wyrdwind

The Other Woman

Metronome

Lemme preface this,

just for the record,

I’m straight as a razor.

A woman’s woman.

I bring a certain

energy to the table—

the bar is now here,

no return.

Some asada drunk,

whole familia up,

and you’re lazing around

while I’m dancing with your girl,

serenading with Bad Bunny,

and she returns fire passionately

in English, so I can know

what the lyrics mean.

I hit David Bowie, Billy Idol,

oh I fuck all over my baritones,

maybe some other stuff, say you want

Tenor But His Balls Dropped,

I wreck beats when these hips drop,

she’ll show me what she’s got,

a slow grave your name on it,

comes home later horny and mean,

you try to be cute then it’s a fight,

maybe that flew before your oldest was five,

sorry.

Do Better

How we always in the kitchen

but eating first, at our leisure,

remembering her grandmother,

more than you’ve seen her

eat all week. Ask why

like worms for brains,

who serves the plates?

Bit of a lady rooster,

find fun treats for the girls,

good places to nest,

whatever makes life easier.

Fuck a gallito up at the bar.

My dance more threat display,

if I’m on the floor men stay away,

and bitch I don’t take breaks,

but don’t think you’re safe,

one of these days, been steady

dove beat breaths on her heart,

I never neglect a fire,

when some specimen turns her head,

I’m the snake tickle in her ear,

you’ll find I’m a boa constrictor,

I’ve got the girth, the rhythmic grip,

the patience

to sink your battleship.

Screech Owl

Now I’m no home wrecker,

I just

tease the truth of your desires,

I’m here to keep you honest.

Don’t fear this creature of the night,

no sense my silent flight malign, talons

plunge at what you hide.

Consider me the pest control,

she won’t leave unless it’s time to go,

I sense the scurry, all

she won’t let herself know. Skitter

under leaf litter and heavy snow.

Privy to pure stream of consciousness,

every dream she ever has, this

is the mantle of Best Friend, spectral

analysis, your walls have ears, Holy

Ghost in the shell. She said,

after Jurassic World Rebirth,

that many marriages can’t handle

the death of a child, lingered,

they fall apart.

That was one week

before.

Sanctity

I say, I say, nah

I’m no Jezebel. Lilith

is the proper noun to spit at God.

Got them traditional values,

my she shed’s a cave in the desert

and I do tinker. Doing People so soon

took too much out of her, whisked away

to the property, sushi platter, blankets,

Practical Magic and a dream.

No electricity. Okay,

pillow bed on the cement slab,

and the new hearth’s maiden fire,

and the thrush of desert life more

than sound enough. First

full moon of autumn adrift

off starboard bow, blushed

over pastel mountains. Pinks,

blues and purples.

All we did was talk,

saw two shooting stars,

she prayed to Jesus over spider ants,

wild donkeys fuckin’ in the foothills—

don’t know what else on a Saturday 9 pm—

coyotes in the distance with pups.

Only pulled the gun twice.

Once at some idling guys,

and then because our only flashlight

for the toilet we couldn’t see inside.

Arizona amirite?

Wide open space, crest

of a breeze, creosote studded

recently wet valley.

Our voices carried,

did others sleep?

On our bellies kicking feet,

I hummed Adesso e Fortuna,

Eternity in the English version

by Akino Arai. We mulled

the twinkling residential lights

on the far side.

Even worked up a cackle,

grief’s sediment dispelled

for a moment

when I mentioned

being warden

of Husband Hell.

Reverend

Been passenger

to what women do to themselves

in a mirror. They wouldn’t recognize

their whole self, much less

true desire. They can’t be honest,

and men don’t know how to be wanted.

The truth is

most would go untouched.

It’s too much

of a chore or performance,

she’s fetishized her own oppression,

he’s attracted to ritualized submission

and fucks according to porn

to please other men.

The absolute state of this bed.

I’ll say this once and never again,

I do not care how many men were harmed

in the making of a woman’s pleasure.

Out here in the fog of what’s fair

in love and war.

I’ll show you a fuckin’ body count.

The leading cause of death in obstetrics

is intimate partner violence. Homicide,

60% of those deaths at the hands

of a man she knows. Partner, close or calls friend.

One in three will experience

attempted or completed rape

in her lifetime.

Harassment?

High.

I’m here in spirit,

snappin’ necks is more efficient,

instead I’m on the couch

with a traumatized first time

soon to be mom

massaging her scalp for hours.

That’s right. Hours.

I don’t take breaks.

Fingerstyle

Wanna know what it’s like huh?

How it feels when you’re the One,

somethin’ like somethin’ like

pull your hips back against mine

and rock-a-bye rock-a-bye kiss,

pluckin’ at your waistband ’cause

you’re in range man. I just feel like it.

Put you on your back every chance I get,

in the dirt, in the grass, or half in public,

won’t go to my death wishin’ I touched you less.

To the tune of your fine ass asleep in my bed,

but all heads present and accounted for,

just pettin’ your baby hairs and there’s Jr

like I might beat a dead horse.

Best be prepared. Clean underwear?

At least three pairs. Wanderin’ hands

at the grocery store. I don’t let up.

Your tears on my tongue singin’

Eyes on Me by Faye Wong

and Cosmic Love

like the cosmic ice melts for Audhumla,

lappin’ your chatter like a panther

with a plate of milk. Puttin’ everyone

on notice, best tree in my forest,

or a very good post. If I can’t be there,

I leave notes. Callin’ cards.

My devotion leaves exquisite scars,

every piece you thought lost made art,

stained glass harmonized, I resonate,

weak palates scoff at “plain” vanilla bean,

but my mouth savors every intricacy, delicate

tremble and sweat with relentless

sweetness and simplicity. Done right,

hunger

is the best seasoning.

