wyrdwind

Swan Medicine

Self Soothing Behavior

I guess what it comes down to is

you gotta get the same toys out of the toy box

even though you’ve never met before.

And you don’t know what kinda house he came from

or how he wandered into your neighborhood,

and maybe some of his toys have been lost or broken

and he’s holding onto rocks, glass, and trash instead,

hurting himself,

and he’s forgotten how to play certain games.

But even though you’ve been

the only one of your kind

your entire life

you still recognize,

these toys are the same, in fact,

in lieu of companionship

you’ve become an expert toy maker,

really put the tinker in bell.

You fix the ones you can, and yeah

maybe they’re a little different now,

had to use E6000 and kinda freestyle,

lil peep of lavender and sparkle just to say

I Was Here,

put googly eyes on them rocks and figure it out,

draw smiley faces, consult the tomes,

open your best storybooks, string some old Nintendos

and dial up your weird girl laboratory,

Lite-Brite, Easy Bake, Precious Metals,

you’re a mad scientist in a pretty skirt,

have him hold one of your stuffs

while you perform your lifesaving operations

and don’t ever take a bad toy away

without ready replacement

all that grown ups try to sell you on poison,

break your spirit the moment you’re born,

and maybe he literally came from nowhere,

outta nothing, some secret wilderness,

some trickster spirit that heard you at your lowest

and said I Got This, I can figure out pants.

Maybe he’s not even human

and this is day one doing the people business,

but that’s okay,

he’s here trying his best,

this is your person, the point is,

you get the same toys out of the toy box

and even if they’re a little different now

they’re still his originals, the most important

objects of power. I’ve said

it’s about intention.

.

@~^~

I guess I felt like writing a small essay.

.

Fun fact: Openness to Experience is the most difficult of the Big Five Personality Traits to change because it has a baseline genetic component and is deeply ingrained very early on. It is directly tied to both cognitive style/crystallized intelligence and your inner child, meaning it cannot be easily altered through behavior alone and requires very high cognitive load as what you are addressing is how you think, imagine, and process emotions. Replacing the broken or missing mirror you were given or withheld by your parents/circumstances and holding your own hand while you grow up again. Give yourself the childhood you never had. It’s like trying to divert a river one pebble at a time. Unless someone or something blows outta nowhere and acts as an affectionate landslide. A loving earthquake.

.

Abuse and trauma typically smother Openness and heighten Neuroticism, which is the No Good Very Bad Time combination that will either cause or dramatically worsen mental illness. If you add poverty and lack of healthcare to that mix it’s catastrophic. Incidentally, the genes pertaining to intelligence are found on the X chromosome, of which women have two, and estrogen increases neuroplasticity. Both of these things have protective effects against the most debilitating mental illnesses. That women suffer the most from autoimmune disease and mental illnesses despite this biological advantage should tell you something about how toxic this world is. Abnormal and an affront to human dignity.

.

What I’m getting at is that calm, joyful, and intelligent moms who don’t settle for subpar mates and are in full control of their environment make resilient babies. It doesn’t matter so much what’s going with the male so long as he isn’t old as fuck or using substances, and is what she genuinely desires—as in, is this who she would choose free of societal conditioning and material leverage? Men basically invented money and religion to artificially inflate their own value and force access to the reproductive labor of women. Created economies of suffering and servitude just for the chance of putting a crown on their heads literally or metaphorically, climbing to the top of some sort of pile even if it’s a mountain of shit and corpses. Muddy the gene pool.

.

A major reason I expound upon the subject of true love so much is that most women are lying to themselves and divorced from their own bodies/desires/power. Men certainly do not aspire to the merits of even the most average woman (much less truly see woman as human to begin with). There are of course outliers, but not as many as you would wishfully imagine. So long as this remains the case, our species will continue to deteriorate. The planet will die. So I use the first tools I was ever given: imagination, rhymes, and fairy tales. Do better or perish. Call me a vicious romantic.

March 29, 2026

Big Magic, Genetics, Human Evolution, Psychology, Sociology, The Usual, True Love
Bell Curve

Right to Roam

If you will,

imagine

an intricately planted

series of wildlife corridors.

Great green highways and bridges

connecting the entire country.

Roofless follies designed

to resemble vaulted Catholic churches,

no priests or confessionals, just hearths

and wishing wells. Along the way,

wildcrafted shelters

and loosely tended campsites

dotting the new wilderness.

Enforcement of Dark Sky.

To wander as a human right.

Subsidize any and all, whatever scale,

willing to participate. Tree laws

enshrined. Consider them

family members, community centers,

felling is an absolute last resort,

not a business plan. Ask your children,

all of them, to draw a forest. Paint. Write reports.

Go to bat for their favorites.

Cede creative control

to each region within reason.

Say fuck it we ball coastal redwoods,

which pair well with huckleberry,

salmonberry, elderberry, salal, and hazelnut,

many ferns. When planting,

remember when mature they are god-sized

and count their years in the thousands.

They require ocean mist.

Weave territories between oak and pecan,

carefully understoried with pawpaw,

various brambles, medicinals, and edibles.

Get you some birch, beech, and sugar maple

for their nutritious water and syrup, not to mention

exquisite beauty. Monocrops are a sin. Look,

when I was a little girl

I was always happiest

with scuffed knees in a pretty dress

covered in dirt with a critter in my hand.

Give them that.

Diaper Baby Basics

Animism and by extension

shamanism are not the same

as religion. At the risk of sounding

Native as fuck, all of life is connected,

everything has a spirit and the soul

is a complex, part of a much larger

organism. We’re here for a time.

Then we’re something else. Call it

carbon cycling, reincarnation, whatever.

Humans

are uniquely capable of perceiving

and interfacing with massive ecosystems

and the collective subconscious, which I’ve said

is the most powerful tool on Earth.

Spirit.

Imagination and pattern recognition,

the meaning we grant life, both with emotions

and observation. Art. Song. Rhythm. More on that

in a bit.

Was a time we never asked

where our ancestors went. They resided

within us, and within our trees,

so long as they stood

we knew our place.

You know, wood

is probably one of the rarest

and most precious things in the universe.

So very much has to go just right

for it to exist.

Point is,

when a member of our community,

for reasons trauma, genetics, and fate decide,

robbed of our forest and spiritually homeless,

cradle to grave exposed to industrial toxins,

begins seeing, hearing, feeling, and smelling shit we can’t,

it’s simply to be expected. It’s a symptom of damage

to our ecosystem, not a pearl-clutching personal failing.

All that pain

has to go somewhere. Be remembered.

The hurt must show its face,

be embodied,

in order for a people to act.

We are given the chance

to do right by our ancestors.

Black Magic

If we’re entertaining the concept,

healing is messy, dark, and grotesque.

A shaman is chosen by the spirits

and a crisis commence. If and only if

an initiate overcomes this trial

designed to crush their ego and sever

attachment to trifling concerns, traverse

the most harrowing waters

of the human psyche

and return as a hollow bone,

only then

is a shaman born.

The precise nature, severity, and duration

of that trial directly correlates

to a shaman’s power and intended function.

Was a time the Big Mamacita land spirits

could reasonably expect to keep it in the family,

but should their tribes forget how to listen,

allow the land’s corrosion, break the faith,

grow dejected and complacent, take far too long

to act,

it is not unheard of

for a Heavy Hitter to look abroad

for a better-tuned instrument, a wounded healer,

to prevent its soul and medicine from being lost,

fragmented.

A human mind

cannot sit with that depth of trauma

and function. Much less comprehend

what is going on, who has come to call,

devoid of direct context. At first.

The struggle is the point.

Grief doesn’t have to make sense,

it must be felt.

One way or another,

an initiation results

in death.

Chambers

See it’s not the adversity itself

that makes you strong. It’s having healed

in the correct direction, with nourishing bonds

and coping mechanisms. Bones must be aligned

properly to set. Wounds need fresh edges.

It’s plasma and resonance, antibodies,

a vaccine. Infections must be eliminated

with extreme prejudice.

The very first thing

a fetus is ever aware of

is its mother’s water. Her heartbeat.

Tides of respiration.

It is just the same

as the primordial ocean,

in which all life was female, from whence

all life has come. Music

and language are seated

in separate regions of the brain.

Words are more recent. Prefrontal cortex. But Song

is very, very old. Nothing less

than a biological imperative, our blood

and bones, Her pulse. No two people

sound exactly the same when they sing,

nor can they easily hide their emotions doing so.

I’ve said

Music itself is the only currency that matters,

the very bonds

of social and neurological cohesion.

It penetrates

when all other communication fails.

Reverberation and remembrance.

Every musician alive regardless of talent,

every clumsy five fingered clap on mommy’s hands,

every key smash and twinkle twinkle little star,

every back-bent AHHHhhwbwwb-b,

babble and happy food-smeared hum

is doing something more important

than any president or prime minister.

You can quote me on that.

And when it comes to love,

any discussion of the mythical One,

that’s when you are so moved

by another’s fine spirit

for all its joy, agony, and quirks,

there’s visceral appreciation

for its growth habits,

and somehow so far apart, a song

between two sets of bones, a language

only you know.

It doesn’t have to make sense.

Osiris

Now sans the woo woo drum circle bullshit,

as well as the misguided uppity bias of psych,

I can give you the nightmare skinny dip

on soul retrieval, what to do

when you have missing parts—

and lemme tell ya, ages ago, ever since

my childhood friend got wasted,

screwed around with some cards

and then randomly texted me to say

my soulmate’s soul was shattered, just FYI,

boy tore up from the floor up

Possessed of the Blues, and I

was his only hope at a happy endng

despite my own life look a bomb went off,

well,

I’ve thought about it—

sorry champ your parents failed,

assuming they ain’t dead, so,

now you gotta go on a quest.

Like several.

Gotta parent yourself.

It’s almost impossible to do alone,

and I would never suggest

you walk the path I have, but

if you were there here I am,

wherever I’m needed,

the cold third wind from a crack inside

where you found a reason,

any reason,

my love, we have all night.

