Tag: mental health

• CBT

  Get Real

  I’m no

  manic pixie dream girl

  but I’ll slam shot after shot

  of whatever the fuck

  I’ve got going on, raw dog,

  before I accept the mass delusion

  that money is real.

  I said all gold is fool’s gold,

  normalcy bias a fatal flaw,

  absolutely nothing about motherhood

  is clean or subtle, cradle to grave,

  farm to table, mound and maypole,

  gash and guttural, bone and blood.

  Oh I’m whimsical, cocktail molotov,

  can drown those sorrows pretty papa,

  or you can get in the car

  ’cause mama wants a concubine.

  A companion,

  I’m several hands full, keep that mouth

  open. Eyes

  on me. I’ll learn you a thing.

  How to handle, I’ve got keys

  to the kingdom, the language of dreams,

  men cling to words

  but I know what they mean.

  The Diagnosis, bitch please,

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

  miss me with that navel gaze,

  you can be any way

  and let ’em choke on it, your purpose

  is not fit for consumption, to digest

  yourself in their service. For profit. Listen,

  the world is just

  really big.

  I’m not sayin’ it ain’t tough,

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

  I’ve got strong arms and a warm heart,

  ingredients and a wood fire oven

  shaped like a fat blue fish

  and that’s a pretty good start.

  Making Biscuits

  I like a bit o’ chatterbox,

  come here turn those pockets out,

  rocks, leaves, feathers, worms,

  I’ll help you find a place

  for all your little treasures,

  they make sense to me.

  Dove I don’t condescend, joy

  is a lifelong domain. Flowers

  in a mother’s garden. Her worst fear

  for a child to fall silent

  at any age. If it’s got a pulse

  I’ve got the skill to cultivate.

  Hell, even if it doesn’t.

  I’ve said,

  this world wasn’t made for us,

  love we’re at disadvantage,

  I know, I know it’s a lot,

  some better girl or boy locked

  behind a paywall, could have been

  withdrawal, you from before.

  Before. Before. You could just

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

  I know.

  There comes a time

  you evaluate

  the standard of life

  you’re willing to accept.

  Imagine then, however bad it gets,

  that, but my hands in your hair,

  a thick blanket,

  my fingers lightly tracing your veins

  on the porch in the rain,

  I’ve lit candles, can murmur or sing

  or observe the quiet, read

  a silly story. Hold

  you all night. Every night.

  Make a meal

  from next to nothing.

  Whatever’s left to give,

  I’ll take, it’s not my way

  to stipulate uniform shape,

  to morosely commiserate.

  I am here

  whatever you decide, please

  don’t take offense

  at my sunshine.

  I’ll make a place

  for you to thrive or die.

  As an arborist might say,

  the best time to plant

  a tree

  was thirty years ago.

  The next best time

  is today.

  From Beneath You I Devour

  So you weren’t born

  to a good example. Ass end

  of nowhere trailer, barely there

  parents or straight toxic,

  the addict early onset arthritis back bent

  of workin’ class.

  Callings and careers are what happen

  to other people. Art is wonderful

  but it won’t pay rent. College

  equals ruinous debt.

  Should you attend,

  you’re surrounded by kids

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

  they may have problems

  but money ain’t one. Schools are funded

  accordin’ to median income, there’s a chasm

  miles wide and you’re alone

  playin’ catch up.

  Every fuckin’ day,

  am I good enough?

  Is this just what I deserve?

  They don’t even look

  at how much groceries cost, just fill their carts,

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

  in the pantry knowin’ you’re allergic,

  ate until your mouth bled

  and your throat a closed fist o’ needles.

  Knew just when to stop

  because you couldn’t afford a doctor.

  You feel more kinship

  with that homeless woman off her meds,

  who tags along whenever you’re downtown,

  and shit, why take ’em?

  So she can fully perceive

  the abject despair of her situation?

  Relive the rapes?

  Front row seat

  to humanity’s degradation.

  Getting Help is a long wait

  for a train don’t come.

  There is no help without support.

  This is what I’m talkin’ about,

  sit the fuck down, look at me,

  poverty is violence,

  a deliberate choice of the upper class.

