wyrdwind

Lady of Miracles 2/2

Red Handed

Got him Bambi twitterpated,

ain’t know what to do with his legs,

how to address a spirit him mama sent,

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

and before those buttons snap I’ll ask,

“Are you a good man?”

Come all ye faithful, tarry the tune,

if you can match the grace my cloven hoof,

and the female caribou, she has antlers

all through the winter, guards the source,

sheds them only to see her babies born,

tread soft little hunter, these woods

snow laden, lichen scrabbled, deadly cold,

belong to Her. Hold them out.

Did any daughter suffer? Did you take

because she would not give? Put boots

under another woman’s bed?

Serve your mother last?

Do I smell disrespect?

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

mince the fuckin’ words, redefine your terms,

make a gentleman’s agreement, sign here,

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

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

they write laws ’cause they mean to do wrong,

money exists to obfuscate human cost,

a pathetic attempt to assign worth, only a woman

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

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

must mean sewious business, I’m circumspect

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

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

four in five on that DV, thousands missing,

affected disproportionately, who we gonna call,

the police?

She was no Deer Woman, a fateful Sioux,

Walks With Her Robe brought Custer low,

donned the iron oxide of a warrior,

mounted her black horse and rode,

said her heart was bad, revenge! Brother dead.

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

one forced dismount and she stabbed his back,

where he fell, a mother and daughter descended,

from a peaceful village, drove sewing awls into his ears

and an arrow shaft up his penis, said

“We do this

so that you will be permitted

to hear better in the next life.”

Old Money

Funny how violence just a hop skip

removed looks like destiny manifest,

divine right of kings, take your pick,

all that gold and silver, cash crops and timber,

sugar, cotton, tobacco, dye, slave labor,

everything that made Europe,

you stole it all from us.

Talk shit ’bout Muricans, fair but

where the fuck these na hullos from?

Same shit, different stall,

shoe the other foot,

just ten percent of us left alive, total,

across two continents, the brink of extinction,

Ima need that tongue seasoned, taste the salt,

tell me ’bout the feats of your civilization,

tout the frippery of your culture, high brow,

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

some pappy’s supposed nothing, industry, legacy,

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

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

true spirit, love of the land. My clan

was Panther, for the darkest month of winter,

warm banaha and wild game, hunter warriors

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

blades up when the crops fail, taut bow,

oh I do go for the throat,

blood or song there, breathe fire blue hot,

tummy rumble meat scorch, that good bark,

best off the bone, marrow lip gloss, baby fuel

of any kind, I go all night,

rhythm circadian, infradian, planetary respiration,

stars aligned, real gold passed down

generations, strength of a matriline,

good medicine.

Hollow Point

Lover below spare me this shit,

two white man friendly debate,

askin’ if free will really exists,

not my not my fuckin’ circus,

playin’ YouTube school booth Socrates,

that arm chair circle jerk flick,

masters of logic against anecdotal evidence,

arrogance still an emotion bitch,

assumin’ you exempt make you twice inept,

had kiss on every ego boo boo consequence,

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

someone’s trauma is your fun thought experiment,

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

men’s ignorance built governments, invented church,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

clever buddy hyucks how you measure self worth.

In the first four years after 9/11

twice as many civilian women were killed

by a current or former intimate partner

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

what our best and bravest did to women abroad,

perhaps you’re too young to remember Never Forget,

fuckin’ obnoxious, take your sad lil tapir snoot,

go seepy ’cause he went achoo,

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

jump to give instead of inflict,

well I go em-dash superscript specific,

blast radius maximum tissue damage,

one shot and it’s colostomy bag,

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

could go either way, wrinky peach in my palm

go pop hallelujah or pop scream vomit,

men fight ’cause they wanna jack off,

but make no fuckin’ mistake,

I’m here ’cause I want you

to stop.

Green Tip, Black Tip

Really a lavender menace,

I play it close to the nest,

if I’m at all dangerous that’s just

mama goose grim, see some little ones

don’t even ask whose they are,

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

neither forgive nor forget, try me

and it’s on sight,

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

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

how he readjust sudden seen I saw, skin crawl,

that spider strand thrum,

I’m never wrong,

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

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

’cause behind every great man

is a fetid kill garden where his victims fell,

the stench of excess, species invasive, unsustainable,

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

him compass only point himself, root rot

is fungal, mercy won’t wash it, empathy

requires theory of mind, pacifism a conscience,

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

some bullshit retirement plan, pain makes course correction,

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

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

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

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

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

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

you may be grown

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

he went out with a bang.