Pray you live somewhere with healthcare

if nothing and no one else, go everywhere

you puked and shat, every miserable hole

you crawled into and out of

for the sake of, I’m guessing, shooting up,

’cause there’s really only one drug

acts a pale substitute for a real woman’s love,

and my wild guesses are very rarely wrong,

unless you’ve got more tedious and convoluted

addictions—and hey man,

at least you’re not a shitstain oil tycoon

or an insurance agent, not to be like

It Could Be Worse—

I digress.

Gotta change your own diapers.

Snatch clown shit out your own mouth. Create

a support network. Crash pads. Meet yourself

where you’re at. Make friends,

even if they aren’t real. Talk to them.

I said what I said, who cares

what normies think. Run commentary,

but this time,

be kind,

you know like Long Night at the Me Museum.

Remember, you are not less

worthy of affection

than a dog. Any given stray. Parvo or mange.

Think back. Is there anything else

your new friends observe?

No matter how small. A chubby cloud,

a tasty snack, a chip of paint.

Clean underwear. Warm socks.

Managed to put on pants.

Went outside and sat.

Here’s one of mine:

One time I almost died.

Alcohol poisoning. Don’t ask.

Someone I thought hated my guts

stayed by my side, herself drunk,

while I vomited until I turned blue,

forced me to sip water and threatened

to put her fingers down my throat if I stopped.

In the end,

she had to bodily support my torso.

My limbs were useless noodles.

I bled through my pants.

Gotta love being a woman.

I couldn’t even lift my own head,

cold as toilet bowl porcelain.

So very tired.

She fell into the tub first,

because drunk,

and said I was supposed to be there,

indignant huff.

Once she achieved her original objective,

and turned the shower knob

as hot as it would go,

hoisted my naked body in there

with many a grunt,

that was the best shower ever, man,

if I was gonna go, at least I’d die knowing

the supreme comfort

of rock bottom shower slump,

hypothermia edition. I was one

with that tub. My horrible mermaid cradle.

Once I regained sufficient color we emerged

from a wall of steam

and there

was my terrified Good Girl roommate,

her Catholic ass holding a candle wide-eyed,

strange boys asleep on our floor

(in an all-girls dorm),

someone told me I sounded like Satan,

never before heard such noises

coming out of a human—my body

had expelled, well, everything, with such force

it became a cavernous death growl

in a tiled amplifier—

and at some point,

my bed.

The cheapest piece of shit ever, half a step above floor,

but man, in that moment,

Best Bed.

Quickly followed by Best Sleep.

In the morning I was glowing.

The second I opened my eyes,

a stage whisper squeak,

“Are you okay?”

My poor roommate, in utter silence

had tracked my breaths

all night, vowed

to keep me alive.

From then on, I decided

that should anyone ever need my help,

I’d go at least that hard. So.

You’re coming with me,

silly papa goose, if I gotta

huck you over my shoulders

and strap you into a wheelchair,

and I tell you, after all that,

you’ll never taste

pizza so good, I’m talking whole pie,

don’t

make me do airplane sounds,

here comes the choo choo train.

Third Space

What did I mean by uppity bias?

That’s professionals

from middle to upper class backgrounds

placing the biomedicalized onus on the individual

without first and foremost

examining the system itself,

particularly

the allostatic load

of poverty. Race. Sex.

Salt when a white collar

spends their life

polishing their personal gear, a cog really,

in the Suffering and Exploitation Machine

thinking it won’t be what it be

the brighter it gleams, chasing money,

retirement—the ultimate pipe dream—

it’ll hurt less if you lubricate. Maybe.

The point is,

do you want to function,

or do you want to live?

Go outside.

Social Services are just janitors

mopping slime off the slaughterhouse floor

right before the next round gets shoved

through the meat grinder.

Go outside.

Salt cedars, crabgrass, broken glass,

cactus, burs, bugs, reptiles and dogs

were all I had. It didn’t matter

that my reading comprehension tested at

university levels

when I was six years old.

Thanks grandpa.

Nothing people hate more

than a girl with a smart mouth

and an excellent bullshit detector.

Rural teachers had no fucking idea

what to do

when we drew wonky crayon picture books

and mine featured a serial killer

in a field of flowers

and pipe bomb instructions, which I sussed

after having a think about fireworks

and tweaker junk.

I did not have…people. Peers.

Parents who gave a fuck.

They asked me to teach

the second language learners

because I was such a good girl.

Which doesn’t work

on neglected baby gangsters

unless you write smut. Lemme tell ya,

Mexicans love Dragon Ball Z, especially

Bulma and Vegeta. Just FYI.

We’ll pass the Proper Person Exams

with flying colors boys, just hold tight.

When you’re older

I’ll be the grand interpreter

of wordy paperwork bullshit,

three pages just to say

your mom has advanced arthritis in her hips

in early middle age from being a maid.

Here’s some tamarind, black pepper,

ginger and turmeric about it

’cause you sure as fuck can’t afford meds,

much less double hip replacement.

Also, city’s on your ass with a 500 dollar fine

about weeds.

God forbid there’s a grass. A single speck of green.

Went to college for a bit.

Wasn’t impressed.

When it comes to the world of men,

my life’s been one long Ron Swanson

I Know More Than You meme. Don’t

mistake my processing speed

for flippancy. Don’t

ever feel discouraged by a diagnosis

’cause these fools done goddamn fuck all

with their pedigree Very Good Brains.

Just fancy pawns

for the military industrial complex,

which is what you get

chasing recognition and accolades,

when schools are structured

to funnel you into STEM saying

you just need to be “challenged”

and notice

that challenge is never

forestry or humanities.

What good are executive functions,

metacognition, if all you do

is bend over and spread your cheeks?

Dawdle on red herrings as our planet dies?

Choose which evil organization

to sell your patented cell-injecting nanites?

Sometimes, I just call a spade a spade.

Better to be loyal, loving, and brave.

Walk a path for the music it makes.

There only needs to be one of me.

Go outside. Don’t be afraid.

This place done everything in its power

to insist

that I too would be a pathetic coward

if only I Understood the Rules,

knew how much tings huwt.

I comprehend.

Tree is good.

March 22, 2026

environment, indigenous, just talking really, mystery, Psychology, social justice, sometimes I sit with the mockingbirds before dawn with a concotion and think, storytelling
Three this time

To the Tune of Strong Enough by Sheryl Crow

.

Cast your shadow long tonight

Hollow as the wind is high

I said let down your hair at Babel’s end

Are you strong enough to be my man?

My man

.

Nothing’s true and nothing’s right

That so well all I know is fight

‘Cause you can’t change the way I am

Are you strong enough to be my man?

.

Cry to me

I’m here until you sleep

Cry to me

But please don’t leave

Don’t leave

.

I have a face I cannot show

I make the rules up as I go

Just try to love me if you can

Are you strong enough to be my man?

My man

.

When I’ve shown you that I just don’t care

When it’s real don’t mean it’s always there

When you’ve tumbled down you’ll understand

Would you be man enough to be my man?

.

Cry to me

I’m here until you sleep

Cry to me

But please don’t leave

Don’t leave

.

To the Tune of Who Will Save Your Soul by Jewel

.

People losing what’s left of life through a screen

They say just gotta hustle, and you agree

He says, “Bring those girls in short shorts thirteen years old”

Says, “Stay sweet to me and a star is born”

Another check another tip if you just lick boots and kiss ass

So heaven blessed for that Puritan work ethic but

.

Who will save your souls?

When God went where the bees gone

Who will save your souls?

After all those lies that you told, boy

Now, who will save your souls?

If you won’t save your own?

.

We try to cleanse and manifest and nonviolently protest

The cops get off and off if you’ve got a thousand cameras

Another day, another dollar, another sign, a fist is power

Drain the grid just use wind and solar

Starve as many gods as there are flowers so we don’t feel change

And think religion growth benign

Done no wrong ain’t the same as doin’ right

There’s no better place without sting of sacrifice

.

Who will save your souls?

When it comes to the Johns now

Who will save your souls?

After all those lies that you told, boy?

And who will save your souls?

If you won’t save your own?

.

Some are walkin’, some are talkin’, some are influencers

Silver tongue enough followers and it might pay your bills

There are subscriptions to feed and there are mouths to pay

Ballot box of Devils so long as you’re okay for today

Says he loves you but where’s all the fun all

“Hun I’m polyamorous

HPV but it’s all love

More sex means more empowerment

My dick has profit margins so”

Just get out on the streets girls, and bust your butts

.

Who will save your soul?

When you’re just a featherweight?

Who will save your souls?

After all those lies that you told, boy?

And who will save your soul?

If you won’t save your own?

Try this new supplement yeah just

Buy your time, just buy your time

.

To the Tune of Possession by Sarah McLachlan

.

Listen through the leaves love

There’s no distance can divide

Timber creaks in yearning

Ripples back in time

The night is my companion

And solitude my guide

Would I spend forever here

And not be satisfied

.

And I would be the one

To hold you down

Kiss you so hard

I’ll take your breath away

And after I’d, wipe away the tears

Just close your eyes dear

.

Through this world I’ve hungered

For someone unafraid

Trying to do a Mother’s work

To find the Earth enslaved

Oh you speak to me in riddles

You speak to me in rhymes

Your body aches to breathe my breath

My words keep you alive

.

Beneath these stars you wander

It’s morning that you dread

Another day of holding on

This path they warn against

Oh into the sea of waking dreams

I’m waiting just outside

Nothing stands between us here

And I won’t be denied

.

And I would be the one

To hold you down

Kiss you so hard

I’ll take your breath away

And after I’d, wipe away the tears

Just close your eyes dear

.

I’ll hold you down

Kiss you so hard

I’ll take your breath away

And after I’d, wipe away the tears

Just close your eyes

.

@~^~

Listen, ever since I was a little girl I knew I needed to be the terrifying Older woman in a gothic romance. Like oh nooooo, does your oddly fair and slender son have a Touch of the Melancholy? Does he…Commune with Spirits? Exhibit Fits of Divine Madness? Might I suggest he Take the Airs of my Sprawling Forest Estate and assume residence in my Very Normal Perfectly Safe Ancient Castle Covered in Moss? I merely wish to…watch him traipse about in the night scurring him own self like… a beautiful deer in a white dress shirt. No, that is not my tummy rumbling. Those are sounds of pure contentment. Nothing but honorable intentions I assure you.