  If they’re so great,

  where are all the trees? Animals.

  Clean air. Fresh water. Stars visible

  to the naked eye. Food. Shelter.

  They’ve built pedophile island instead.

  There comes a time

  you evaluate

  the standard of life

  you’re willin’ to accept.

  Empty Chair

  I’m always holding two hands

  when I enter the room. The child

  who just got here and the child

  who became a mother too soon.

  Neither understands

  the needs of the other,

  has the patience, the bandwidth.

  A woman’s hips

  aren’t fully developed

  until she is twenty-five years old.

  How old was yours?

  With few exceptions,

  the presence of a man

  almost always

  makes it worse.

  He’ll see his wife,

  mother of two, drink every day,

  smoke blunts as soon as she wakes,

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

  makes it fun, he don’t care.

  Her Catholic parents frown.

  We’ll be camping

  and I’ll stumble across her

  hiding behind a tree

  from her kids,

  getting high. She’ll be like,

  shhh I’m not here,

  I know I should stop

  but I get so tired.

  I can’t hear myself.

  They’re so loud.

  And smile and say

  I’m not a natural at being a mother

  like you.

  You’re so good with them.

  They don’t bother you at all.

  You know so much

  like my grandma.

  And as always

  I’ll respond

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

  to grow up. Just because

  a sapling blooms doesn’t mean

  it’s ready to bear fruit.

  Forcing harvest

  forever stunts its growth,

  overburdens its roots and limbs.

  There’s a reason

  human women evolved

  to live on long past

  menopause.

  You’re not meant

  to do this alone.

  Hard Questions

  Approximately 30%

  of US households make 50k or less.

  In this economy, that’s poor.

  One hand out the grave dug every day at work.

  One medical emergency away

  from homeless or bankrupt.

  Two full-time minimum wage jobs (rare)

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

  You might rise above

  if your family has money, connections,

  or love.

  People ask

  why don’t we just stop

  breeding.

  Catholic.

  Religion in general.

  The pill fucks with your health.

  Abortion costs one month’s rent

  and the penis involved won’t drop a cent

  wash his junk or wash his hands,

  so that’s a UTI. At best.

  That’s right class,

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

  take a guess

  which one most media depicts.

  The most successful women among them

  still got flesh on full display. Meat market.

  Yeah, women could ignore men, forego sex,

  one of the few…”pleasures” afforded to us

  regardless of class and work together instead.

  We’d be better off.

  Kids won’t get shot to death

  in school, have to cover

  their tiny bodies

  with their best friend’s blood

  to survive

  the tantrum of a boy girls didn’t like,

  if they’re not there to begin with.

  Holistic

  People suck

  at identifying specific stressors,

  accurately calculating impact

  of significant life events.

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

  how you carry yourself, twitch, agitate

  at slammed doors or certain words,

  how, if, when you cry during a movie

  and be like

  ah,

  your father was abusive.

  Understood.

  Developmentally you are…here.

  Plants can’t tell you what’s wrong.

  You gotta pay attention,

  assess a person’s quiet—

  not to be confused with silence—

  a body isn’t separate nations,

  it’s interconnected regions,

  a web of climates

  and growth habits.

  I sense a storm brewing

  leagues off

  like some kinda

  vest-on dog like

  slow your roll ho you’re gonna

  have a seizure, you’d think

  I could smell brain chemistry.

  Got them animal instincts.

  An old schoolmate

  who grew up nearby

  might appear suddenly

  in a panic, suspect

  an overdose but can’t

  afford the hospital,

  where he could be deported,

  but remembers

  my house, my garden

  like his abuelita. Hushes

  his voice like its church.

  Won’t go to his mama

  because she’s Catholic.

  Or I’ll receive messages

  from friends hours away

  after a 72 hour psych hold

  saying that if I didn’t know

  no one did. Balk a bit

  when I suggest

  their husband and kids

  are the source of duress.

  They’re women,

  how could that be?

  Catholic.

  Gets those hooks in.

  The mind

  hot wires key associations,

  that’s the control panel

  for endorphins.

