.

You’re right that’s specific.

If you use big words

or subtly correct logical fallacy

it’s a personal affront.

Tapes vicious diatribes

to your bathroom mirror

and bedroom door and bemoans

your attitude to everyone afterwards,

if you confront her about that she screams,

stomps, slaps your face, slams cupboards,

takes off

for six hours.

When she returns

pretends everything is fine.

Hell, she might even do somethin’ nice.

Of course, if questioned much later,

doesn’t remember.

All the while,

she asks you to try on that dress.

You get a boyfriend

and bring him by

’cause it’s hard to date

and hide where you live.

She fawns all over him

like your brother and dad

and constantly insists

you serve him a plate.

Female Rage

I never yell.

No matter how strong

my emotions, I scruff them

and hold them at arm’s length.

I will always, always communicate,

even if it’s just to say

I’ve got a situation, and we need

to revisit this subject at a later date.

I’m leaving now,

but I am not going away.

I am not angry, okay?

I just need to think.

Decompress. Percolate.

Though things are unlikely

to reach this point.

The one area

I managed to excel most in life,

is strong bonds. Any kind.

Gods stacked the fuckin’ deck

but I treat a person right.

Of your humanity

I never lose sight.

I always seek

to preserve dignity.

Yours and mine.

But when it comes to women

at large,

society does not feel the same.

Doctors in a blue state

point blank

ignored

my best friend’s obvious preeclampsia.

Said nothing was wrong. I warned

and warned and warned,

my Scottish foremother

delivered alone and went blind on the kitchen floor,

it’s the number one fatal complication, push,

and sure enough,

every single doctor blew her off.

Prescribed wildly inappropriate meds

for her worsening condition after birth.

Finally her husband

drove her to an emergency room

somewhere else

and made a huge fuss—

the man is not a natural at confrontation—

those doctors’ incompetence

risked multiple organ collapse,

called her husband and newborn back

to say goodbye, the priest

to read her rites.

She nearly died

because those blue state doctors

were too scared

to discuss potential termination.

She wouldn’t have. Catholic.

But my best friend

matters. Herself. A whole person.

She deserved

to hold her daughter

instead of be traumatized.

To be handled warmly

and given every option beforehand.

Pregnancy

is the most dangerous thing

a human body does.

Withholding information,

restricting choice, applying leverage

or perverse incentive

is attempted murder.

There was a panel on women’s health

and not a single woman present.

When the population dropped

after the invention of The Pill,

it wasn’t because men suddenly cared,

our defenses just improved, plus

they thought it would get them laid.

Found other ways to guarantee

workers and soldiers.

Gamble futures like it’s cards.

It’s enough to flip furniture and braid a lash,

I’ll show you Atlas Shrugged, fuck ass

turned God’s house into a marketplace.

They nailed Him up so She would starve,

a cruel mockery of the Sacred Heart.

To be clear,

you do not sit at this table

with an opinion

when you’ve put forth

less real world effort,

incurred fewer lifelong consequences,

than it takes to give birth.

Paid the price off your own back

to carry every single one.

November 23, 2025

abuse, love, mental health, oppression, storytelling, stream of consciousness, trauma
To the Tune of Singing Low by The Fray

Cold out there and can’t get in

Scratchin’ those walls, how long has it been?

You’re wearin’ rags and chasin’ a match

Whose lips hold your name best

.

No need to speak, your heart is havin’ trouble

With the beat, beat, beat, so I’ll just take it slow

I can speak

A language only we know, find the beat, beat, beat

My heart I’m singin’ low

.

We can lay together

No distance ever meant a thing

Stay right here forever

Until the seasons turn again

.

Where we’re goin’, that garden yeah

Made you a promise, if you were my man

And all their talkin’ clouded your mind

It was always me

Turn your head just a

.

Beat, beat, beat, your signals crossed and tangled

That’s a fleece, fleece, fleece, got quite an overgrowth

Find your feet

You can’t feel the heat yet but I

Speak, speak, speak, spinnin’ charnel into gold

.

We can lay together

No distance ever meant a thing

Stay right here forever

Until the seasons turn again

.

Mm-mm-mm-mm

Oh we lay, and we lay, and we lay

Mm-mm-mm-mm

We can lay together

Our night is always young like this

Stay right here forever

You’ll find a way to love again

My love will always rise again

I’ll always find my love

.

We can lay together

No distance ever meant a thing

Stay right here forever

Until the seasons turn again

.

Mm-mm-mm-mm

Mm-mm-mm-mm

.