Sheela na Gig

I wanna see some fine motor skills,

vagina dentata confirmed kills,

says he need clear signals,

that so that so well guess what,

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

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

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

crusty ass digits don’t respect the real estate,

wanna call it home you gotta maintain,

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

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

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

amp hum, rolling fields, monsoon,

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

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

she done doubled in size, quite the catch

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

brace your wrist she buck that, puppydog startin’ understand

the assignment,

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

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

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

now I seen some sexy scarecrows in my time

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

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

make priests put they eyes out,

goddamn anythin’ better than a man’s man,

real Shape of Water shit, Adam the corpse quilt,

fuckin’ Fallout ghouls,

I’m sayin’ the problem’s you,

remember them bonobos,

cuddlebug fuck-a-thon peaceful unless,

unless you’re an overly aggressive male,

forgettin’ him own self, and the girls,

they circle up different kinda pound town,

lead by example, beat him half to death

and chew his balls in public,

touchin’ they ladybits and each other,

reaffirm the bonds of civilized society,

I said you gotta maintain,

see there may have been a serpent in that garden,

but darlin’ Adam was the snake, tough swallow,

it’s not this one’s rotten aw shucks,

one bad apple spoils the bunch.

Well Played

That’s one left in the chamber,

six days work on seventh rest,

nah that’s shots in a revolver, keep hold

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

pray the Pleiades,

gotta count seven sisters wanna set sail,

keen eyed ghost of the Star Gauge,

author Su Hui a child prodigy,

she the best ever did it, woman poet,

prismatic complex palindromic,

color coded reads in every direction,

all of it rhymes and makes sense,

universe of loneliness contained in a single box,

bit like Emperor Wu Zetian, not Empress,

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

board set for her sex required ruthlessness,

and shit you know at this stage of evolution,

discussion of a worthy man is purely academic,

no matter how exceptional she is, stone brilliant,

he’ll hurt her to feel important, well Zetian

ruled behind the scenes long before she took her seat,

brought fifteen years of stability and prosperity,

one could achieve rank from any birthplace, literacy,

promoted skill and talent over funding and family,

the least amount of court corruption ever seen,

she was betrayed.

Greedy eunuchs destroyed her legacy, though not entirely,

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

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

that fool boy cheat, left her for a concubine,

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

frantic at limitations imposed by form, eloquent misery,

an empty space where Heart should be.

December 21, 2025

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

Mandrake

Catch this fuckin’ update,

the goal of every state,

think Her corpse can incubate,

they saw that clot up in her brain,

Adriana say her name I’ll wait,

c-section out of time so surprised,

curdled and deformed no drugs suffice,

no man’s supposed height can override

the power of the mother’s mind, unviable,

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

will never open its eyes,

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

only woman can create a life,

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

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

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

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

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

out beachin’ decrepit microplastics,

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

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

Rev the engine once and done, she barely warm,

shit she best take her business elsewhere.

Fuck yourself. Die or do better. You men,

you’re expendable and ill-bred. Look around

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

most defects are caused by nasty sperm,

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

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

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

and pray she wants your best shot, pray the scent

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

shit, was that my outside voice?

She won’t be there to raise her boy.

Dirty Laundry

Out damn spot I say—

Lady Mac those in the back—

step the fuck off Magdalene,

you’re unworthy of the Mother’s name,

tired ass dichotomy

Madonna-whore titty babies

I’m a secret, third, far worse thing,

mean and green, Solid Snake operations,

grind priest bones in these metal gears,

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

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

climb a fuckin’ beanstalk in my Sunday best,

did you know a pussy’s got scales?

Of a sort. Swallows what’s good,

sheds what don’t suit her,

that’s holy gore, that white’s gone

without peroxide and ice water,

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

wanna speak on curses when you’ve got,

checks notes,

155 women’s corpses in a mass grave

and, what, 800 infants?

Tell me more ’bout that wicked stepmom.

Oh I smell the jealousy of women alright,

was anyone fuckin’ surprised?

Hur dur church church, fee fi fo fum,

some fool wrote on An Gorta Mor

like naked babies mud huts but but

the women were beautiful, chaste, and pious

like that’s fuckin’ important.

Oh I’m sure you love

a woman don’t know what she want

and won’t demand it, look what Grace did

to get a seat.

Take it all off boys, drop it and leave,

walk until you see trees—

not what you deem suitable for forestry,

waa waa my licensing—

walk until your feet bleed, no daughter of mine

stoop to anoint, loose not a lock from braid,

I’ll have you fresh as a daisy

come Spring.

Mantle

I throw down like amanita,

drop a bitch like pop that kneecap,

watch that pop pop poverty percentage,

got fat on bread and circuses, this land

belongs to Herself, ain’t no rest

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

jumpin’ on yo mama back, divide Her

parcel out lots and grovel to the church,

one two punch so she don’t stand up,

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

give a cause o’ death, magic girl transformer,

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

least you know how to suckle, buncha hogs,

say you want ten brats work your farm.