  The reason

  people reach out

  take shelter, cry, hunker, expose,

  is because the forgotten space

  I occupy

  is Tree. Forest. Queen on the chessboard.

  Old lady in the cottage.

  And the number one thing

  a forest does

  is slow

  the sympathetic nervous system,

  turn fight or flight

  to rest and digest.

  Regulars

  A retired man, always Clown On,

  so you know there’s somethin’,

  I don’t prod.

  I play along as he dissembles

  at length. Some people just wanna

  talk.

  Suddenly he looks over

  and notes…somethin’ in my face.

  Hands on my hips, starin’ a distance.

  He cracks a joke and I just say

  I’m always thinkin’. Busy inside.

  Then, sheepish, asks if I’m annoyed,

  that it’s been brought to his attention

  he wears on some folk.

  I don’t mind at all, not a bit,

  and that’s the truth

  not customer service.

  My boss comes out for a chat

  and he segues to the topic

  of his wife.

  How the stress

  of helpin’ him overcome alcoholism

  turned her to drink herself

  after lifelong abstinence.

  The whole time endometriosis

  ravaged everythin’ within reach, returned

  even after hysterectomy.

  After eight years of drink,

  he came home and she was gone.

  They found her body

  in a motel outside Barstow.

  He didn’t know

  how extensive the scars

  until they cut her open.

  So he comes to the health food store.

  Looks me in the eye then,

  with a fragile smile,

  and says you women, pause,

  endure so much. Your pain

  falls on deaf ears. You all

  should be allowed to carry a gun

  and shoot a man

  whenever it hurts.

  My boss is shocked.

  I belly laugh

  and that’s all he wants.

  After he goes, she says his wits

  are addled because of pills.

  Opioid addict.

  Or as I call it, Lovelost.

  Demeter gives us a hint.

  It’s a yellow rope

  frayed at both ends

  like the one Wagon Girl used

  to tie her best shoppin’ cart

  to our utility gate on Samhain.

  Didn’t write her given name, just Wagon Girl

  in crayon.

  A partin’ gift.

  We won’t be seein’ her again.

  I wouldn’t use the word addled,

  I won’t even call it sad,

  and I understand well enough

  the mash-up, the remix, listen,

  I’ll make you a promise.

  You can be a jokester

  with a lame hind

  in my garden so long as

  you keep showin’ up,

  as long as you can bear it,

  keep puttin’ that grubby rope in my hand

  and I’ll see about those edges.

  Right now, extra cases of pickle juice.

  Rosary

  I list facts

  like pits on a string.

  Contemplation beads, I wake up,

  let’s see, let’s see

  what can be done, there’s maybe

  fifteen years—yes fifteen, scientists

  from their place of privilege

  and proper speak

  underestimate—

  until 2C.

  The most deadly natural disasters

  are heatwaves.

  They’ve not been looking right,

  crops are already failing

  as laborers drop dead

  from renal failure, stroke, salt deficiency,

  and heart disease

  in Other Countries.

  2/3 of Arizona’s farmland run dry.

  If your food comes packaged

  from a grocery store

  you’re on borrowed time.

  Women, land, water.

  Everything else is noise.

  A castle in the sky.

  Governments whine, ladies,

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

  any day now we’re gonna win,

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

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

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

  A mere skirmish. We’ll just use drones.

  Don’t you know I’m a hero,

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

  once in a blue moon. Come back to bed.

  This time

  it’ll be different.

  Serving Suggestion

  Now some of you ladies

  know all about this shit.

  Anorexia nervosa

  is the most lethal mental illness,

  cases upwards 90% female—

  which is fuckin’ crazy

  ’cause we’re the sex put max points

  into famine resistance.

  Persistence predator endurance.

  We store fat subcutaneous

  and dimple grip that shit at no danger

  to our hearts. Estrogen protects,

  hydrates, insulates, balances,

  mineralizes bone, repairs neurons.

  The fat on our hips and thighs

  is rich in omega-3s, crucial

  for brain development, plasticity,

  and easing the symptoms

  of menopause.

  At my thinnest (against my will)

  I could not even fit one leg

  through the waist

  of my mother’s wedding dress.