September 14, 2025

friendship, life, love, womanhood
Wind Chimes and Dream Catchers

Roots

When working an affliction,

how a person feels is as important

as what you do. Two truths.

Ó Muiris of Connacht

became Morris of Mississippi

became father

to a Choctaw daughter

at the end of the Trail of Tears.

She never knew her mother,

who gave her Georgia,

called only what he named her for.

Na yimmi ishi ho in full,

the closest words for faith

in her mother tongue. Command form.

An anglicized abbreviation, a blessing,

and the only child to outlive him.

One disarmed a white man

and shot him dead with his own gun

point blank, only to be publicly hung.

One jumped onto a moving train

and it was just his time to go.

Sons.

He stood by his only girl

when she escaped residential school,

killed her husband and “fell out” with the church.

Got right with God on their own terms.

Father, daughter, granddaughters,

in their patch of forest

out in Oklahoma,

guessing at the grave

of Hotonah Honobia.

Their defiant

200 year keepsake

my mother given me.

The literal translation

is “you must believe.”

Lesson

There’s power in the place

an animal goes to birth or bleed.

Honor the inconvenience

when given vulnerability.

Stop pretending

you’ve somewhere else to be.

The price of money

is so much life.

Learn to mind

the hearth of need.

What burns hot, or slow,

throws smoke, or kindling.

Chips and curls crack

and shiver as they breathe.

Turn over.

Whether it’s something or nothing,

I want you here with me.

Laughing or sobbing,

I want you here with me.

Silent.

Those ashes cold

with me.

Unfit for Human Habitation

I can tell

cats apart without looking

from the way their tails twitch

against my legs.

Hear electrical currents, smell gas

better than utility company instruments.

No matter how faint it is,

I know what kind, where.

I know the difference

between natural and synthetic cloth

from the brush of a single fingertip.

The point is, precious little

never escapes my notice.

I only seem impassive,

a fathomless moonscape.

I remember

every subtext or story, every drop

of joy or pain you ever left with me,

a regolith reliquary.

Never had the safety of an atmosphere.

Mobile homes have hollow walls and floors,

you can hear

roaches clicking when it rains, mystery

mouths gnawing as far as the kitchen,

everything your mother really thinks

about your existence.

Hear your father’s deafening

lack of resistance.

I learned to sing

when I covered my ears.

In dreams

I was still stuck here,

but blessed silence

and all the rotted, gaping

holes held

happy dogs and cats.

Going Native

He had some Latin and Gaelic,

English and Choctaw fluent,

when Andrew Jackson ordered the march,

bitter successive waves, at last

they pulled him to translate.

For Adam this trip was one way,

the people arrived and he wished

to remain.

Some say

he stole Hotonah away,

the daughter of an influential family,

one of the thirteen clans.

They were the same age.

She perished when Faith was two,

he never remarried. Cared

for three generations of our matriline,

his wife’s blind and disabled sister

until she died. Granddaughters named

Salt-Mighty in Battle and Pearl respectively.

How often rumors reek of jealousy.

Certain facts speak on a man.

Buffered the colonizer government,

walked through hell, left his family behind to stay her side,

then spent every day of his life—

thirty years without his wife—

proving that when Hotonah chose him,

she chose right.

Electrolytes

Entertain the inner lives of children.

If he comes crawling up meowing,

that’s a cat.

The floor is lava, Hey Mom,

why this, what’s that, silly dance.

Charades. Redirect. Can I help?

When all your friends have kids,

you pass from house to house,

seven conversations at every table.

Darkest secrets over a pot, fate of the world,

triplets squealing around your skirt,

middles showing you their favorite stuff,

oldest nursing teen drama.

Here’s where I have patience.

Only adults are full of shit.

Act like it’s just diapers at the start,

and not diapers at the end.

So important.

A young woman,

dress in shreds,

drug her wagon to our station

once a week. Family hospitalized

with salt deficiency. That means

no electricity, means no A/C,

means death

in this heat.

I’ll talk about anything

at length. She’d say

we had two ghosts at our place,

but don’t worry

they’re good ones.

Ask what the temperature was,

dripping stink of Fucking Hot.

Ask questions about products.

Pray for clouds.

Said if someday

I found a strange shopping cart,

that’s her best one.

Said I know its worth,

and would find who needs it most,

if someday she’s gone.

Boo

My favorite things about Cinderellas

are the kitchens, animals, and tattered clothes.

Her kindness dearth of hope, how she shares

her home with humble creatures, hay or soot.

She’s happy in a barn. An attic.

I’d be happy in a tent, a mud hut.

When I say I want

the maximum amount

of physical affection, that’s

queen bee status. So much cuddles

the whole hive wears my pheromones,

and no one fights. I close my eyes

to the sound of busy fluffy bodies,

our heartbeat. Do bees sleep?

Anyway, I relate

to necessity and improvisation,

turn bare bones into something greater.

When as far as those kids were concerned,

my dance brought sudden thunderstorms.

A story told still if there’s a single cloud

on an otherwise spotless radar.

Rain will fall if I dance again,

for all the Ellas no one saved,

I refuse to write their ending tragic,

for all the tears and dirt and blood,

those girls grew up

and became magic.

Tidal Lock

Faith had a good run,

I was a toddler at a reunion

and someone yet lived remembered her,

our clan’s principle matriarch.

Mother wanted me to know

my sore thumb name’s on a tombstone.

Where I come from.

To meet my elders.

She loved wild garlic and green onions.

Delicious weeds called ramps.

That tracks.

My blood’s vamp battery acid,

sorry what infection?