March 15, 2026

enrichment in my enclosure, folk, gothic romance, I slow down sometimes, lyrics
Book Learning and Dream Weaving

Original Sin

I suppose first

I’ll hit you with a list

of relevant scholars, no need

to take my word, by all means

educate yourself: Marija Gimbutas,

Riane Eisler, Charlene Spretnak,

and Merlin Stone. Towards the end

of the Bronze Age there was a shift—

earlier or later depending on the area—

a violent wind, a novel virus,

take that mass grave

recently revealed. Patriarchal pastoralists

so very concerned with the unchecked spread

of their herds and seed, sought to destroy

the forest.

Systems so sophisticated they mistook

millennia of patient, symbiotic cultivation

for “wild” or “unkempt.”

The merciless slaughter

of predominantly women and girls

from the entire region. Some boys and young males

who likely chose death over betrayal. The youngest

an infant son. Was that mercy? Valuables removed,

seeds tossed upon their corpses, a dead animal.

Did the men who survived

think they’d change the system

from the inside? We see real clear now

how that turned out, how many thousands

of times did this play out? To what

do intermittent good intentions amount?

Inside every woman

is a mass grave.

If you ever think

I’m being too harsh, my eye sharp,

consider the gaping silence

of more than half of humanity

as I decide exactly how much mercy

I think you deserve.

Preeclampsia

Mitochondrial Eve lived

about 200,000 years ago

give or take and to be clear:

their brains were just like ours.

So I ask

what is more likely, that “civilization”

began 6000 years ago,

or that men kill, steal, and lie?

Annihilate and corrupt out of jealousy?

How many silenced mothers?

What wisdom lost?

So men could play at God,

pretend to be our equals, superiors,

in the act of creation.

I think the fuck not.

They say Neanderthals perished

because their heads were too large,

excessive maternal mortality

decimated their numbers.

Their bodies couldn’t handle

building brains. A dangerous business.

You know they grew

because women were always keeping track

of extended family, inventing language,

and juggling tasks while raising babes.

We made that happen. We tended forests.

We didn’t cling to monuments, proof, our “mark”,

it lived and breathed all around us.

Everyone knew which woman you came out of,

the other women were there.

All this religion and pedantry,

scientists, politicians, CEOs, and nobility,

too big for the britches their women wash,

eyes ten times the size of their stomachs,

and not a man in sight

could faithfully manage

to put the work in, humble enough

to meet me in the garden.

Happy Families

Just get the roots in the ground,

quit fucking around, if She don’t

want it there, She’ll tell you. Simple.

The components of a fruit tree guild:

nitrogen fixers, dynamic accumulators,

pollinator attractors, pest repellents

and ground covers/mulchers.

Central element, fertilizer,

nutrient miners, insectary plants,

pest deterrents, chop-and-drop

where applicable. Find a spot

and get it done. Shit, use a stock tank.

Use several. You don’t have to grow out,

you can grow up.

Quarter of an acre is plenty enough,

corners and abandoned lots,

seed bombs. Oops did I

fuck up your lawn? Your

deadzone grass expanse? Oh shit,

there’s mint. How’d that get there.

Brambles bitch. Mystery flowers.

Would be a damn shame

if your excessive number of ruminants

came down with indigestion.

Don’t neglect

your natives, I favor

windbreaks of oak, coppiced alder—

which can aid in feeding chinampas,

that’s zones 4 on up so no excuses—

red osier dogwood and assorted

bog friendly berries. Acid lovers.

Birch.

Mind the slope, pH, and sun’s path.

Every day, at all times, walk the land.

Soil should never be exposed

or compressed. A forest

creates its own rain in a process

called transpiration.

Stabilizes water tables, sinks carbon,

seeds clouds.

The world is bankrupt on that front,

imminent bread basket collapse,

or shall I call them plundered cradles,

devastated ecosystems,

irreversible damage driven

by agriculture and industrial waste.

So go piss on that compost pile,

even shit recycles, give back what you took,

you belong

to the land and its creatures, all of them,

those relationships are what make you

a people. You are born

with obligations. You are the elected official.

You. Yes you. Do you live here? Show of hands,

that’s behavioral activation, every fucking day,

children do as you do, not as you say,

life doesn’t happen at a desk or at a screen.

Are you tired? So am I. A tiny thing

is still a thing. Go outside. Go outside.

Go outside and identify

three places, flora, or fauna who need help.

Look back in time, a tree’s reckoning,

that’s some distance, who’s missing?

No bears or wolves? Shame,

there’s no such thing as a weed or pest,

only imbalance. A broken loop.

Parasitic priorities.

Take responsibility.

What are you waiting for,

the divine right of kings?

Otherworlds

You could say

I’m pretty intense about plants.

The environment. Animals. Well,

long ago

during the sputtering remains of my youth

and early adulthood, somewhere in the third phase

amid a years long brutal depression,

wherein my limbs felt like leaden sand,

and every single word I spoke

took as much effort as hauling an anchor

from the Mariana Trench, and my chest

keened every single moment I drew breath,

and I wept and wept and wept,

I dreamt

walking through my brother’s house,

empty, a ghost, and as I passed

a door, I saw my reflection

distantly lit in a dark bathroom mirror.

I had hair.

As it is now in fact, perhaps not as much

white,

and an entire half of my naked body

was tattooed with branches and vines

in technicolor, both fruiting and flowering.

Shivering and writhing.

Never heard such a thing in all my life.

Before I could investigate,

I was called away. Deployed. Apparently

my mission was to find and wake

a Lord of the Earth, the one

I was bound to and responsible for.

No backup. No assist. No resources.

I had to get it done.

I flew over a barren landscape

such as the desert I grew up in, ravaged and rootless,

where the sun, soil, and water were all poison,

and entered a massive glowering cavern,

an unknowable chasm,

to call out into the unmade place

that it should learn from me its purpose,

and I mine.

I revived a mighty green beast,

green as the dawn through new leaves,

called Her forth from deepest shadow,

a Hadal zone.

Rainbow gems and precious metals

pebbled in Her armored hide, along Her back

light spilling and splashing through fountain-like,

so architectural these spine ridges

as humans could literally settle there.

She was enormous. A titan. Born

of dark waters and crushing Earth.

No matter the cost,

I had to protect Her.

When I woke, I remembered

that for a tree to both fruit and flower

you must graft a number of scions

onto desirable rootstock, otherwise

a tree exhibits this behavior on its own

only when under extreme duress,

such as environmental collapse.

And when I woke,

having crossed at last

the cursed slumber itself,

I found that I was somehow both

much, much older

and much, much younger

than my ordinary peers.

For everyone else

lifetimes had passed, we had nothing,

no language of experience in common,

whereas I had only just begun.

My Island

More recently,

my Ex disregarded

all my explicit warnings, wasn’t even looking

straight ahead, and drove the truck

off a cliff

into the ocean, I kicked out the window,

climbed around and jumped off the bed

onto some kinda

sea stack situation

and somehow Donkey Konged my way

onto a bright and cheerful boardwalk.

Gathering my wits I pulled a paper

outta nowhere and drew a map,

my property a distant compass star, and I explained

the precise shape of this new mass

to a mysterious onlooker. This shape,

as I began outlining the first coastal section

on the upper left, was like an anatomical heart

if you roughed it up a bit

or kinda a lot—like damn

no need to call me out like that—

and suddenly my map sprung to life,

became a little bird in flight.

I chased the mischief creature

along some kinda kaleidoscopic pub complex—

truly an excessive amount in one spot,

and to be clear I rarely drink, though

I thoroughly enjoy the pub atmosphere,

I wouldn’t say that I literally Heart them,

but I digress—

I breezed through

open doors and windows

into an ambered wood interior,

heard pleasing muffled chatter,

laughter and clinks in the next room,

and some man’s

very beautiful singing voice. That voice alone

enough to get you drunk. Them tingly thighs.

Sunlight poured

through every orifice, puddled

on the glossy wood, and I sensed

the distinct hover of a Mama

showing you baby pictures

of her Very Good Son.

I stood there and listened—

and listen,

the only acceptable response

is yes Mama I do hear him,

you taught him up right,

’cause he could be a rat bastard

but fact of the matter is

mama’s a mama and every mama

risked her life, her babies

been the only point

she’s allowed pride,

so you tell her good job

even if he comes home in a box,

that’s just manners,

but I digress—

Did my due diligence,

but I wasn’t there tryna snoop,

didn’t pursue the song to its source,

for though I’m highly curious, I’m not one

to derail a mission. On task.

I bowed out to go recover the truck,

for my family could only afford one vehicle,

and it doubled as the backup generator

for my mother’s oxygen when the power failed (often),

with or without my Ex’s body inside, I must

retrieve it before I did anything else,

but the tide had risen, gulls wheeled above, water

lapped my ankles,

the way I’d come was gone.

If I strove forward, gentle but insurmountable

waves pushed me back. I knew better

than to fight nature.

Just as I puzzled my reroute,

I was scooped up in a big net,

and this rather pushy promenade or…spirit seemed

to clutch me to its bosom. Such as it was,

shifting jumble of homes and businesses,

all the little people, pulse of the land beneath.

Like shit alright fine, you win.

Shimmied a bit in my new predicament,

idly wondering

if I’d just been abducted,

straight Shanghaied.

But it was such a fine day,

a most jubilant sea spray.

Finally a pair of fishermen

in funny squish caps

saw me

and scratched their heads.

They opted to bring me in,

and joy or fragile hope leaked from my eyes,

sweetly salted cheeks, and I don’t have these

two firm seals for nothing so

my next order of business was all,

ahem,

I presume

that you are some fisher-mans,

I too would like some fishes,

never mind what you expected

to find in this net, seafood

is in fact

my favorite.

Anyway, when I woke

and took my morning scroll, I stumbled upon

another distant (digital) shore,

that Polynesian lovers’ tale all random like,

alright,

I know when I’m being told.

A Good Man is Hard to Find

Enter an origami plane,

battlefronts collide, a storm

across all of spacetime, dancing

across tipping points

wherever inspiration did strike.

My usual

backdrop of chaos and strife.