  She stopped touching me

  at two weeks old

  and found a way

  to fit back into her pants.

  Take a shot any of it sounds familiar.

  Every comment is a veiled insult,

  ignores you if you need help,

  saw your first period and left you

  cryin’ on the floor with no explanation

  whatsoever,

  imagines shared faults if she wants to bond,

  only your belongings are Mess,

  doesn’t understand why you’d want

  more than like five clothes,

  that’s definitely enough

  for groceries,

  what do you mean

  you’re hungry?

  Ladies, how we doin’? Try not

  to black out or piss your pants.

  Someone’s kind to you

  and she makes sure you know

  she knows better, finds

  their affection bizarre.

  Says she’s ashamed

  to have made such an evil

  daughter,

  because when a boy

  kept touchin’ you

  after you said stop

  you put a pencil

  through his fuckin’ hand

  calmly and without remorse.

  You’re right that’s specific.

  If you use big words

  or subtly correct logical fallacy

  it’s a personal affront.

  Tapes vicious diatribes

  to your bathroom mirror

  and bedroom door and bemoans

  your attitude to everyone afterwards,

  if you confront her about that she screams,

  stomps, slaps your face, slams cupboards,

  takes off

  for six hours.

  When she returns

  pretends everything is fine.

  Hell, she might even do somethin’ nice.

  Of course, if questioned much later,

  doesn’t remember.

  All the while,

  she asks you to try on that dress.

  You get a boyfriend

  and bring him by

  ’cause it’s hard to date

  and hide where you live.

  She fawns all over him

  like your brother and dad

  and constantly insists

  you serve him a plate.

  Female Rage

  I never yell.

  No matter how strong

  my emotions, I scruff them

  and hold them at arm’s length.

  I will always, always communicate,

  even if it’s just to say

  I’ve got a situation, and we need

  to revisit this subject at a later date.

  I’m leaving now,

  but I am not going away.

  I am not angry, okay?

  I just need to think.

  Decompress. Percolate.

  Though things are unlikely

  to reach this point.

  The one area

  I managed to excel most in life,

  is strong bonds. Any kind.

  Gods stacked the fuckin’ deck

  but I treat a person right.

  Of your humanity

  I never lose sight.

  I always seek

  to preserve dignity.

  Yours and mine.

  But when it comes to women

  at large,

  society does not feel the same.

  Doctors in a blue state

  point blank

  ignored

  my best friend’s obvious preeclampsia.

  Said nothing was wrong. I warned

  and warned and warned,

  my Scottish foremother

  delivered alone and went blind on the kitchen floor,

  it’s the number one fatal complication, push,

  and sure enough,

  every single doctor blew her off.

  Prescribed wildly inappropriate meds

  for her worsening condition after birth.

  Finally her husband

  drove her to an emergency room

  somewhere else

  and made a huge fuss—

  the man is not a natural at confrontation—

  those doctors’ incompetence

  risked multiple organ collapse,

  called her husband and newborn back

  to say goodbye, the priest

  to read her rites.

  She nearly died

  because those blue state doctors

  were too scared

  to discuss potential termination.

  She wouldn’t have. Catholic.

  But my best friend

  matters. Herself. A whole person.

  She deserved

  to hold her daughter

  instead of be traumatized.

  To be handled warmly

  and given every option beforehand.

  Pregnancy

  is the most dangerous thing

  a human body does.

  Withholding information,

  restricting choice, applying leverage

  or perverse incentive

  is attempted murder.

  There was a panel on women’s health

  and not a single woman present.

  When the population dropped

  after the invention of The Pill,

  it wasn’t because men suddenly cared,

  our defenses just improved, plus

  they thought it would get them laid.

  Found other ways to guarantee

  workers and soldiers.

  Gamble futures like it’s cards.

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

  I’ll show you Atlas Shrugged, fuck ass

  turned God’s house into a marketplace.

  They nailed Him up so She would starve,

  a cruel mockery of the Sacred Heart.

  To be clear,

  you do not sit at this table

  with an opinion

  when you’ve put forth

  less real world effort,

  incurred fewer lifelong consequences,

  than it takes to give birth.