Eat that shit right out the ground,

fuck whatever’s crawlin’ on it.

Nobody used the name first

’cause she was the blackest sheep,

everyone said she looked mean.

Her centenarian grandson cried.

It’s funny.

My great aunt’s black Chow Chow Fluffy

who disdained everybody

blocked my immediate family, growled

if any of them tried

to put a hand or took tone with me,

basked in all the kisses

I showered on her face, unbothered

while I nuzzled into her fur all night.

Infinite patience.

So auntie left me her cedar hope chest.

Rubies and silver.

She never had kids.

Called me closest to her heart

in her will.

That’s the secret when there’s no escape.

When your mother ignores or screams

in front of friends to humiliate,

when your dad throws chairs

across the room so hard they break,

when your drill sergeant thinks loud makes right,

when your minimum wage workplace

is a den of OSHA violations, venom, and lies:

go blank.

Turn to the cozy dark inside.

Let them learn on impact,

kick up a cloud of lunar shards,

lungs full of lethal diamond dust,

gasp for breath in shreds.

Put what’s soft so deep no one can touch,

in the shadow of your hope chest.

September 7, 2025

family, history, storytelling
Walk Two Moons

Standard of Living

A roof or a car, not both,

thanked all my stars for the cold,

miles through Ponderosa woods each morn

on my way to work.

On trail through thistle hills overgrown,

coarse as steel wool and undisturbed

at least until the crossroad.

A gas station open early enough

past the overpass I’d risk for breakfast.

The homeless man there insisted escort,

put himself between me and traffic

to ramble wild about raping “gooks”

to death in Vietnam.

He was banned from grounds.

Better than the packs

would attempt outright abduction

I suppose.

Our warehouse fully furnished

with only the finest dumpster finds,

we loved a good daybreak dive,

washer, dryer, toasters, microwaves,

mismatched tables, mismatched chairs,

invisible in our grungy work rags,

happy as a pile of rats in a trash palace.

Best job I ever had. Not the trash.

We did whatever was needed.

Things no one else wanted.

A liminal campus within cemetery triad,

more corvids than human folk, well

we did touch frequently on death.

At lunch pondered how each of us

might go. But when it was my turn,

Irish said no, no, no. One day

I’d just walk out into the forest,

just keep on goin’. Until the rest

of my hair turned white. They’d find

me in 1000 years’ time just the same,

deep in some evergreen cave,

too scared to meet my gaze,

and ask me how it happened,

the End of Days.

Northern Lights

We’ve established

my mind is a tricky bitch.

Things be happenin’ montage sequence,

clair-audience, voyance, echo location, you name it,

primarily contained with dreams.

When I bought my land,

chose four acres unrestricted,

won’t be answerin’

to anyone but myself.

I don’t dream of ease.

Bears, moose, wolves, several

more species, a whole biome of trees,

a bit of bog to the east.

Cloud swept volcanic peaks.

Cool ocean breeze.

Electricity at the street.

How did I get it so cheap?

A junkyard neighbors me.

I stay on theme.

Not the usual wild streak, I dream

my labor belongs to me, I make

everything I need. Land is life.

We never did see eye to eye.

Underestimated how many hits I’d take

to be free.

I don’t dream of ease.

Cards dealt, cards played.

Not the kind can settle

when it comes to my mate after all.

Too late anyway. So got my grid paper

and drew a house. Made those walls

and frames extra tall. To accommodate

who can say. I just like them that way.

I’m no master of architecture, but even so,

I woke late that night and shit you not,

lumber cuts and measurements came pouring out,

some hollow whisper inside throwing hard math down

until it was done. My mind’s tricky

but she don’t fuck up. Ice cold. Rock solid.

Call it the Doc Holliday. Don’t need to see straight

when you hit everything. No TB please. Jokes

aside, it woulda been nice, the right

kinda hand in mine, a place, a DarkSky

where my lover bursts so much milky starspray,

hungry as the black loam where we lay,

in another life.

Ugly Swan

As a general rule

I most graciously accept compliments

from little girls. Usually a shy twirl

and, “I like your skirt.”

One gasped at the airport,

punched her dad, thrust her finger

at my pants. Another

came running for my autograph

at a truck stop with my dad

and her dad said sorry,

we just left Disneyland,

she thinks you’re a princess.

Could not convince her otherwise.

I’m the most famous nobody

you’ll ever meet. Overnight

on a Greyhound and someone still

remembers me. Walking.

God forbid a girl do anything

unseen. I don’t aim to be pretty.

No make up, no flesh out, chin up,

when I speak loud it’s man down,

not the fun naked, he’s dressed down.

Gut, sword. Death rattle. Skull

floor, cracks like a watermelon.

When abuse rocked dad’s church flock,

shook his head,

said mouthing off at a woman

is taking your life into your hands,

said I’d slit his throat

ever came to that.

A princess

protects her constituents.

De-escalation

It’s been observed with emphasis,

I eat with both hands. Approval

of a Denny’s waitress when I bodied

a Lumberjack Slam. Me and the girls

go full Maenad for a meal or a dance,

he’s either stupid or a gamblin’ man,

sniffin’ ’round hikin’ a leg like that,

thinks he’s got fuck all add to that.

Rolled out, left the kids and husbands at home,

the cool single aunt and two Texas moms,

discussed the family over darts at a pub.

Innocent enough.

But come 0200 hours

between Fastrip and Carls Jr is where

lowlifes go to die. Human sewer. This guy

saw young women and wanted to try.

Us women ain’t never known DEFCON 5,

shot 3 to 2 that night.

Sneakin’ ’round the back our minivan,

fuckin’ ferrety where he packed,

’bout to get capped twice.