Just dubstep, death growls, trap, arias,

cellos and silence.

I broke through

to a crumbling place,

some conglomerate Tetris city’s dregs,

and I answered

a cursed boy’s

unintentional distress signal.

Brushstrokes heavy and frenetic. Dark.

Whenever he tried

to speak from the heart,

tell a girl he loved her,

she mutated beyond all recognition.

One immediately vomited and convulsed,

warped and unraveled into sand.

Another tried so hard to retain

her form, concept of worth, values

until she too devolved into

material riches. Jewelry and such. Gold.

So much. So much.

They fell through his hands.

All I could specifically identify

was pale eyes and a pale face

wasted with tears. Mute terror.

When I reached out

to collect his precious salt, give comfort,

my wings more than strong enough

to take a passenger—this little wisp,

perhaps a gremlin of sorts, a glitch,

not so scary as all that—

he started and scuttled away

like some cephalopod ink sploot.

Mischief creature.

Whatever his curse entailed, alas,

I hadn’t the chance

to address. Step one

would have been retrofit

secure attachment, establish

object permanence, evaluate

locus of control and repair or replace.

Yes, yes, I’m a deft hand at curses, courtesy

of my prickly and forbidding nature, big

and warm but just a lil stabby stab. Alas,

I remained

the unseen. Misunderstood. That one’s mine.

An old, old woman

suddenly beside me with an easel,

the two of us standing on jagged cement

at the edge of everything, she scowled

and said that I am not afraid

because my body is a prison,

that I’ll give no quarter

if he sets me free.

Talked mad shit, evaluated

whether or not I’d balk

or be cowed. As if I hadn’t spent

decades being Too Much, as if I’d grown

up into the kinda bitch wears a bra

or gives a fuck. She showed me the canvas

where she’d painted some primordial

darkness as a harrowing thrush

of nebula splatter ravens affixed

the branches of a gnarled tree,

crown to roots penetrating

every layer of reality,

springfire green streams

coursing up the trunk, motes

flickering, pulsating veins

through a blackened artery.

Behind closed lids, a feathered pair

of ultraviolet eyes in the sky. That old woman,

though her own eyes sparkled vicious approval,

her tone suggested I should be horrified,

apologize for my shameless spread, but inside

every woman

is a mass grave.

March 8, 2026

Adventures in Slumberland, mental hellth, shaman shenanigans, spook juice subconscious, storytelling
Love Island!

Once was a great chief

there at Ōwhata along the shores

of Lake Rotorua, back when

the forest was vast and people fewer.

He held important meetings of the tribe

who traveled from all around,

and certainly every young man of rank

contended for his beautiful daughter’s hand.

A Māori was marked first with their lineage,

seniority within this, power and sacredness,

status may be marginally increased

through such means as leadership, bravery,

generosity and craft.

Men’s pedigree made quite plain, still,

all of these suitors summarily rejected.

From a small island far away,

in the center of that lake,

Tūtānekai came. Though he be

of good family, he had low rank,

declined to participate and yet

feats upon feats attained, a man possessed

from the very first glance. His heart winged

in pursuit of the deep waters

of Hinemoa’s eyes. He simply couldn’t resist,

as sure as the Pāpango must dive,

and like the Pūtangitangi stately and fine

would mate for life.

Knew his mate on sight.

It was hopeless.

He let it all out with his instrument,

a poet’s wind in his flute and well,

he bore the marks of that too.

Sensitive swirls upon muscle bellies, something

both soft and hard. This man tuned heads.

And yet and yet though he mooned

anguished and content

from afar

for quite some time,

it seemed his glances were returned.

Slowly realized

no wishful trick of the light,

Hinemoa’s carefully swept gaze

made her interest quite plain,

created an intimate space.

Tūtānekai dared

a single message.

Who knows what it said.

Until this point,

the pair had both been too shy.

She replied,

“Have we each then

loved alike?”

He wasted no time,

made good on all those years

they pined,

bid she join with him

on Mokoia Island, his home,

for though it was small

it was lush and free

from predators. So very many

birds, imagine the cloaks

sleek, shimmering, vibrant and warm.

He would take care of her.

Hinemoa promised

she would go.

At night, he told her,

listen for my flute. It is I,

come in your canoe.

She would seek him

under cover of darkness,

against her tribe’s wishes.

That chief didn’t miss a thing,

wasn’t born yesterday, had a sense

of her plans.

Her tribe pulled all the canoes back.

And every night Hinemoa wept

bitter black

as her love played on, her song,

heart hurled against the bars

of her ribs, she wished to join in,

did he wonder why

she hadn’t come? Think himself

spurned? Unwanted after all? She would go,

she would go, she would go.

Where she belonged.

Hinemoa didn’t give up.

She snuck off

and strapped gourds to herself.

How great could be this distance?

She would simply swim,

walked into the dark water

met by dark horizon

and listened.

The lake was very cold

and very deep, seemed endless.

She grew tired

and scared, the gourds chaffed.

Still he played.

And she swam.

Only the tenuous curling notes

of their promise to navigate by.

There was no turning back.

The shore at last.

Wracked with shivers

she shed her sodden clothes, sore,

and sought a volcanic pool. Warmth.

The moon from behind clouds,

she awaited his song once more.

Instead, a slave came down

to fetch Tūtānekai some water,

parched from the wooing of her.

She hid and called out in a man’s voice,

who goes there? Give me that gourd.

He complied. She drank and shattered it.

The slave returned empty handed.

Baffled, Tūtānekai sent him back.

She did it again.

Now he was pissed,

marched to that pool square,

ready to beat some naked man’s ass.

Hinemoa hid

as he grasped about the bushes

all come on out and get your whoopins,

oh ho what’s this?

A woman’s wrist.

She slipped out, now bathed

in crepuscular rays, it is I.

Hinemoa.

Striking as the white hawk,

gracefully wading as the crane,

bare before him, abrasions soothed

in the moonlight.

He ceased to function

for several minutes.

The he wrapped her in his cloak,

his hand beneath hers leading

through dense wood

towards his village. Home.

Past the threshold at last

and well

that’s all that was required then

to be man and wife.

Slow and careful, a secret

between them, quiet,

he made her properly warm.

The gig was up come morning

as he never slept in so late,

indeed usually the first to wake,

his father sent a slave and spied

not one

but two pairs of feet, family is nosy,

announced to the whole village

who looked on with gaping disbelief

as Tūtānekai emerged with Hinemoa beside him.

Oh this was sure to cause an incident,

but that’s a story for another time.

Of course, their descendants

inhabit Mokoia to this day,

March 1, 2026

fairytale, folklore, Māori, storytelling
Phantom Queen 1/X: Maiden Voyage

Night Hag

Ha ha empowerment

is that what you call it

lick the bars of your cage

spittin’ bars bits on display

Sephora clown face

b-b-but I gowt paywd

stand next some wimpy ass

tenor in a t-shirt duet

like you two the same.

I said what I said,

oh you keep it covered?

Some bullshit funeral shroud,

God or Allah who gives a fuck,

can’t keep your house in check

simperin’ over some big man’s book,

deep throatin’ a cross,

what’s that sis?

Can’t fuckin’ hear ya.

Gods forbid you have daughters,

the fuck you even teach them?

Mamas on Two-X Preppers

stockpilin’ Plan B cause they seen

what happen to Ukraine, cause men

all men

got a loaded gun in their pants

and they can only understand

self defense after the fact,

think a baby is the only

permanent consequence,

turn your flesh into a prison,

a desecrated temple instead of fight back,

take it, here’s a hint if you can manage

through your cowardice,

takes less than two minutes

to choke a man to death,

go rear naked, you’re on the right track

if his breath rattlin’ and clabberin’,

do not permit him to beg.

You owe your daughters that.

Blunt Instrument

I ask

how far are you willin’ to go

for that belief? Do you believe

a woman has the right inviolate

to live free? To stand up and expect

pleasure from her men? Respect?

That’s a world we don’t live in

without violence. Full stop. Dead

silence. Don’t make me drop stats.

Not a country on this Earth withstands

this kegel clench, birth rate in our hands,

crush its fuckin’ windpipe, I’ve had enough

of men speakin’ for several lifetimes,

p-p-population decline,

b-b-but I’m a good guy,

3C maybe we’ll survive,

bred a sea of baritones ’cause well,

that’s what the goddess likes,

and all they do is spout nonsense,

puff their chests and lie,

dinky paper-pushin’ Xys, no cap,

he’s a tiny guy, they wrote it down

oh wow must be civilized,

ladies, ladies, change takes time,

the world’s oh so scawy outside

these lines. The-the economy,

lil boy holdin’ his GD pee pee,

it’s all about paper money see?

Never mind the price.

Chooser of the Slain

Here’s a bitter pill,

or better here’s a pie,

sweet yew berries sans seeds,

spit the arils all spittoon ping,

most the people in prison

shouldn’t be there, ping,

prisons are little better, barely more

than concentration camps, isolation

and social death are forms of torture,

and then of course the slave labor,

m-m-made in America,

ping,

they never serve the people,

only the parasites in power, ping,

gonna need more than black walnut,

more than wormwood hun, be shittin’

your whole intestines into that pot,

justice is never somethin’ you outsource,

want a man gone from sight forever?

That decision’s yours if you got guts

enough to swallow. That’s the flavor

of a big girl. They know well enough

what a woman is when they wanna rape one,

they’ll string your corpse up on the off chance

it’s a son,

brain dead or mentally impaired matters not,

they’ll get you with child while droolin’ bed bound,

man drugs his wife and lets the whole town

in on the fun, top bottom rich to poor,

even the ones declined didn’t try

to make it stop.

If you slit all their throats right now,

bled ’em dry just because,

that’s a net positive, world peace,

look me in the fuckin’ eyes

and deny, tell me I’m wrong.