  Paid the price off your own back

  to carry every single one.

  November 23, 2025

  abuse, love, mental health, oppression, storytelling, stream of consciousness, trauma

  ---

• 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

  ---

• 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

  ---

• 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

  ---

• Polaris

  Reporting for Duty

  When you’re of a certain heritage

  and demographic, those signs

  you be havin’ is called

  shamans in the bloodline.

  Canary in a coal mine.

  Girls especially can’t confide

  or show weakness. Not in this place.

  Fix your face. Watch your tone.

  Grandpa drove heavy freight through war zones,

  when I told daddy ’bout my visitor, behold,

  it was him as a young man in uniform, said

  he’d be with me until

  I didn’t need him anymore.

  Marching Orders

  If you didn’t catch heat

  for refusin’ the pledge of allegiance,

  you don’t know America. One nation

  under God, hand over heart.

  Even worse, your school’s a church.

  What to expect when you’re dirt poor.

  Only one way you’ll ever afford

  college or a doctor.

  Become a butcher

  or your future’s a slumlord’s trailer.

  Is it any wonder,

  thumb that yearbook,

  pregnant, pregnant, dead, and shot

  by his own father. Our class clown.

  Caps when we say Made it Out.

  Walk a wakin’ ghost town,

  every season is just pale brown,

  differentiate the sound

  of gunshots, fireworks, and sonic booms.

  School colors are red, white, and blue.

  Don’t forget,

  you gotta genuflect, show respect,

  I won’t say “thank you for your service,”

  you have my condolences.

  Formation

  What’s a girl to do?

  Shoutin’ rhymes can be singin’ too.

  Nothin’ else new, top of the class

  in boot camp, disciplined youth.

  Can’t even call it waste, no taste

  for what remained: meth teeth,

  heroin chic, or fancy cocaine.

  I’d rather have steak. Sushi.

  Ice cream. Fuck it,

  all three. Anyway, they made

  us draw our lives as rivers

  and streams. Me bein’ me

  said piss off,

  I’m drawin’ a massive tree.

  Real Time Strategy

  They arrested a local woman

  for feedin’ the homeless

  in public, out in the open.

  Called it bad optics,

  didn’t wanna sour the Californians,

  salivatin’ over their tax dollars,

  gods know we ain’t got none.

  Lion’s share goes to law enforcement,

  who needs shelters or coolin’ centers

  when our finest need paramilitary gear?

  To be fair, sometimes they bust a pedophile—

  oh wait, that’s the FBI. Whatever,

  go ninety miles an hour, that’ll make us safer.

  Pop strugglin’ people hundreds or more

  for squeakin’ by on yellow. Catch’um

  some criminals.

  Our educated betters clutchin’ pearls

  when their situation gets slightly worse,

  remind everyone to vote. Be civil.

  Such civility. Heat deaths every day. Classic,

  stars ‘n’ bars on every street. Chapels on every corner,

  help for your addiction, your sickness, oh but

  keep those babies comin’,

  everybody’s gotta do their part.

  Compartmentalization

  Adverse conditions. Distress or talent

  merit no response. Not a glance. Ain’t gotta tell you

  what that does to a developin’ mind.

  They just watch TV, no Ctrl + Alt + Delete,

  no heart of gold comin’ to save me. Disappear

  if you can’t leave. Start fires

  because they’re pretty.

  Every friend I ever made

  looked icy, awkward, or dead in the face,

  showed love a different kinda way,

  struggled to say or make plain.

  Flames erupt once they feel safe,

  there’s no better place without room to break,

  I’ve never been afraid

  of change. So what we’re never the same

  again? I said what I meant. No regrets.

  This pasture or the next,

  I’m on the freaks like cows

  on salt licks.

  Six Wheel Drive

  I will say this:

  The Brave Little Toaster fucked me up big.

  Abandoned appliances wonderin’

  where their boys went.

  Toaster sacrifices himself

  to save his friends from the trash compactor.

  That’s OG horror. Works out in the end.

  But for me it didn’t. An audience

  unintended. That said,

  I picture a GMC CCKW

  ’cause that’s my roots. Pull up in a two

  and a half ton, friend shaped

  steel monstrosity. Next best to a train.