Right between the eyes.

That solo graveyard cook

opened the drive-thru window

right on time.

Hadn’t seen brainless scurry off the other side.

Bag in hand, dead inside,

ready to meet God or Valhalla

in the golden glow of a smiley star sign.

My girl flipped straight sunshine.

Sweet tea sundress fine.

I chimed in with customer service byeee.

Wondered if he thought maybe

we were mad about no biscuits and gravy.

Arizona Asphalt

Out here we were tumbleweed hog feral,

city brats a breed apart from us rural,

bare feet on 150 degree gravel

just to see who’d puss out first.

Our playground game was Scorpion,

dug nails into each other’s skin

just to test each other’s grip.

Pain tolerance.

Hottest peppers, meanest sours,

blackest bitters. Your first beer

was either Modelo, Heineken, or Guinness—

take a guess. We took care of business. Fight

Day right before summer break

in McDonald’s parking lot.

Got a problem? Punch it out

or let it go. Don’t

take a face shot or lose a chain though.

In school with my peers blindfolded

I was taught to issue marching orders,

they called that a game too.

Said it was about skill, trust, discipline.

I preferred it

when we snuck off campus

just to picnic under stubborn

desert trees and brush, taily grasses bristling,

broken foundation just enough green

to pretend someplace far away.

Memento Mori

Sexy on a man is softness, sincerity, effort.

Childlike wonder.

Do you know the difference

between submission and surrender,

a soldier and a warrior?

Love.

I like expensive gifts my sweet,

that is respect, affection, and loyalty.

You have to give what you receive.

Not a man among you could ever

manage to meet me. Ask a mirror

why I had to leave.

You couldn’t even recognize my altar,

couldn’t stand bare

before my wedding best.

.

Dress dewdrops on orb-weaver webs at dawn.

.

Hair busied purple-throated hummingbirds at nest.

.

Aisle off-roading at speed in a Datsun through rain shadow desert chasing rolling thunderstorms overhead.

.

Threshold full moon total eclipse breathless brilliant stars above red canyon carved somewhere near the start.

.

Bed everywhere seeds pop tendrils towards the sun, dripping musky rush of the rut, or glittering blush snow blanket dormant.

.

Choose the right soundtrack.

@~^~

Notes: Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech is the best novel ever read aloud to me in school. The saying lingered.

August 24, 2025

climate change, life, mother earth, romance, storytelling
Nanih Waiya

First Woman

The Sun smiles upon her.

Nanapesa is not God

as androcentrics and na hullos

know it. We do not worship.

Crosswinds, breath of life,

wheel of time. Mitochondria

stem from your maternal line.

The core of every cell,

what makes you alive.

Its name means

The One Who Sees, she

is always

a daughter of Great Spirit,

the woman who would make

a people. The Choctaw

awoke from clay and mud deep

in the dark of the Mother Mound.

She brought them into the light,

given form. Peeled back

to reveal fresh skin beneath pottery shards.

Wonderment.

So much more than home.

Your first loyalty

is always to the woman

and the land who bore you.

He who done so wrong

as no woman smiles upon

is cast out or put down.

She keeps

a clean house.

Children of the Forest

You must never force

a woman or the Earth. Care

is required. Patience for pleasure.

She has the right to choose.

Well it’s been about 6000 years

since men removed consent

and called it civilization. Love

left the bedchamber. Razed

194,000 worth of Before.

Back to us. Trauma

causes mitochondrial malfunction.

Paired with perverted natural selection,

leaves you wide open to disease. You recognize

PTSD, Depression, Schizophrenia, so on.

This moniker by which we signed

our meager donation, do you know why?

Master agriculturalists at our height,

our forests thrived far and wide.

Starvation scarcely a spot on our minds,

a shriek in the night,

we ferried colder nations through suchlike.

Then the colonizers came.

A Choctaw never numbs

to a woman’s pain. Your Mother’s cry.

We would not countenance. Naked,

bow-backed, clutching her children

to her nurse mud as long as she could, forced

to eat them to survive.

To play by numbers.

Only monsters

force a mother to choose

what percentage

of her children must die.

Nalusa Chito

Know the face

of your enemy. He

is the Soul Eater,

the big black thing,

prefers women and children,

oh but he’ll take anyone.

As many as millions.

Alone in the woods,

in windowless bedrooms,

or swaths of black slime in your fields.

Droves

of emaciated men with shovels.

Hollowed out.

The difference

between death and annihilation:

one pushes forward, one festers within,

one serves the Mother, the other serves Him.

Never forget that wretched stench.

The appropriate amount of wages owed

to live on your land

is none.

Blackthorn

An extinction burst

is a temporary increase in behavior

once reinforcement is removed,

and the warmest hearth of all

belongs to the harshest of crones,

soothes the most wintered of bones.

No one strips you bare faster

than a woman’s lived long enough

to be ugly and alone.

No one comes to visit anymore.

Means you already know

it’s so far gone

you’re threshing marrow.

Ripping every stitch out.

When every elder at a craft store

wishes she’d cut her hair, husband died sooner,

just to become herself,

to be at peace in her house,

ask yourself

are men any better now?

Count the cost.

For a Choctaw

he could be a treasured companion,

never undermined her strength of position,

rose his voice or his hand to her children.

If she sent him away

he gave her a reason.

It was the end of his season.

Even the oldest of women

could know youth yet again

had ever been born

a worthy man.

Little People

Bohpoli or Kowi Anukasha,

that is Throwers and Forest Dwellers,

about two feet tall.

Playful.

Sometimes they steal

a child away to their elders

and that child is given a choice.

Poison, medicine, knife.

The first cannot heal its people.