Those men shoved women and girls down

to evacuate Afghanistan,

oh they know all about sloppy pull out,

girls committin’ suicide on video

’cause they’ve lost all hope,

only light left in their sweet eyes

at the end of tunnel, fuck all you Abrahamics,

and bitch I ain’t Catholic

so miss me with that guilt trip, I’m captain

of the fuckin’ ghost ship, welcome

to your final destination, men’s dread

my favorite lubricant,

ugly ass billy goat backbirths

sayin’ girls can’t go to school or leave the house,

dumpin’ ’em in unmarked graves, just ditches,

honor killins,

ravagin’ child brides c-c-cause Pwophet Muhhamed,

throwin’ acid on her face ’cause she showed it,

buncha coulda-shoulda-been abortions,

ladies, ladies, it’s not too late,

I’m pro-choice at any stage,

if there’s really a paradise full o’ virgins

I hope it’s all men, eternal torment,

human centipede sick, go gag

and take it up the ass ’til you’re splattered carbon,

I hope it feels like razor blades both ends,

point is point is,

don’t you ever just

wanna go ape shit?

If he ask ’bout that ditch he up against,

tell him your mama said.

No Uncertain Terms

Gosh you might’ve guessed,

I don’t do passive aggression,

here’s the line toe it or else,

ain’t do this shit for my health,

ain’t needlessly direct it’s about

honor, chivalry, my position is

so you know where to stand,

I’ll announce the once to be fair,

you were warned.

Ladies he’s doin’ it on purpose,

he wouldn’t do it to another man,

wouldn’t do it to bear, stop talkin’,

walkin’ yo fool ass in pigeon circles

chasin’ crumbs of communication

meet him in the middle nah bitch

that’s where traffic is, only pea brains

and class traitors chase dick.

That castle weren’t built on love,

that’s all leverage and bondage,

that’s right I kinkshame, who benefits

when men ejaculate to pain? Submission?

Don’t fool yourself,

dominatrix ain’t flipped script,

mind those fuckin’ neural paths,

if he don’t like the way your pussy smell,

he don’t like sex,

thinks she ain’t got hair, thinks

to stick it in before you’re drippin‘ wet,

sweatin’ yo foundation with a bald cat,

fixin’ get a yeast infection that’s assumin’

he even bothers to pet that.

Don’t take him to mount

if he don’t got a lick o’ sense

about his mouth an’ hands,

if you gotta sit there teach him

get trainin’ wheels an’ a bib,

man can’t suck a crawdad

don’t even know what butter is

asks you where the seasonins

don’t know a fuck thing ’bout the kitchen

in the house you both live in.

Shout Out Circe

Now, I don’t hate men

all evidence the contrary,

what I despise is weakness

masqueradin’ as strength,

an’ they playin’ big mans on the holodeck

while women get arthritis in they hips an’ backs

all fap fap fap while fuck ass agent orange

shits himself on live broadcast. Don’t worry,

we won’t escalate, we’ll record diligently

as they drag our neighbors away, execute

civilians in broad daylight, how unserious

that ice, learned nothin’ off George Floyd

who cried out for his mama

right before he died. How many more

beyond your line of sight? Keep sayin’ guys

let’s do this right, N-N-Nuremberg trials,

bitch where the rest them Nazis go?

They saw us and took notes.

Police don’t arrest their own.

They’re all just pigs playin’ dress up,

turned it all into a swamp, a basement,

an’ you got your tits out servin’ hot pockets,

bendin’ over turnin’ cheeks, put ’em over the knee,

wield the only language they speak, ain’t respect,

I told you mind the fuckin’ leverage, the number one

goal of every virus

is reproduction.

Kingmaker

Ever notice how they always

want you hold their guns?

Like please ma’am this my young son

AR Custom, alterations highly illegal,

if you could just put a few rhymes,

welcome him to the family,

don’t ask how I somehow always

end up with a whole ass armory,

didn’t drop a cent my own money,

thing ’bout AZ love or hate,

we got castle doctrine on steroids,

these parts stand your ground means

you under no obligation to deescalate,

invasion of public or private space

means shoot first questions later,

prison? Jail? Nah, jury of your peers,

been firearms on every kitchen table

I ever been served at, see my dilemma,

for all I prefer songbirds and love

Mr. Bang Bang’s here make certain

this stays a friendly conversation

between friends, full disclosure, ain’t subtle,

and men well, they’re excitable creatures

and all they really really want

is a woman rile ’em up and point ’em

in a direction, girl,

if he was gonna pick some strings instead,

hit those husky notes gets you rabid in bed,

woulda done by now, field’s just ’bout barren,

so if you any kinda woman grown

mean to do a thing about our lot, this monocrop,

you gotta saddle up, gods ain’t dealt

a mild mannered pack mule, that’s a warhorse,

thick thighs ride the chaos, mean business, a king

is just the man whose face you sit on.

February 22, 2026

Borrowing Your Ma For A Sec, Choctaw Yeehaw, Choose Your Fighter, For Her Pleasure, Hooked On Chthonics, I’ll Put Her Back Where She Belongs, If You Can’t Pull Neolithic You Ain’t Shit, Is It Not Sunday, Mainlining The Morrigan, rap-ish, The Old Ways, Woman Life Freedom
To the Tune of She Moved Through the Fair by Padraic Colum

My love said to me

We’re two of a kind

And me mother did frighten

What shade caught my eye

Then he bolt awake from me

Walked some proper way

It will not be long love

Till our wedding day

.

He flew away from me

And his song filled the air

And fondly I watched him

Flit here and flit there

And he scant could remember

His wings were a pair

Lost all sense of direction

In the city glare

.

The people were saying

He drew blood in his bed

Burst bright plumes of she-down

Twixt thorns of his nest

And he wept when he saw me

Night fell factory to field

.

And that was the last

That they saw of my dear

.

One cold morning

Thick leaves o’er a den

So softly he entered

Tucked close to my breast

He slept fast my heartbeat

Assured of his place

It will not be long love

Till our wedding day

.

@~^~

Woke with this song randomly rattling about my skull. Alas, when I try to sing such things the lyrics are suddenly sinister. What’s meant to be wistful becomes menacing, longing becomes a direct demand. I guess that’s what happens when you spend your life filing your thoughts into prison shivs and don’t have the option of turning off your hoodrat subwoofer. So I leaned in.

Anyway, a while back the kids were learning music and my favorite godchild told me I sounded like forest protector Maleficent as a dragon. Except my husband is like…a tiny songbird that eats meat and acts all crazy and nobody understands him until I show up and suddenly it’s Game of Thrones. Kids say the darndest things. Turns out there is in fact a songbird that eats meat.

How did I roll all this shit together this morning? Read a piece about medieval noblewomen and their passion for falconry, and how they created and maintained parks and hunting grounds. So of course I got to thinking about the sexual dimorphism among birds of prey. Environmental degradation, the agency of women, etc etc etc.

February 15, 2026

folk, Ireland, lyrics, Podraic Colum
1K1N: A Bridge This

We know her myth,

the mystery and magic,

a master of her craft lost

to the sands.

There once was a sultan

who returned early from a trip

and found the love of his life

in bed with just about

everyone but him.

He became a tyrant,

blew through all the women

in his kingdom. People fled.

His trusted vizier at wit’s end.

That vizier’s eldest daughter

came to him and said,

send me. I will wed the sultan.

Oh absolutely not, none so precious

as your beautiful head. No tomes

you haven’t read, my most eloquent,

wise and well-bred. Send me,

she said, I’ll have this sultan

in hand.

Scheherazade

spun tale after tale

at the sultan’s bedside,

every night so enraptured

he could scarcely close his eyes.

She pulled from four corners, the entire

sphere of her knowledge and worked

so many subtly attuned threads

he thought her will his own mind.

Stories within stories within stories,

songs and poetry, worlds so real,

so intricate that if he could just

reach into them

he could believe in love again.

And he couldn’t be anything

but married by the end.

One such thread

the tale of Taj Al-Muluk

and the Princess Dunya.

He was a most adored prince,

ripened loins on both men and women

but to look upon him, exquisite manners,

a single glance worth a thousand sighs,

son of the Green Country, a kingdom

most wealthy. Low and high born,

young and old waxed poetic alike.

The very lyrics of desire sprung

from vile water.

You get the point.

Everything was good. Great. Alright.

Sumptuously dressed, silks richly dyed, pampered

apple of his father’s eye, driven to ride

further and further afield in spite

with his adoring men. Cast nets at lilting gazelles

through rolling savanna, medjool citrus oasis,

they spied vibrant merchants’ tents

and Al-Muluk paid them a visit

to ask the meaning of this.

What he certainly did not expect

was the most forlorn man he’d ever met,

resignedly presenting his collections

between swooning ghazal fits,

weeping over a handkerchief.

He implored of this Aziz,

my god man what has befallen thee,

and what is that kerchief, show it me.

If it is within my power, I will do anything

to relieve your pain.

What followed was the story

of a man who lost it all,

up to and including his cock,

because he chose to gorge and not eat,

bewitched by a floating handkerchief

cast by a terrible beauty

who was not the woman

bound to his side.

The kerchief all that remained

from the ashes of his former life.

He had made pilgrimage

to a far off land upon revelation

of its true maker, his calling

as a merchant revealed,

so that he might glimpse

a final vision of a woman

he could never be worthy of.

Spied from a distance

across a sacred garden

she who could only be enchantment

personified.

Al-Muluk held this simple linen

with a reverence, a thing so plain

set upon with such devastating skill,

sensitivity in every stitch,

eye for color and detail,

as if this Dunya wet her needle

in the blood of his own heart. Gazelles.

Verse. She sent other such missives abroad,

drama wherever they fell, so others might know

her people. Seek trade.

Well what Al-Muluk knew

was that it was Over.

The golden curse

of a life bisected, before and after,

bit the apple of knowledge that reveals

for you there is only One.

Good sense, reason, distance,

circumstance be damned. Taj Al-Muluk

fell hopelessly in love

with a woman he’d never set eyes upon,

from a place he’d never heard of.

Our golden boy likewise succumbed

to fits of ghazal.

United with his new best friend

in predilection for mope,

wasted and wept and sang.

His father said my boy, my boy,

good god why? Whatever is the matter?

How you’ve let yourself go.

You’ll give your mother

cardiac arrest.

Father I am in love

and I hardly know her, would that I

had even a face to make moan my passion,

press my suit, but no. Princess Dunya

of the Camphor Isles. How can I go on?