  It’s not fuel efficient, fuel deficient,

  been nursin’ what I love miles gone,

  but this is my last stop. I’ll pick you up,

  strap your spooky ass and all else

  to the hull of this, my morbid

  gorgeous hood ornament, put the rest

  beneath the axles. Long haul

  through hell, gotta have guns

  to keep hold this steerin’ wheel,

  I’ll get us out. Home

  is wherever I hang my gremlin bell.

  Fall in Line

  No paternity test necessary,

  she bemoans the curse

  of hot blooded men in our family,

  spare you the gory deets,

  that surname banks on the Ing.

  Expect two things:

  they fuck and they sing.

  Sadly it don’t seem

  the gods made more’n one of me,

  didn’t throw an Aengus

  to my Caer Ibormeith,

  and that’s a lonely place to be.

  Times are tough out here on Lake Mead,

  ain’t squat for a mean ol’ swan to eat,

  he’s like a little boy fightin’ sleep,

  forgets what language he speak,

  misfires at the ceilin’ and gets a migraine,

  I suppose it’s flattery,

  with his eyes askin’ please,

  every last drop or every last breath beseech,

  cradled in palm or knife in his breast.

  No satisfaction, miss

  me with that mess:

  these girls lettin’ pups

  use their bodies like toilets.

  Nothin’ less

  than unconditional surrender

  is an acceptable mode of address.

  If he can’t ride,

  can’t know me or touch me

  the way I like,

  then the best thing a man can do

  is die.

  May 31, 2025

  life, mental health, mythology, punk, recovery, relationships, storytelling

  ---

• School of Isis

  Footnotes

  She found him in a wreck

  or was it washed up on rocks?

  Nobody of nowhere, naught

  but to be hers. What tempests

  deliver, chances. No stranger

  to risk, this chieftain of ships.

  Happiness from a far flung place,

  held fast in the face of other plans.

  Slain by a lesser contemporary—

  not even her nation’s mortal enemy—

  and women, we don’t owe anything

  to anybody.

  She marked her tragedy

  with several bodies. History

  records these. The ocean

  plays for keeps.

  She held plural, actually,

  I think you know of whom I speak.

  Two husbands and seven children down,

  the toll on a woman not afforded a crown.

  The longer you live the muddier your choices,

  perhaps made simpler because she lost him.

  No Kings, No Masters

  Always the best lines

  for villains. Mind

  who’s doin’ the writin’.

  This witch said love

  is what they give girls

  to play with

  instead of power. Admit,

  she’s not wrong though.

  Thing is, we’re the source

  of both. What we’re owed.

  No one sits upon that throne,

  because a woman’s work is never done.

  Our seat is empty but not open,

  least of all for an ungrateful son.

  Nothin’ good comes

  forgettin’ where you came from.

  Whose bed you warm.

  This notion of The One

  necessitates equal ground,

  and that’s tricky.

  Any creature of complexity or

  eccentricity begs a particular

  shape of mate. Honesty.

  Faith in an endgame

  worth the wait.

  For whom you need not

  translate.

  Ubuntu means

  I cannot be human

  until you reflect my humanity

  back at me.

  If you met the Goddess today,

  what would she see?

  Conquerable Characters

  There’s four pillars to a good time:

  food, fightin’, fuckin’, and friendship.

  Foundation of every house ever built.

  Don’t matter how you dress it up.

  I wanna hunt and kill the kobold horde,

  then I wanna woo the forlorn lord,

  he’s a widower. Kobolds, remember.

  Come here baby, I’ll make it better.

  Then I’m gonna go to the tavern

  and make a bunch of friends there,

  or knuckles up again,

  the night is young.

  I’ll go home, arms full

  with whatever’s good I’ve found

  and he’s still in his study

  with a wrinkled shirt and that

  little frown.

  Forgets to eat if I’m not around.

  I know what to do with that mouth.

  Here’s where most people say,

  I’m just too manly, how

  could any of these poor boys compete,

  as if it ain’t law you don’t ask for a softie

  unless you give Grace O’Malley.