@~^~

2am Thoughts: I draw much inspiration from Isis and have done from a very young age, since I basically went to the library in search of a mother figure I could actually relate to. I always imagined her on this epic quest backwards and forwards through time and space collecting the pieces of her lost love. I imagined those pieces manifested in all sorts of unusual ways, nothing so simple or obvious as a pile of body parts.

So imagine you’re the mistress of magic trying to coax your mate’s splintered spirit out from wherever it’s gone to hide. You literally have to spell his soul back into existence, which isn’t terribly hard to do when you’re not only a twin—afforded your own self as a blueprint—but also of the sex possessing two full chromosomes. This arguably makes you capable of endless regeneration. Infinite variety as seen in the natural world.

Anyways, this is incidentally why my leading men are all…glitchy, fraught, strange and vaguely resembling Jesus if it’s a painting. I’m sure he wouldn’t return from such dismemberment unscathed. There would be permanent consequences. Nor would she endure such a lonely and arduous journey ungrizzled—it takes a grim amount of spite to tell this world you’d rather dredge your dumpster puzzle prince from every conceivable gutter and redneck goddess his ass back together again than accept literally any other man under the sun, and you don’t give a good goddamn how everything goes to shit in the meantime.

To my way of thinking, if immense pain leaves scars, so too should immense love, and perhaps the very nature of magic is the ability to transmute the former into the latter. Capacity for one directly correlates with capacity for the other. If you’re brave enough to pull it off, what results is something far more beautiful than the sum of aforementioned parts, and serves as an illustration of humanity’s corrected course of evolution itself.

November 16, 2025

gothic romance, lyrics
Black Knight

Ovulation

Shit, been faithful as Penelope

waitin’ on Odysseus’ wack ass,

fuck the fuck’s this fool at?

Said I said it’s reignin’ men, step out

go where my dogs at

and got ten leash in the hand,

whole high octane shep pack

and not a one got legs enough

get up on all that.

This right here, mama got back,

not just the kind rip ya pants,

break the bed, pray the bed ’cause

ain’t spine bumps all greyhound,

those dimples where it disappeared,

I disclose, rainy dove, you won’t last,

spent hours on the irons

so you’d stand a chance,

hun he gave up the ghost

but you’ve still got hands,

you’ve got hands and I want ’em,

just once ain’t ever enough,

you keep goin’ ’til I say you’re done,

put you out to pasture darlin’ right

right here, I promise I can be sweet,

I can be so

tender,

lazy strings so s-slow,

I can spell the shape

of your every need with my tongue

’til you’re the dark kinda soft

and lap that shit up. Waste not a drop.

It’s not enough.

Way the earth cleaves against root,

I take possession, I want

every inch of you. Give me color,

quiver, mouthfeel. Lips

on the bob of your throat. Arms

up over head, I’ll hold you down

while you decompose, this is how

mama makes

music.

Divination

Like a man gets me in my feelins,

daisy chainin’ patience tap a trunk,

waits a season if he must, mannered mouth,

dog deep in the sugars when they come,

s-sticky sap that muzzle shut

all the time it took,

oh he’s in it now.

Wove an arch, willow whipped ablaze,

marked the hollow where we’ll lay,

he’ll be a busy busy boy indeed much

much longer than a year and a day,

fix his pretty crown and drag

him all the way down

to bless this Beltane gate.

Pick the leaves from his hair,

trace the flats of his hands,

fingers love slicked double dipped

with our scent, my boy knows it,

has the taste, the palate,

lay and lay again, singin’ sinews

where he’s bent, x marks the spot,

a circlet every wheel spoke

made of any everythin’ around

for my favorite, my only one,

oh you know you know a man

is only God

the moment of his death. His woman

gives that to him.

Intoxication

What can I say,

I grew up on Mead Lane,

mama likes a frenzy, she inebriates,

blanket for his back, ridin’ just enough rough,

nape exposed and thigh sized up,

we’ll find out if this simple stud

has the makins of a King.

Honey when I say I want him hung,

I’m talkin’ Odin’s absolute surrender,

flyin’ fuck ’bout manhood ’cause he wants

to Know.

Gotta do to get there, banfilid blood drunk

battle madness, blade of the poetess

plungin’ at his heart. You know I fuck

with some mixed media,

one part science and two part metaphor

shaken on the rocks. Capsized.

No glass baby boy, open wide

open, tense shift perspective bump,

don’t ask who that was, wanna

see stars in your eyes when it’s

when it’s done. Give me tears

after one shot, swallow hard

and feel me burn. Belly twitch.