If the king grumbled of youth,

Al-Muluk heard not. His father promised

he would inquire after her hand.

Joy leapt in his throat.

It did not go well.

Dunya had a mind of her own,

the will to forge her own path, swore

should her father force marriage,

he who she wed she would kill.

To her reckoning

all men were brutes, scoundrels, and cowards.

Unworthy

of trust, strangers

to love.

As the fruit of a child bride his own self,

the prince couldn’t pretend she was totally wrong.

The king read Al-Muluk’s abject despair

and said son you could have a bride

from anywhere. Beauty and breeding

weren’t scarce. But it didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter. There’s the rub.

So many could simply settle down

and well enough’s enough. Never know

the searing arrow shaft of true love.

None of those women

would ever be Her.

Could never come close.

If he couldn’t chart a course,

navigate the shifting sand,

he resolved to wander without water

into the desert and death take him.

The presence and possibility

of such a high caliber match rendered

everything else mirage. Djinn smoke.

The king said very well, we can always

conquer her kingdom.

Al-Muluk said no,

he must win her by his own merits,

as a man. Dunya’s spirit

demanded an untraditional approach.

He would travel abroad

and set up shop as a merchant,

use his skills to lure information,

connections, oh he was certain

that if they could just meet

their souls would slip into place,

hit their stride like well worn

leather slippers. Soft tread footsteps

on a path always been there.

They were the same, face to face,

exactly the same somehow. A single pair.

Or the desert.

Al-Muluk, Aziz, and the Vizier set out.

The journey was of course arduous,

every day wondered if he’d gone mad,

mooning over a ruined eunuch’s report

of a spear-straight back, slender waist,

heavy hips and dark-bright eyes,

if he could get hold of that

he’d act all kinds of right.

The name Dunya after all

means the World,

this present life

nearest to us.

The name Al-Muluk imagines

a crown, pretends

dominion.

Well, by now we know

which boasts superior pull. The road

wore long and on the horizon

a crest crystalline, some trick of light,

thrust from the clamoring ocean,

some heady, heaving seafoam. Love’s spoils.

Its mess. His churning thoughts.

They would soon reach

their destination.

The first thing they did

after securing lodgings

was hit the bathhouse and flirt

with a dirty old man

for the best bazaar stall,

a prominent place.

While the tumultuous two worked, the Vizier

gathered up the manly gossip about town.

Who’s who what’s what local pollen,

jabber they get up to at a tea house,

possessed that gift of gab.

Skirt whirled streets, dust and grit,

children at play,

swags, rugs, and mosaic lamps,

Al-Muluk cherished this time anonymous,

just another working man. Hardly slumming it,

but still. Honed his clever tongue

on all manner of folk. Quite a reputation.

The princess was jealously guarded,

seldom seen since she came of age,

between royal wills a stalemate.

Some said lack of mother to blame,

raised by maids, kept to her ladies,

courtyards, chambers and apartments.

Scarcity magnified intrigue.

The prince despaired an opening.

Then, one day an old woman hobbled by

and they received her with customary grace,

sat her down, fanned her sweat, offered drink,

this granny’s lascivious eye did partake

of this stall’s particularly fine

wares

and said it was a lucky young woman indeed

who got her arms about that waist,

and Al-Muluk never missed a chance

to preen those masculine wiles

his mama gave him. His father

got what he paid for.

As for Granny, she sought a gift

fit for a princess.

He had just the thing.

She returned with a chest

of nothing but the best

at a shockingly good price.

Such a deal social debt implied,

a favor bestowed

for what caught Dunya’s eye,

or who might. Granny crowed delight

at her finds, reported no finer

wares

in the Camphor Isles.

Oh that merchant was no less

than the full moon dune-glow

to her rising sun, such a comely traveler

would look oh so good

kiss drunk, cheeks flush

between the heaving sea fairy swell

of her breasts.

Dunya pretended shock

at Granny’s lewdness. Bade she capture

that favor, this merchant’s humble request.

This old maid who nursed and raised her

returned with a letter.

Now Al-Muluk wasn’t stupid,

Dunya already had her dagger drawn,

hackles up, coming at her with a caterwaul

all yes hello trust me I’m your soulmate

totally not like other men

would not be well received.

Instead he engaged with riddling verse,

invited further exchange,

desperately trying to quell

his heart’s fancy footwork,

telling him to go whole hog,

head to hooves apple in his mouth,

do with him what she will.

Restraint

piqued her tongue, or fingers,

thus began their dance of wits and words

though never so clever

as to be insincere, more

gentle knuckles sweeping, toes weaving

side to side

through sheer silken veils, the art

of the drape incense curled

and brass pooled flame.

A merchant must know

how best to present

his wares.

When one sheet of fabric

a breath’s flicker between them

he asked if they might meet.

Al-Muluk was denied

and plunged into silence.

Why

was an anvil

strapped to his chest,

and he walked dangerously close

to those seaside cliffs.

Aziz and the Vizier stressed

what they’d tell the king

if his dear son departed this world.

Then Granny hobbled by

to assure that the princess Dunya

was not made of ice, not stone,

no trick of his mind, lifelong

nightmares

plagued her flight feathers,

the recurring theme

of two pigeons separated,

wherein the male abandoned

his mate.

If he meant to persist,

Al-Muluk must seek her

in the solace of her private garden,

a pleasure permitted once a month,

the closest thing akin the taste

of freedom. He must show

steady hands,

stay the course.

And just like that

our lovestruck prince

was back on his bullshit.

Merchant, that is.

They arranged a reconnaissance mission,

and even if all he impressed were some plants

he wouldn’t be caught dead

looking a mess,

bath fresh hair did dapper pants,

clocked the sad state

of the courtyard’s plaster.

He finally saw her.

Wending thoughtful through

everything she’d planted

for her own amusement. Boughs

heavy laden with fruit, blooms

wafting humid intoxicant,

alighting on every carefully selected

specimen.

Dewdrops or sweat pricked,

the entire expanse of his skin

so sudden,

so sudden.

Nerves a hummingbird’s wings.

Whatever it took.

Her garden was a jungle, thick

with such intimate sustenance,

so green as to be gore,

and he wanted nothing else

to pass his lips again.

After Dunya left

he went to see a man

about that plaster.

His final move

spanned one month more.

Al-Muluk plastered and painted

an answering dreamscape in triptych,

the secret side of her nightmares,

that which was hidden from view,

a male pigeon struck dead

by a kite’s talons. He returned.

He would always return.

Stained half his clothes,

even grew calluses. He wrought

for Dunya a masterpiece.

Al-Muluk waited.

At last she beheld a mural

whose beauty embraced her garden,

a perfect complement. How could someone

she’d never met

know so well her heart’s chambers,

as if the very bated shadow breath

between beats?

Dunya asked of Granny,

who’d sent everyone else away,

the name of this artist, his identity,

and Granny said, your merchant is here

if you would meet.

Dunya’s discerning eye

sampled heatedly his

wares

and duly decided, yes,

she would be having that, yes,

very,

very

suitable to her palate.

Granny dressed Al-Muluk as a woman

and snuck him into the palace,

he’d run the risk of losing his head,

both of them, so long as he first

put them to their purpose.

For six months hence

Dunya put his endurance to test,

scarcely a moment she did not

catch and suck his lips, small nips,

grip the curly down scalp to navel on

of her specimen,

hungered every inch every day,

some act of scathing revenge

for how long she had to wait.

Al-Muluk served no complaint.

Dunya would not be rotting on the vine,

drank from her mouths both musk and wine,

clung to her hips and thighs for dear life,

split the night with swallowed cries,

she was so very

ripe.

Granny worked double time,

washed at the break of dawn

Dunya’s wrecked bed sheets in the wake

of a focused and generous lover, our pair

writhed almost every night as serpents,

oh their pleasures plunged

a wide berth.

Nothing but the best for her girl.

Their mutual passions

only further inflamed, steady oxygen flow,

increased with exposure, the madness

of a perfect match.

God would blush. Or perhaps

this was how

the most High is best known crescendo

over bass thrum. Bright star

above the ocean.

When Al-Muluk was not

panting in her garden

or nestled in her crook, some dozing dovecote

of murmured conversation,

he haunted the many rooms

of her apartments. Intricate interiors,

curiosities and books, crafts and their tools,

cross breeze screens and windows

carried birdsong and distant bustle, laughter,

cast sunlit patterns

on the beautifully loomed

floors and walls. Velvety jewel tones.

Ached in these spaces

as she must have done.

Worlds within worlds.

He wanted more.

Found some traveling bags

carefully packed. His leaping heart.

Then one night it was different,

her nails bit his behind, hungry

in a new way. She would have him

spent deep between her legs.

She was not asking.

He expended utmost

generosity.

As they lie wild and sated,

his fingers still stroking the pungent,

dewy flush of her bud just

to revel in how her speech caught,

once, twice, some sweet tears, dipped

to circle her swollen comb

and offered the sacrament

of their mingled mess. Accepted.

What man done better with his flesh

than to inspire the wanton might

of his woman’s creation?

If you must do a thing,

do it right.

Al-Muluk thought it time

to reveal that he was not in fact

a merchant,

but an embarrassingly wealthy prince

of the far off Green Country,

and though he wouldn’t dream

of forcing such a journey,

demanding she leave everything behind,

she made him want to be a man

worthy of the responsibilities

his accident of birth implied.

Should he feign death

or otherwise slip the harness

of such status, his station,

it would spur his father to violence

from which he’d previously retired, and pierce

his mother’s heart,

and her pain he could appreciate

all the more now. Nor would he make

Dunya a fugitive from her own people.

No.

He was Taj Al-Muluk of Green Country,

and if she would have him,

he would make her its queen.

Found himself

indecent again, Dunya mounted

without ceremony

and said yes until his legs gave out

and they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Our lovers were discovered.

All hell broke loose.

After six months and no word,

his father was en route

with their entire army. Her father

had him thrown in jail and beat,

thinking this merchant debauched royalty,

did Dunya dishonor. A mongrel’s disrespect,

however pretty.

Several rounds of fury, explanations,

and blood.

Dunya pulled a knife like bitch she might

commit regicide. Twice.

The prince’s true identity revealed,

intentions clear.