The second becomes a shaman.

The third is evil.

They measure your nature,

test your patience,

wits and reflexes.

I like to think that Old Woman

is well known to them.

Well at first glance

herbs of woe and wellness

look very much the same.

Chance, fate, or the inner eye

help that child decide.

These children grow up

surrounded by signs.

Whispers, omens, neon lights

adorn their growth habits

in perpetual springtime.

Their innards are obvious,

if you misinterpret

you’re blind.

Or dead

in the event of Knife.

Now Poison

might die ahead of its time.

It takes too much or can’t stop,

means well but chooses wrong.

Feels purpose and power

but can’t finesse its own compounds.

Not enough sense

to cook a raw sloe.

The eaves of its heart

a cursed bower.

Careless, overgrown, thorns.

But given over

to Shaman who knows,

we find that sometimes Poison

can heal its people after all.

Blends and amounts,

pruned, rendered, distilled.

A trove of radiant vials,

a mad woman’s little house,

full

of all the medicine love saw.

Banaha

She has the highest calories

and the highest yield

of all staple crops.

Her modest roots can piggy back

in floating gardens atop bogs,

swamps, or fens. She likes it wet.

Achieves symbiosis,

no strain on her environment.

In moderation.

None can match her raiment,

every color of the land vibrant

as crown jewels, pound for pound

the heaviest hitter for oxygen.

Tanchi is the most sacred.

The key is nixtamalization,

apply an alkalizing solution. Lime or ash.

Pound the kernels in torched out stumps—

we used hickory blown by river cane.

Use whatever you’ve got.

If there’s long winter, you want flint corn.

It’s extra work for delayed reward

but if you thug it out

my girl won’t let you down.

That flour lasts however long,

give her plenty of drippings to soak up, fat, plump.

Bear, hog, butter, whatever you’ve got.

She’ll take seasons and fillings, loves

to be stuffed. Or not.

Now swaddle her tender

in those corn husks.

Nice and snug.

Boil, steam, or fry up.

Fresh potato rolls hard,

keeps it real through the green times,

but corn brings it home

all through the longest night.

It don’t matter how much snow’s outside.

@~^~

Notes: See also Tanchi Story in my earliest post, the specifics of which have traveled down my family line for about 200 years, likely much longer.

August 16, 2025

Choctaw, folklore, history, Ireland, Native American, storytelling
Dear Diary, My Un-iversary

Covert Operations

Espionage

is a web of leverage.

Among professionals, it’s many years

before you encounter that white whale,

if at all. Love.

A person you can’t turn.

No other force on Earth

defies law, religion, custom, tradition,

self preservation, common sense, addiction.

If you want to stop them,

you have to kill them.

No hesitation.

It’s much rarer than you suppose.

Our cities but clots of complacent rhythm,

piling up. Plaque in a false artery

the CIA protects.

Don’t tell my uncle I said that.

So much clockwork

instead of a pulse, they thought

we wouldn’t notice.

Dad said if I were a font,

I’d be Wingdings, once.

But he didn’t know,

none of them did,

to this day don’t.

Lost in Translation

Don’t know the half of it,

the third, the fourth. Less

than five fingers the number

of times someone heard my heart,

how to explain it? Their game

is productivity and medication.

Boxes, debt, and payment.

Sooner scatter my brain

on the pavement

than be any less

than this.

Ocean of sunlight overflowing,

all things, a song inside so beautiful I weep,

the hands of every ancestor on me,

every fur, scale, feather,

thorn, petal, and leaf,

a world of colors and textures to greet,

why else be given body? I can make

you see.

Check Engine

I got by,

a given value of fine,

when the man you truly love

only exists in your mind, you negotiate.

Big mistake. Been callin’ it

the Big Bored of 2024.

You might use a different term.

Some shit I never felt before,

triggered in the car.

I hit my limit.

The world didn’t exist.

An unreality. Absolutely nothing

was okay. I was a trapped animal

willing to gnaw my own limb off

to escape. To feel again.

Gods blessed me grandma’s poker face.

Time to lose the man. Eject

baggage. Sit in my garden

with my cats. Music. My tricks

are numerous. Sails. A hammock.

A safety net.

The broken girl I put to sleep

woke up.

Grandpa said

keep an even keel.

Oscar Worthy

“Are you bored of me?”

Ouch. That’s vulnerability.

There’s no kind way to say

baby I’m bored of everybody,

all the time. It’s not personal.

You’re dial-up

and I’m fiber optic hun,

you’re humping couch cushions

and I’m top tier tantric, fuck.

I go deep for distance,

and you can’t achieve penetration

with a thick nine inches.

Don’t listen to other men,

it’s not about size.

It’s about rhythm. Connection.

You’re talkin’ Formula One and guns

and I’ve analyzed this establishment

and rebuilt it three times.

Deconstructed our lunch, more flavor,

some crunch. Better sauce. Spice. Oh look,

a dog. Askin’ me

which ammo you should buy,

what the Plan is, the Mexico

shopping list. Logistics

can hold my interest.

Yes dear, gun go bang,

car go fast.

Ladies it’s not worth it

just for some half-assed

rubs and licks.

Anyways, I lied.

Tomoe Gozen

Always said

unfaithfulness is like laming

your own warhorse.

They who share your heart

in a world wasn’t made for us.

Men have proven unworthy

of partnership.

And a woman

is every day at war

the moment she gains consciousness,

pays any amount of attention.

The scope of what’s been done.

Movies deceive, desensitize,

take for granted,

but it’s important to remember

she was real.

Her feats impressive.

Women were chattel,

worse than expendable,

baby pushing rape receptacles,

and from a murky bed

of pond scum, useless toil, and blood,

a lotus blossom.