  Unseen

  The female of a species

  hides in plain sight.

  She is much, much bigger

  on the inside.

  You wouldn’t realize.

  Density is the very mechanism

  of Time. What breaks you

  is what allows you a life.

  Preachin’ immortality

  is an unforgivable slight.

  A galaxy’s choreography,

  every orchestra chair in its symphony,

  spins the whims of a singularity

  only visible via debris.

  My high notes nurse nebulous,

  my low notes swing on Tartarus,

  talkin’ is tirin’ when you’re all chest,

  surrounded by flutter, twitter, and soar,

  and I stab at those like…

  lipstick on an alligator.

  Defyin’ drought one swamp paw

  after the other, a solitary reservoir

  of words.

  Event Horizon

  Grit jammed my playlist

  for twenty years.

  If it was too soft, slow, or folksy

  it sailed past these ears.

  This heart needed tempo

  to keep me alive.

  A birth defect internalized.

  You march on the stomach,

  won’t fill it with sad—

  well, a workin’ class woman in hell can’t—

  fuck it up with a bassline, drop

  real low, hit me

  with a death growl. Spill

  siren song over shrapnel.

  Tectonic technical.

  Maybe someday somethin’

  sweet enough to put this knife down.

  A lullaby long and sensual.

  The best sleep I’ve ever known

  was a piece by my estranged brother,

  eyes closed in a palette of embers.

  Defrag

  When you’re a ghost in the walls

  linin’ the chambers of others’

  TV lobotomies

  you hear things.

  Happen past your reflection and think,

  oh that’s my body

  in a warped door frame. Who is she?

  Been clutchin’ a telephone string

  all these nights askin’ why, why,

  hopin’ for someone at the end of the line,

  and maybe they’ve tied theirs up in knots,

  but I’ve a firm grasp on mine.

  I can’t relate to any of ’em,

  their clumsy digits like toddlers

  on a xylophone. I parse data,

  finest fleece from a sea of wrong sounds,

  in the weavin’ I become. A spider

  doesn’t think herself an architect.

  She is the web.

  So it holds,

  however she is, is how she’s meant,

  and if she suffers her story to be told,

  then someone must need to hear it.

  X

  Liftin’ a curse

  ain’t just about lockin’ lips.

  It’s how we got here, hurt

  informs medicine. Receptive

  roots must recognize

  my breath.

  An invitation,

  the invocation of The Kiss.

  What power it has

  is the power you give. Magic

  is the space between belief

  and what exists. The artist

  whose gaze you see yourself in.

  A temporal flash at the end,

  I pull this thread in my hand,

  inverse unravelin’

  until there’s a direct line

  from you to me.

  Suddenly

  you can look back

  at all the places pain

  shaped you and find

  my love instead.

  May 26, 2025

  history, mental health, mythology, philosophy, storytelling

  ---

• Life Support

  Tiamat

  Somewhere out in Georgia

  they’ve strung a woman’s

  desecrated corpse up

  to incubate a failed

  pile of flesh and blood.

  Sit

  the fuck down

  and call it what it is.

  Try

  ego trip meets cowardice.

  These men won’t do right

  without a gun to their heads.

  The oldest, oldest sin

  is matricide. Didn’t just die,

  it was malicious negligence.

  Remember this, we’re just parts

  in a pretty dress. Disposable, yet

  the mother’s mind regulates growth

  hormones, the brain and nervous system—

  a universe intelligent. If she’s not home,

  if she’s oppressed, there’s only so long

  they can sell the crown of God’s intent.

  Clinging to the prefrontal cortex, high

  on pathetic hubris. You emerge

  from the great dreaming

  of your mother’s subconscious

  as surely as every drop of life

  emerged from the sea.

  Positive Reinforcement

  Call me a gorgon,

  the way I make a man

  shit his pants just lookin’ at him.

  I’m never what they’re expectin’,

  one sentence followed by consequences.

  I’ll show you punctuation.

  Ain’t worth my articulation

  if he don’t listen.

  I’m warm as I am calm,

  no taste for a fuss,

  if I’ve gone cold means I’ve had enough.