Amber lit hairs, buttered limbs slip

and slide, don’t care what’s next

so long as you’re mine own, flesh brazen,

you know

valkyries are swan maidens.

Confession

Call me Lancelot ’cause I’d fuckin’

risk it all,

wreck a table, a house, a kingdom

over true love. Fuck’s a grail got?

God? Hah. See you’re Guinevere

in this scenario, it’s not the chromosomes,

it’s the calluses, the seasoned touch,

horse ought to be wild and willin’,

let run, not fancy in a barn,

I want your hair down, guard

unlaced, or you weren’t wearin’ it,

let me know your plans tonight,

who your rider is.

I’m easy on the reins,

my legs do the navigatin’,

happy holdin’ on a bit, idle ya,

cradle strength of a pulse content,

swell and spent of each breath shared,

I said forever and that’s what I meant,

stars as my witness fervent, an oath,

some must be broken and others upheld,

swearin’ on God, King, or Country well,

that’s sworn nothin’ at all, scab of a wall,

barbed wire barrier call the shrike impale

traitors to the Sacred Heart herself,

among brambles rampant, berry stained,

we found a fire in the dark, you’re askin’ me

where we’d go if we just left tonight,

same as we’ve gone the first we locked eyes,

into the wild.

Oh if Love were always convenient,

we’d never understand sacrifice,

fletch the pain required to fly,

where no two spirits more alike,

as if fine-tuned from on high,

every shiver wish sprung alive,

the final kiss on every bitter why,

society may scorn and decry,

who knows not their self entire,

knows naught of true desire,

fire pure. We’re here on Earth

to keep each other warm.

Ride.

Remission

By now I’ve got a reputation,

and people jump the chance

to think a woman crazy, but see

that even keel I’ve maintained,

if run aground by thrashin’ waves,

it was never ’cause of that.

My ghosts are subtle, tasteful, even kind,

like damn you a busy bitch never mind,

we love you so much alright? Kiss, hug. Who’s we?

More than five.

Faintly clown the laundry song in bed

once or twice,

left my warm cocoon, very funny guys.

Mostly that front’s quiet as a mass grave.

Take a number, get in line or pay me rent.

You know how a life threatenin’ infection

can put an autoimmune disease in sleep mode?

How a chronic ache can temporarily subside

if you like…stab yourself? Burn your palm.

Like whoah, holy shit I’ll show myself out.

Remember Eddie and Venom?

That’s ovary one and two on my period right there,

anyway,

they’re buddies. It’s all…good. Fully

assimilated if not strictly blendin’ in.

Maybe worry about the apocalypse,

or bein’ dirt poor in America.

Or! That tablet papyrus whatever

written by some old codger to his spawn

tellin’ him to marry a good-time girl,

known to her village, let her be loud

and indulge herself, do not deny her,

for a joyful nature

marks calm waters,

smooth sailin’.

Benediction

This mouthpiece drippin’ blood,

bids a hollow muscle size of a fist

to pump.

You keep goin’ ’til I say you’re done,

and I’m not one to hesitate or deviate,

dead or alive what’s owed to me,

a matter of semantics when a goddess

takes a mate.

The command for either is the same,

and man’s only job ever been

sing pretty, give baby, be jolly and die.

The good way. Winged kisses huntin’

on a hedge maze, struck

by tooth or thorn or claw, variety

is spice. The many shapes

I take pleasure in. To be my One

is to check the Other box, Pandora not,

you were never locked, mine own heart

from the very start. No fatal form

I can’t recognize, improvise. Not my fault

they can’t handle what they see inside.

I’m bright.

The secret sun of a moonless sky,

what heat yet writhes in your veins,

or in your loins navigate by.

It’s my design. Men think they rise

to meet the divine. Some lofty Daddy

source to cite. An overmind. Fool’s errand.

A spoiled child’s cry.

Make your bed and act right.

Any woman knows each month,

where we stood and bore the pulp,

the fruit of us, of what is, could be, and was,

so we’d outpace extinction,

strove every step to develop humans.

Graciously await the day

you give back what you took,

return to Her, there is no great Above,

just a froth of stars in a tomb endless,

the gift of consciousness diminishes,

slips further from your desperate grip,

smothers if you cling to it. We learn young,

circadian and infradian rhythms, submit to sleep,

weaned from mother’s milk with lullabies,

rottin’ grown teeth sucklin’ that I,

we take our pain with our paradise,

all that grace your plate reminds,

you become life.

November 9, 2025

gothic romance, rap-ish, rematriation, storytelling