She went from concubine

to top commander,

second only to the general himself.

Wielded not a naginata,

but a longsword from mount,

and an armor piercing longbow—

draw weight between 80 and 140 pounds.

Not an onna bugeisha.

A samurai.

Led 1000 cavalry to victory,

took seven trophies in a single day—

from mount, I say. Let that sink in.

Surgical precision on horseback in battle.

Extremely difficult is an understatement,

sheer amount of shit has to go right.

Seven times.

Commanded 300 against 6000,

one of five survivors, for the win.

What went through Lord Yoshinaka’s head.

Something beyond merely

lover, warrior, wife.

Oh these two were more than friends.

Their forces dwindled to five in the end.

In a move unprecedented,

against all expectation,

he ordered her to quit the field.

Would cover her escape.

She took one last trophy on the way.

Men spun stories as to why,

diminished the legacy, her feats,

any reason, any ending

but the most obvious point.

He was just a boy

supposedly divine,

and once in many lifetimes

you cross a creature outside.

Proof of something

beyond your present confines.

When the gods ask you to ride.

To what purpose?

Choose between drudgery,

monotony, field or factory,

privilege in society,

men are fine with domestic slavery.

Obedience. Or is she

a seven severed heads,

20 to 1 odds,

fight 1000 men, a demon,

or a God kinda bitch.

My bet is

she was pregnant.

August 10, 2025

history, humor, mental health, storytelling
Marianismo

Uses and Customs

“First the woods

and then the women,”

those talamontes taunted.

Forest rapers.

Illegal loggers, bad government,

and cartels.

The village men?

Didn’t know what hole

to shit out of, sooner raise a hand

to beat their wives

than wipe their own ass.

70% loss, mushrooms gone,

mother tongue starved.

Fifteen women had enough.

Sticks, firecrackers, threadbare

shawls, and masks

against thugs and police

with AK-47s.

They took five hostages

in a stone church, made barricades

of burnt out cars.

Those bells rang

high over women with seized

machetes and guns.

The villagers rallied.

Purged them in one—

a menstrual clot.

Their fogatas burned

for nine straight months,

became a pulse, a forge.

Signals, defense, cooking

and more.

From mothers they learned,

everything that ever mattered

passed kitchen to kitchen,

Mother to daughter.

The right to rule

their own territory upheld

by Mexico’s judiciary.

The women restructured

their entire society.

They replanted their trees,

went jogging at night.

One bonfire

remains, the beating heart,

where ten women gather

to discuss affairs.

“Things can always be better,”

said sensibly over stew.

If the forest is a house,

and Cheran is a kitchen,

you might say

a woman’s place is the home.

As usual, men get it wrong

about who’s got

the huevos.

Archetypical

Listen, listen,

gather ’round my cauldron,

the best pair on this green earth

is some stern, gruff warrior woman

and her fancy peacock husband.

I’m talkin’ imperial concubine shit.

Long, thick hair, thick lashes, chest resonance.

Raspiness, accent curly and homey

like tigrado sheepskin.

Listen, woman’s got preferences.

Don’t you ask this fool

’bout no power tools, hell no.

Does electric guitar count?

He should make good sounds.

I’m talkin’ Spike Penny Dreadful Gomez Addams shit,

‘cept She’s a sunshine Terminator

full fat froth over those hot goth lips—

do you see my fuckin’ vision?

My love, Osiris.

I’ll pull a Frankenstein.

It’s bedtime with Isis when I read his rites,

way I spit tongue twisters off the Book o’ Life.

Remix on Dracula, Castlevania,

Hades and Persephone—

yeah, I know, I rolled my eyes.

I’m talkin’ satin bowerbird shit,

his woman’s favorite colors

are his entire personality.

She is not easily impressed.

Lemme tell you ’bout men:

They gotta know who’s Boss,

who’s Baby,

who’s a Good Boy,

and who among them

is the Best.

Writers’ rooms hate His ass—

shit, just ask Jesus—

’cause he’s the only One

a Goddess be fuckin’ with.

Want a better world?

Build a Better Man.

Ya’ll just petty sons

of Judas Iscariot.

La Llorona

Heard people dream

’bout goin’ to work naked.

School or some shit.

Wouldn’t know what that’s like.

Dangers of a creatrix,

they ain’t just nightmares,

it’s gore-ing the lily,

a crucible amaranthine,

older a woman gets

it’s hardly hyperbole.

As it goes,

if you would know,

do not fear to see.

Notice she’s always crazy

for shrieking, weeping.

Only his hurt is holy.

Take a plain clothes office buildin’

and put a sea of howlin’ faces

strainin’ through metastasized flesh

burstin’ at the seams.

Fry that amygdala early.

Don’t ever look away.

Call your target by name

and incinerate.

Remember that scene

in Smoke Signals?

Where the very worst insult

in Thomas’ arsenal is to say

you make your mother cry

and ask

what are you doing with your life?

When my Mother greets me,

her smile’s all teeth.

Dog Star

Some dreams have sequels,

total recall of more than you know,

something greater

than the sum of its parts.

My back was injured

and I bed bound, and boy

if you can’t move topside

you’ll do it underground.

All the way down.

A place I know well.

The sky was pitch black,

like the backside of time itself,

unblinking over an unlit below

somehow visible. I know now

that it was the sprawl of Mexico.

Lost to a flood. Uninhabited.

But trust

some asshole left their dog behind,

still chained in the yard.

Guess that’s what I came for.

A big fat black lab or some such.

This boy ate good. Largely unconcerned

with his fate. Made no move

to escape. Glossy and healthy.