  Learned from the best, the first

  of my name froze hers on the porch,

  an abusive drunk stone dead at her door—

  call that Choctaw divorce.

  Divine Feminine

  Not to sound like a dragon,

  oh but there’s somethin’ to be said

  about all your pets and an affectionate man

  asleep in your bed.

  Keepin’ all your pleasures in one place,

  just you and your favorite mug

  thinkin’ on what you’ll do

  when he wakes.

  The perks

  of him workin’ late.

  Early to rise is me,

  got plants to tend and chickens to feed,

  a woman needs

  room to breathe

  radiant volume and dust mote sunbeams,

  barefoot in a dark nightdress

  treadin’ the shoreline

  of the deep.

  Send ’em off, from depths receive,

  first and last is where we meet,

  no bolt hole so murky

  as beyond my reach.

  Run lover, fast as you please,

  I’m gonna get you.

  Breathe.

  Yew Berry

  The final gift of dreams

  is lucidity.

  No matter what, how far, how many,

  who or where.

  Mine is the crown of Nightmares.

  Tamer to the jump scares, dread

  is for the unawares. I become myself.

  Whatever’s legs can be a horse.

  Can handle those.

  These here were broken once, both.

  Let it hurt.

  Clawed fingers, drag your body

  through the dirt. If you can’t,

  if you can’t be human, good.

  Just as well, might

  as well be all

  over now, safe at least if not

  strictly speakin’ sound. Come out

  from under those covers, tell me

  what you’ve learned.

  Set Design

  Gorgeous if you’ve gotta count rice,

  throw rhymes or do a dance,

  who cares

  how you get from here to there?

  Got that Van Helsing Rube Goldberg kinda weird.

  I won’t stake your fretted heart,

  nor sever your pretty head—

  all this nonsense ’bout the undead—

  for the record:

  spooks can’t cross runnin’ water

  without their Magna Mater—

  the very soil they sprang from—

  ain’t fuck shit to do with the church. The point

  of silver: it’s a superior heat conductor, star

  studded channel for electricity. Catches charge,

  the magic happens when I throw sparks.

  Sometimes you defibrillate sickness in a herd.

  An ancient covenant between Mothers,

  the strongest of mine for the best of yours,

  spare no sacrifice for a daughter

  of the blood, a man ain’t never been

  the savior of a land.

  Weaker Sex

  Women need twice as much meat,

  and thrice while pregnant. Pigs

  can have that salad. More iron

  than men can do with. Their guts

  are inefficient. We risk

  our lives to wait, the last possible second,

  because they don’t have what it takes:

  over 50,000 calories and pure marrow DNA

  to build a human brain. Actin’ like

  whoopsie daisy there’s a baby,

  we’re right handed as a species,

  premature on the titty, because the left

  holds you to our heartbeat while we

  forge society. Fat heads.

  If a man fell pregnant

  here’s what happens:

  he don’t make it three months

  before multiple organ collapse—

  if his fried limbic system don’t drive him

  carbon monoxide mad first.

  His tissues shred apart like pot roast,

  him or the babe starve,

  just a fetid slump of gore. There is no

  miracle of birth, no Father’s hand

  in a woman’s work.

  Zoonotic Approach

  There was an old jaguar

  up in Alaska, rescued rough,

  but that’s just 250 pounds of cat

  to love. They gave him the biggest box

  of straw, a whole shippin’ container,

  and some fun tree stumps.

  He was gettin’ on, long in the tooth,

  but his handler still sensed the flame

  of his youth. Capacity for joy.

  This was her boy. Always.

  A multinational team

  assembled to draw his own blood

  and spin fresh bone jelly to be

  injected straight into his calcified

  joints. The first operation of its kind.

  Predators are hard to keep under,

  the slightest mistake and he’d die.

  A room full of doctors takin’ cues from the handler

  because this was her boy.

  She never left his side.

  Eyes on his face and hands on his chest,

  knew if he hurt from barest of breaths.

  A lost jungle king of two interventions,

  able to jump, climb, and play again

  because one woman spoke for him.

  May 22, 2025

  environment, gothic, love, mental health, motherhood

  ---