Their fathers stood down.

Al-Muluk and Dunya were married twice,

according to respective customs, so everyone

could celebrate, and somewhere on the road

everyone pretended that was when

she “lost her maidenhead”

as was proper.

His people adored her,

and if Dunya’s belly

seemed awfully swift with child,

that was just a djinn’s coincidence.

Their king and queen stole about their palace

as if only recently in the throes of courtship,

for pigeons never cease wooing their mates.

You might say Dunya killed the man

she wed after all,

but not for many long years

in each other’s arms.

@~^~

I took great liberties and don’t apologize. Hope it was worth the wait.

February 8, 2026

fairy tales, fantasy, one thousand and one nights, spring feeling, storytelling
Golden Fleece 2/X: Cold Mountain

Once was a soldier,

if that’s what you call them,

barely whiskered wet behind the ears,

all the able bodied men as if any to spare,

and this Inman did clutch to his breast

a book given him, three letters and a tintype,

the scripture of his woman’s words,

never dared response but pressed on and on,

scare looked beyond that trench, fetid gutter,

a mass grave, another day, another bloodbath,

some explosions, stench of gunpowder,

boys half his age dead, someone’s son.

He remembered

Ada from Cold Mountain.

“Men up here had a bearing

on what they thought a woman was,

and then you showed up.” Miss Sally said

the day Ada arrived. The day they met. A welcome.

She brought the working men cider but

cat got his tongue, he was not

a loquacious man. Ada asked for his name

and he stumbled to provide it, found it ugly,

uncouth—saying it don’t improve a thing—

and finally upon stilted silence

insisted he just went by his surname

Inman.

Neither was he born to dance,

not possessed of fine manners

and as we’ve established, words. He worked

and Ada noticed. She invited.

But he’d watch from the dark side

of her doorway, peer into the warm and bright,

standing in the rain

because he was dirty and wet instead.

When she went out that night, as it was clear

he’d remain outside, and gently, gently pressed,

danced around what she really wanted to ask

like a sparrow in a birdbath, skirted

his intentions, the looming war, her,

“This doesn’t come out right.” Halting

as an electrical current run through a corpse,

“If it were enough just to stand,

without the words.”

“It is.” She assured.

“It is.” But he pressed on.

“Look at the sky now.

What color is it? Or the way…

a hawk flies? Or you wake up

and your ribs are bruised

thinking so hard on somebody.

What do you call that?”

It was almost a demand.

They almost made progress

when he snuck his requested likeness

into the pages of some sheet music

and spoke her daddy.

They ran out of time.

Just as he was set to deploy,

if you can call it that, half dressed,

no training, no experience, she gave

him a book with her photograph.

“I’m not smiling in it.

I don’t know how to do that. Hold

a smile.” Well he was always

better off with his hands, pulled

her to him in a hungry kiss

she fully matched.

Inman woke

in a pus-curdled, fly-infested infirmary,

feverish recovering

from infection and injury. A woman in black

at his bedside took mercy, found

his one belonging, and opened

a weathered letter to read

“…So now I say to you

plain as I can. If you are fighting,

stop fighting.

If you are marching,

stop marching.

Come back to me.”

Meanwhile

Ada worried what would be

the last days beside her daddy,

only vaguely aware of the threat

posed by the Home Guard—

cruel and vicious men self-charged

with prowling about town

“protecting” property and womenfolk

and killing deserters.

Her daddy getting old, a widower

never remarried, asked his daughter

if she still thought on her man.

Oh every day all it made no sense

for she hardly knew him.

A handful of moments taking over

her whole night sky, her mind’s eye.

And her daddy, he said

he had her mother all of twenty-two months

before she passed, and that

was more than enough.

A lifetime full

of little treasures. Golden sand

in an hourglass. We love who we love

and love makes the tiniest glance precious.

It don’t have to make sense to be so blessed.

No regrets.

He read and tinkered with sermons

at their dining table nestled

on the lawn beneath a fine, strong tree

with long arms overlooking the forest,

a swooping mountain vista,

and though Ada fretted an oncoming storm

he waved her off and asked if she might

go inside and play the piano

by the open window. The day so beautiful,

would be a shame to miss a moment of it.

Ada’s daddy died.

Inman’s mid-odyssey about face

got off to a bad start.

War was already lost

but that didn’t deter the Home Guard

and their hunting hounds.

Maggoty corn and murdered slave families,

a corrupt rapist preacher he made certain

paid for his decadent ways. Got as far

as a filthy brothel in sordid company,

ends and means, before he was drugged

and clapped in chains,

betrayed.

Then came some Yanks.

They all took the chance.

Everyone got shot in the back,

but Inman survived. Still chained.

Collapsed.

At Cold Mountain,

a growing wall of fallen sons, tiny pictures

and rustic trinkets, and Ada mussed

and beholden to the kindness

of the other women. That greedy old bastard

head of the Home Guard

wouldn’t let her rest or mourn. Sniffing

after her hand. Her good land. Said in church

her man wouldn’t return. Said look at him.

He wasn’t nothing. Ugly ass.

Miss Sally took her in, had been

leaving all manner of baskets, heartsick

for the farm’s disrepair.

Ada had long freed the slaves.

At dinner with her dear friend,

Sally’s husband suddenly said

Ada should take a mirror

and look over her shoulder

into their well water. Her future,

her heart’s desire may be revealed.

His wife did it all the time—abruptly hushed.

Well Ada

in its slippery reflection a second sight,

glimpsed the shadowy form of a man

in the snow, heralded by a flurry of crows.

Then he was gone.

Inman woke on a twisted branch sled

or some such, being drug into the forest

by an old hermit woman.

Deep emerald foliage, civilization distant

as if it never was, a covered wagon,

a dispersed herd of small goats. Strung herbs.

A cookfire. Made to rise, said he had to go,

but goat woman scoffed. Gruffly replied

he had to heal first.

Inman warned he was a deserter

and she scoffed again because

what would they do?

Cut short her young life?

His wounds begged attention,

his belly a meal, and his fragmented

mind a proper rest. All his fussing in bed,

she pestled up some laudanum, potent

poppy tincture home brew. As it took hold

Inman devolved into some wilderness,

rambled half agony half prayer a woman’s name

implicit, the woman

he was returning to. Compelled, driven

by some force.

“…And I hardly know her.

I hardly know her! And I just

can’t seem

to get back to her.” Slept at last.

Had somewhat more his wits come morn.

Inman watched mutely as a white goat

ambled calmly up to the old woman,

a child’s face.

She lectured

everything in nature has a job.

Bird’s got a job, seed’s got a job,

shit’s got a job. A forest grows.

A goat

gives you milk, cheese, company,

and when necessary,

meat.

She slit it’s throat,

it went peacefully, she still

hushed and praised its sacrifice.

There there. You were such a beauty.

Such a beauty.

Meanwhile Miss Sally sent for help.

One morning at the mercy

of an aggressive rooster, real cock of the walk,

and his uppity spurs

Ada received a visitor.

Ruby Thewes an illiterate farm girl—

a young woman, proud country bumpkin—

marched right up and ripped off the rooster’s head

with her bare hands. Only good rooster

was a dead rooster. Fuck that guy.

She brought a gun. Some other stuff.

Said she didn’t believe in money.

Came there to work, but not as a servant.

Expected to room and board, eat at the table,

be shown respect. Ada would learn

alongside and work as well.

Ada took no offense.

She was just glad.

Their hard labors turned it all around,

better than expected, way you yoke

a skittish or inexperienced horse

to a sturdy or confident one and arrive

at your destination twice as fast.

Ruby learned to read

and Ada learned to wear pants.

Scoundrel Daddy Thewes even came back

from the supposed dead and didn’t ask

for forgiveness, just if they could spare a coat

for his simple friend, his bandmate.

See he’d given up drink

when he took up the strings. Never knew

he had it in him until the war, but the place

he’s filled with song, well it’s all

about his daughter now. When he plays

he’s thinking on her, everything he wrote.

She was always

a good girl.

Ruby Thewes thawed

just a little.

Inman stumbled upon a cabin,

desperate for shelter in the rain

and inside a young widow who bade him

enter

from the other side of a gun.

See when it comes to war

it don’t matter what side

a man claims he’s on

if you’re a woman alone. Whatever she had

to spare was fair enough. He wouldn’t push.

She said she had to believe

he meant her no harm. Would ask for no more.

Her fevered baby fussed.

She dressed him

in her late husband’s dry clothes, neither man

physically imposing, much presence,

straight up and down.

Shadows and bones.

After unrestful repose, toss and turn,

she asked him in off the pile of cobs.

Asked if he could just lie beside her

and expect no more. Take it no further.

There in the dark,

Inman stiff as a board, alarmed

when her fingers laced his own. Declared,

rasped as if wind through hollow trunk,

“I love someone.”

But all she did was weep. Broken. Alone.

He listened.

Dawn brought little comfort.

A troop of Yanks turned up

fixing to steal what little she had,

pull down their pants

for a bit of gang rape. Of course.

Inman did what he did best, silent

as a wraith. A wisp. Blink and you’ll miss.

He was not

an imposing man.

There was no rape that day. That captain

bled out upon his prey, dead between her legs.

His friends soon followed.

Ada’s foul suitor

and his cohorts came down on poor Sally.

Tied a noose around her neck, crushed her hands

in the fence and made her watch

as they murdered her husband, hung him

from her clothesline, and shot both her sons

whom she’d his in their barn.

She went mute.

The girls ran over too late,

brought Sally to Black Cove to recover,

if you can call it that,

and though she never spoke again

she smiled when that fugitive bumpkin band

made merry tunes on Sundays

there on the homestead.

A candle’s trembling breadth of happiness.

Ruby and the youngest musician

called Georgia for where he’d from,

well they took interest in each other.

Then, one day they slipped up,

didn’t leave soon enough, steal away

before the diamond dust, and left

tracks in the snow.

The Home Guard shared their fire

and their song while the youngest

was off vomiting

from eating an old frozen doe.

Made Daddy Thewes and his simple friend

stand with their hats off, told the idiot

to stop smiling, but he couldn’t,

it was just his way. So they made

him hold his hat over his face.