I broke the chain easily,

hoisted this jolly idiot

into a fireman carry

only to wade

miles

through unknown territory.

Shit, he was heavy.

But, he was happy,

so much potatoes

on my shoulders.

I made quick work

of the labyrinth.

Junk jungle of refuse,

tangled.

I found

the farthest edge

of “town.”

Then

by the dumpster

of a pristine gas station,

the ugliest dog

I’d ever seen.

Hairless, emaciated,

twisted into unnatural shape,

backwards legs, missing teeth, drooling,

cowering.

Said alright buddy,

you’re coming too.

I’ve still got arms so

we’ll figure it out.

He was so scared

of the light,

certain I’d hit him,

nursed his abandonment.

For all I’ve got teeth,

I can still be soft and sweet,

and there’s never been a dog

wouldn’t come to me.

So Fatty ‘cross my neck

and Scaredy ‘cross my chest,

I hit the last leg

of the journey. Jumped

onto a moving train

into night, we got out

us three.

Xolotl

Round two

of Disaster Pet Rescue

had me digging rubble

off an aquarium.

Buried

this pale fish lizard thing,

frilly and gilly, smiley face.

God damn it

gotta carry a tank.

When I woke,

where pain had been

full tilt orchestra,

now a shut door.

A dead silent room.

Where the fuck

did it all go?

How?

I never took drugs.

All oxy accounted for.

I am occasionally

somewhat stubborn.

Cold body, spine sweat.

I could walk again.

First of all,

no way that guy was real,

Google triangulated his ass up.

Axolotl. Water dog. I’ll be damned.

In shrinking and polluted waterways

they choose to stay

instead of mature on land.

Stuck. Backward. Yet.

They outlive their peers by wide margin,

and unlock an ability medically significant.

Axolotl regenerate.

Dismemberment, damage

to body, brain, or spine matters not.

They just…fix shit.

Put it back

the way it was.

It was there,

and then it just wasn’t.

Another thing:

named for Xolotl,

a god of the underworld.

The ugly twin.

Hideous, mutilated, misfortunate,

filthy, diseased. You guessed,

a dog.

Finest Moments

I wandered

as a child. Knew every dog

in the tweaker ghetto.

Also some old folk, here and there.

Knew enough

to never trust men. But one friend

in common, man’s best.

I farmed affection,

muzzles, tongues, and tails

through a chain link fence.

All I needed.

Now dogs like to dig

places they shouldn’t,

get into shit,

things people want hidden.

That’s what Xolotl did.

Dug up the bones

of humanity, drug them out

for his beautiful twin to see.

The winged serpent of heaven

had to bleed.

Regenerate.

I have a spot

in my garden. It’s dark red.

Stained the cement, naked

when I hit downward dog

to vomit wine.

No running water, not even a pot

to puke inside.

Me and Guinevere

in the moonlight.

Corgis were bred for herding.

I have a spot

on my low back. A mole.

Looks a bit like a dog’s nose.

‘Bout where she’d boop ya

if you broke formation.

Biggest lie the devil tells ya

is that you’re alone.

August 3, 2025

environment, folklore, history, mystery, storytelling
Banshee

Sacred Heart

With some sensitivity

you may see it.

Expressions, quirks, gestures

and movements

in people of all sorts.

Snapshots.

The same child their mother saw.

Some babe in a basket

the current carried off.

You should know

every day a mother says goodbye

a little more.

Prays the hands that take you

as tender as hers.

If it’s in my palm,

I am careful.

She said I came to her

in a dream of a sweeter before

and told her

his time on Earth was done.

She was wailing

before she woke up.

Novena

Nine is quite a number,

not for the faint of heart,

worlds on the tree of life,

days Odin spent upside down

so the runes might reveal themselves.

Ninth is Hagalaz, Hela and Holda, the violent storm.

Cups, pentacles, wands, and swords.

Wishes granted, garden of thought,

bitter struggle and dark night of the soul.

Hermit with lantern turned inward—

cliffnotes, my scholarly approach.

Well here’s one you haven’t heard:

Oya the Orisha,

mother of nine dead children,

each a different color

in the rainbow of her skirt.

She is a warrior, a lashing tempest.

Harbinger of sweeping change,

guardian of the village market

as well as the cemetery gates.

Mighty winds.

A witch. Ferocity and gentleness.

Some would consider

her gifts a punishment.

My purple candles

are a nod to this.

Crossroads

where a woman decides

between comfort, attention, acceptance,

or respect.

White Rabbit

He recalled a childhood

embittered by his father’s hand.

His mama found the strength,

and into the woods they went.

Homeless? A camping trip.

Clean, warm, and fed.

She foraged, trapped, and worked

someplace he wouldn’t find.

Told wonderful stories

every night before bed—

shadows on the ceiling of a tent.

He wasn’t afraid.

She took those black eyes

and his mama made

chandeliers from what remained.

Branches and lanterns

in the back of their van.

He changed his surname as a man,

so I took the compliment

when he said we were the same.

When she said she’d claim me

if I ever found a serious someone

but was too ashamed to bring him home.

She’s who I have in mind

when I say:

May you be to your child

a welcoming wilderness. You know,

mamas are the real magicians.

Loved One

Lord I shed a thug tear

for this small female jaguar

trying to make it work

in a jungle somewhere.

She was so young.

Fucked two assholes

so her single cub

would be left alone.

Every hunt was struggle bus,

but she always pulled through.

Then one day she came home

and her baby was gone.

Some snake swallowed it whole.

She tracked it down

and ripped it apart

just to consume

its body herself.

She let the snake rot.

Heard its little bones crunch.

That’s what it tastes like

in your mouth.

Postpartum

Watch me

go to bat for the baby killers.

Sethe and Medea did nothing wrong,

fight me about it. Better to die

unmolested, your mother’s sons,

than to needlessly suffer, to be groomed

by a master or father, to turn

around and inflict that same hurt.

Give me

my lady annihilators. Full scorched earth.

Boudican Destruction Horizon.

Rome can fuck itself.

I’ll have it burn.

She worked sixty hours

and he left dirty diapers on the floor,

stay at home what for? Gaming on the couch.

Newborn next room crying,

Nonverbal banging on the tub,

and if she thought for some long minutes

to hold him under,

bitch I don’t judge.

Underdogs

Must have chugged

Huginn and Muninn’s draft in the womb,

got 0.50% on the big bad swan juice,

salt enough to swallow sins like the ocean,

crumple steel ships just tin cans

at these depths.

Come home to mama.

Now, we were all tired,

four tens manual labor is a lot,

but shit that’s just how well we got on,

so we packed into a tiny apartment

and drank.

When I walked in

the baby of the crew

was white girl wasted,

everyone on sight half bemused

and half offended. Yuppie church wife

passive aggression. Bless your heart.

Well as usual

he found his way to my lap,

babbling along while I played with his hair,

and White Girl took bets on if he’d dare.

Rocky, A-Train, and Irish said nay.

I’m Apollo

for landing a rugby jock on his ass

with the back of my hand.

Finally,

baby teeth opened his eyes

and announced to the room

that I was black inside.

Snort. Okay. Alright.

That’s fair, it’s fine.

Then he specified,

his mother

raised a gay black son

alone in a KKK town.

See what I lacked in melanin,

I made up for in tannins,

grit, guts.

Sometimes

it’s no insult to be called

a bad mom.

July 27, 2025

folklore, grief, mental health, motherhood, mythology, punk, storytelling
Bad Gods

(Bad Gods being all associated short stories + their artwork)

Hymn of Hunger

.

Ain’t strung up excusin’ your sins

Last nail in a coffin

Stood tall enough to stand apart

His murder broke Her heart

.

A woman be strong in her home

Blood of blood servin’ none

Suck on hagstones ask “Where is God?”

His murder broke Her heart

.

She went the way of the brown bear

The last gray wolfwalker

Without her King Arthur he’s not

His murder broke Her heart

.

Belly an’ bed an’ crib empty

What insult men conceive

Built tomb after tomb for their thought

His murder broke Her heart

.

This curse is a tired refrain

Fallen prey again an’ again

.

You suffer your women hobbled

Weak as a stockade field

You suffer your forest cut down

Rot mouth on cross or crown

July 24, 2025

gothic romance, lyrics, music, Sci Fi, The Old Ways, world building
Just one thing

Little Screens

Your mama told me

how you sat straight up

mid-REM just to say

I was part of your family,

not a passer-by, a minor thing.

Shuffled into the kitchen at three,

“Did you know,

I knew you when I was a baby?”

Errands, gossip, and groceries,

we had to save you a seat,

quietly buried, just listening

to us speak.

Asked your mama how to make

my favorite cake for my birthday—

the first boy

to be so thoughtful until then

and the only to this day.

If I ate dark chocolate and black coffee,

by god you’d eat it too. Left your locks wavy,

let them grow out, ’cause I told your mama

hers were beautiful every chance I got.

Donned a giant sleep shirt ’cause the rest of us

were in the kitchen full grandma.

Once, you were naughty

and I was cross. Only a handful

of tempered words. Not loud.

Not vulgar.

You disappeared.

We sensed the loss

in volume. Your sister said

you’d gone to bed

at six o’ clock.

Not my little night owl.

Did you know,

she’s the one who found you

this last time.

In Loving Memory of my nephew, 2012 – 2025

July 18, 2025

family, grief, love, mental health
Special Request: To the Tune of Work Song by Hozier

[verse 1]

Steel shovel all bones numb

Ten hours on a swollen limb

Picture some kinda better man

An undertakin’s got me warm again

Oh best kinda mess is my man

If God’s fist make right then we live in sin

Slammin’ doors only thanks He’ll get

Got lips on every bruise for droppin’ him

[chorus]

Well your time’s come around

A mother’s hands always knew your worth

Hush now, boy I’ll lay you down

Tell me where it hurts

[verse 2]

Girls, if he ever found me

Had sense enough just to take my hand

I’d more than empty shelves around me

Have Maid Marian to my thievin’ ass

And in the brightest dead of winter

‘Tween my selkie thighs it’s not so bad

We can savor every shiver

Whatever demon rocks him always got his back

[chorus]

Well your time’s come around

A mother’s hands always knew your worth

Hush now, boy I’ll lay you down

Tell me where it hurts

Well your time’s come around

A mother’s hands always knew your worth

Hush now, boy I’ll lay you down

Tell me where it hurts

[verse 3]

My man would never let go

Kept pace his mama’s pulse when he left home

If gods seen fit to bless me

These arms don’t tire so long as his to hold me

Hits different when I call him baby

No Father could make wings like these

Sing snow angel in my bed sheets

Such a man but a dream to me

[chorus]

Well your time’s come around

A mother’s hands always knew your worth

Hush now, boy I’ll lay you down

Tell me where it hurts

Well your time’s come around

A mother’s hands always knew your worth

Hush now, boy I’ll lay you down

Tell me where it hurts

@~^~

Notes: Birthday challenge. I actually hadn’t heard of this artist until last night (earlier tonight?), so this is me bouncing off two songs, like three fun facts, vibes and instinct. Bit of a mouthful but I’m pretty sure I played this right.

July 11, 2025

Hozier, humor, lyrics, music, pop culture