Ada and Ruby went up the mountain

to grieve their freshly dead. In reality

they hid Daddy Thewes who yet breathed

and there his wounds did tend.

Ruby sent Ada on a hunt

and she came back with a wild turkey

and Inman. Met again

at the business end of her rifle.

Ruby sussed the situation,

all fine boned and pale eyed, the man

she knew only as Ada’s one way

message recipient.

Said she ought to send Ada

into the woods with a gun more often.

They settled into the hunter’s camp,

a cluster of rickety shelters about a cookfire.

Inman sussed the situation,

and let Ruby know he wasn’t looking

to usurp anybody’s position at Black Cove,

reckoned he needed to ask her permission first.

She noted his pig’s ear attempt

at making himself presentable. Took the knife

and drew it along his long pale throat

and saw to that feral billy goat, swatted

at him when he turned his head to look,

huffed, then after a pause while she worked,

“You got the right feelings for her?”

Knife. Throat.

“I do.” Not a man to mince words.

Night fell and Ruby retired early. Of course.

Ada and Inman shuffled and glanced,

made eyes at each other all filly and colt.

She asked

if he received all her letters,

must’ve been one hundred plus,

asked why he didn’t respond if so.

She’d been talking to him

this entire time, inside her mind, despite

the foolishness. They hardly knew each other.

Understood if it was too much. She was too much.

He don’t give a girl much to go on.

At her uncertainty Inman spoke up, said

that all those little moments they shared

were like a bag of tiny diamonds,

that it didn’t matter if they were real.

They were all he had.

“If you could see my inside,

my spirit?

That’s what I fear.

I think I’m ruined.

They kept trying to put me in the ground.

But I wasn’t ready.

But if I had goodness, I lost it.

If I had anything tender in me

I shot it dead.

How could I write to you

after what I done?

What I seen?”

Ruby took the opportunity

to briefly intervene, this boy was spiraling,

said she’d have to go someplace else

to get some shut eye. If they must continue,

do it inside.

So there they were in the low lamplight,

miles and miles of ache between them,

Inman wary as if

he couldn’t dare to know Her will.

Pulse kicked breath blossomed in the cold.

Ada’s every heartbeat

calling her revenant home, unwilling

to wait one moment more.

She said her preacher daddy

would understand how such frivolity

as a wedding seemed pointless now.

Inman struggled to convey his full intention,

the fact he didn’t come all that way

to mess around.

Ada nervously recalled a religion

where the only thing required

of man and wife

is to say it three times aloud.

Well that’s three words

he could manage dire earnest,

“I marry you.

I marry you.

I marry you,”

for that had always

been his undercurrent.

She sprung upon him

in amorous reassurance, echoed

profusion of his sentiment. Two rivers

entwined. He rushed

to give her the best piece

to remember him by,

and that part

understood his job well enough,

oh he got that right.

The next day

brought the final fight.

That Home Guard sought to further

terrorize.

But this time

with the end in sight

and blood run high, none

of those men would leave alive.

Gun smoke in stark sunlight. Rapid fire.

Inman rode hard

in pursuit of the last man, up the mountain

into the forest. A pale and vicious youth.

They both fired a single shot.

Ada heard the crows.

She knew.

Her one true love bled

out into the snow in her arms.

He was beautiful.

And years down the road,

she still spoke to him

if only in her head, every day.

Said this time of year

when the lambs newborn

and the ewes rich with milk,

when spring wakes upon the winter down,

and there is so much life, for a moment

she doesn’t hurt. She looks into that well

and the sky is just blue.

Beneath her great oak tree

at Black Cove, she sets a table

as her daughter Grace Inman

sneaks treats into her mouth.

Ruby and Georgia, baby in tow,

Miss Sally and Daddy Thewes gather round,

Ada says if you could see it all now

you would know

that every step of your journey

was worth it.

@~^~

Cold Mountain (2003). Entire soundtrack, though You Will Be My Ain True Love is my favorite. I actually left quite a bit out for the sake of brevity, some threads I consider instrumental to the spirit of this film. It definitely rearranged some things inside me when I was fourteen for reasons I’m sure are immediately obvious.

February 1, 2026

Imbolc, storytelling
Small Bedtime Story

Brightly Burning

The Aesir waged a brutal war

against the elder, peaceful Vanir.

They who espoused such supposed

virtues as power, knowledge, law and order,

thought to exert their will upon “undeveloped” land,

their force and appetites excessive, coercive.

And though the Great Lady wove terrifying battle magics,

the like never seen before or since,

their adversaries stole her elusive mate,

the beloved Odr. His name

our only remaining clue to his significance,

meaning divine madness, passion,

and poetic inspiration. Spirited away.

His disappearance broke her heart.

So the two tribes of gods cut losses

and exchanged hostages,

Freyja and her twin among them.

One pantheon.

She took a “husband,”

though retained her own hall

equal in splendor, and claimed half the dead.

It is said

where she wept, her tears turned gold or amber

upon earth or water as they fell. She never

gave up her search. No matter

how long or how far

she would find him.

Seer. Shapeshifter. Mistress of Magic.

Chieftain of the Valkyries.

By all accounts an exquisite beauty.

Known for inducing

fertility, lust, obsession and love. Rode a boar

into battle and a chariot pulled by enormous cats

when at leisure, a bashful gift from half-giant Thor.

If she didn’t just take flight as a falcon herself.

Below

the Dwarves or Dark Elves

had evolved from the maggots

which hollowed out Ymir’s corpse,

developed humanoid form, their skin pure

obsidian. Would turn to stone

if exposed to sunlight. Their kingdom

no less great. There was plenty to do,

inner workings to maintain. Other

kinds of bright.

She traversed the realms nine, bided her time,

and did descend to admire their civilization

at its height.

Seamlessly carved stone, luminous ceramics,

metals wrought and cast crescendo

throughout their intricately tiled subterranean network.

They could emerge anywhere in the world

and relay messages in an instant.

Souls may depart, but bodies were their sacred domain,

transmuting that which upworlders regarded waste.

Freyja met with their four finest craftsmen in secret,

the greatest masters to ever live,

who had produced

their pinnacle achievement as a race.

The Brisingamen.

A necklace that contained

the primordial radiance of creation

in its fiery gems.

Deeply forbidden magic.

She offered gold and silver as a matter of course,

riches beyond their wildest dreams, infinite bounty,

but these four masters declined.

Only one thing could be so precious

as to persuade them to part

with their proud people’s masterpiece.

The pleasure of her company

with each of them individually,

one night apiece.

A woman’s reputation precedes.

How her true love got his name

in the first place.

So these four came to know

the ecstasy of the unmade

reborn each dawn, took the knowledge

to their graves,

spared no effort

to bear her waves, to lap them, saliva slicked

as earthworms taste through their skin. Pulsating

nerve ends.

Only one person

walked out of those bedchambers

and clean-up was a nightmare.

Freyja got what she came for.

The Aesir were furious.

Claimed her an unfaithful whore,

debated the diplomatic incident,

and it mattered not because

no one could deny her now.

Her necklace made the wearer

irresistible, not even gods

were immune to its pull. Imbued

luck upon any in her favor by default,

whipped fertility into lurid fervor,

swarms, swaths driven to mating frenzy,

toxic blooms, bloody conflicts

propelled by senseless greed and glut—

perhaps over a magical earthblood black—

too many fires for the Aesir to address.

They simply didn’t have what it took.

Their taste for war soured in their mouths,

and when Freyja whose tongue

was honeyed golden hypnotic

inquired as to the whereabouts, any last known

location of her lost love,

not god nor creature nor mortal

in all the nine realms

could withhold their knowledge.

Banished to the borders,

at the end of place and time itself,

Freyja found her love again.

Odr had become

an enormous sea serpent, a dragon.

This was her man.

Just as beautiful as the day they met.

Oh he still remembered, no necklace required,

his flesh would always know her. He fretted not

her wake of beds and bodies,

for in order to reunite

she first had to survive.

And she fretted not this new girth, terrible length,

for there was no shape she knew not

the pleasure of.

They began. From there until the body

of a man once more, Freyja’s devotion

did inform until the wild architecture of ardor,

their golden genome,

broke the curse.

She brought him home.

False-husband Tyr had learned

in her absence the hard way,

the weakness of rigidity, heavy handed

interference, how order, law, and justice

would amount to nothing but destruction

without a woman’s freely given love.

Finally, these foolish young gods

were ready to listen

instead of talk.

There is no King in Asgard.

There is the Lady of the House

and her beloved Wanderer,

and never let it be said

I don’t give credit where it’s due:

a whimsical, sensual stranger, God

of the dead, first gasp as a babe, breath itself,

poetry of spirit, swift-rhymed and riddle-tongued,

the cries of a lover well served, the voice

of your ancestors long passed, oh you do not ask

this tricksy coot for straight answers,

the original fairy godfather,

and fuck if his is the only gibberish

gets her quiverin’, has what it takes

to entertain a Magic woman. The Goddess Herself.

You’ll be takin’ some lumps he turns up to help,

like ah shit here we go again, he speaks

binding words, favors the homeless,

outcasts and shamans, vagrants to kings,

kings to robbers, wants to see how far you’ll go,

and last he’s

perch of the ravens Thought and Memory,

indeed this is how Odin got his name—

the Real Him. You’ll know now

when he’s being conflated

with unseated Tyr, as seen in the word

tyrant if ill-dignified.

Freyja instilled the art

of peace-weaving, frith, the custom

of kittens gifted to every bride

as both mousers and affectionate ambassadors,

kindlers of the hearth. These new heathen

women managed resources and were permitted

to throw any scoundrel out, even cut off his cock

should such a thing

inflict sufficient grievance, seek to rise

above its station.

Put simply, Freyja shows us

the purpose of life is pleasure, abundance,

as the heady rush

of her dizzy party-boy Odin

who always delivers in bed and grants

the heart’s tenderest wishes

to those worthy. Their poetry sufficient.

Her colors are fire, blood, and gold because

women are your wealth. Change your luck. And joy,

true love,

is precious beyond measure.

Your only win condition.

January 25, 2026

general heathenry, myth study, Norse mythology, storytelling