For what? For what? Your mark,

it’s shit-streaked underwear,

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

blames wolves when a sheepdog did that,

nothin’ more aggressive than an inbred mutt,

lustin’ after more than we need our own selves,

perhaps another son.

That’s right, that’s right,

the danger’s inside. Nothin’ worse

than a dog don’t know its place,

it’s women who domesticate, remediate,

made basket and fire and stood upright,

sought game to feed our growin’ brains,

this was paradise when women ate,

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

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

sits at the hearth, shades under what sprung

all around from the best acorn,

has the privilege of her heart,

the purpose of his hands,

it’s about balance.

A woman’s choice is sacrosanct.

Oak, ash, birch, and hazel,

holly, alder, willow and elm,

vines, moss, lichen and ferns,

the ancestress of all polar bears,

the greatest elk to ever live,

well you can’t tranquilize my ass.

Highs are ineffective,

lows make me horny and mad,

I only settle in the mist,

under my canopy of consonants, belly full

with vowel sounds, look around I say again

and ask me now,

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

was it worth it?

Fury Road

Unsee un-unfortunately

I stay on task relentlessly,

twice as bad when I’m asleep,

ring a ring around that henbane,

this will only end my way, all

all rivers lead to me, my water

oaths inviolate amniotic endless night,

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

hit open air as a babe and every man cried,

seen old soldiers all my life, stand straight,

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

Meet military standards ’cause our district

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

kids’ hopes ain’t high, scholars not,

that’s the catch, poverty replaced the draft,

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

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

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

here for my songbirds and warriors without homeland,

backdrop Nazis, Harleys, and Wasteland Weekend,

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

loaded fuckin’ question, math montage, full Sherlock,

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

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

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

so heavy is the head beneath this crown,

lamp in the black aboard ferryman’s boat,

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

darlin’ this everyone’s last stop.

Persuasion

Ain’t exactly ballet,

like rock rock hard place,

hurry up and wait, steady heart rate,

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

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

if we’re chest to chest, who wins

is who drops hips lowest, if I strike

it’s with the Earth,

your head ain’t harder than Hers,

then there’s small joint manipulation,

my good bitches leg lock and flyin’ armbar,

that’s assumin’ I like you enough

not to smack the bridge of your nose,

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

maybe play a round of flip the turtle,

best tuck them feets up under your butt,

keep all hands and limbs inside this ride,

come at me hot and it’s like fwwwp

black ice,

too much fuss to fight you’ll find,

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

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

but Nope fights with his wife,

fuckin’ two ball clown honk spite,

cut the nose off your own face, greedy eye,

like okay Bictor Fwankenstein,

well no woman’s gotta give you the time,

best for all involved you pipe down and realize

I’m always right.

Hydration Break

Her many legends begin differently—

no man was worthy

so she wed a dog some say—

but they all end the same.

On a fishboat out to sea, by one

to whom love is the only responsibility,

Sedna is betrayed.

To spare himself the trouble, her father butchers

his daughter’s hands, this man

she trusts most to care, this mighty hunter,

watches his child drown, her frozen fingers

dismembered,

she sinks still reaching for help from above

and none comes, light sputters out, salt

water crushes her lungs.

Something answers in the dark.

Her passion, fury, and anguish flourish, the arctic

claims this daughter now, she’s not lost,

she grows a tail, mutilation multiplies her,

she leaves humanity behind,

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

who call her mother beneath the ice, upon whom

everyone relies. A goddess among spirits. When she rages

shamans do not patronize or beg for mercy,

they venture below to comb her long dark hair

which holds Eternity,

put fresh water in every mouth for she

is always thirsty,

thank her for every catch, remember

when a wrong’s been done

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

decides when you move on. If.

December 14, 2025

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

I kept watching as you dropped your gaze

Said you were full and yet barely touched your plate

Your clothes grew baggy and you hid your arms

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

.

There is a hell

I know it well and see it in your eyes

Oh where shadows dwell I cast a spell

Keep your dreams sweet tonight

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

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

One rope overboard

.

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

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

And would he be softer than his father?

Empty casket, that’s red caps in a grove

.

There is a hell

I know it well and see it in your eyes

Oh I know that smell, that wishing well

I hope you’re safe tonight

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

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

I’m bringing you home

@~^~

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

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

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

December 7, 2025

lyrics, music, pop culture
B-roll

Anxiety

I never left my room

unless my brother was home,

in the summer, per custody arrangement.

He’d carve his initials into the table,

any wood anywhere, whoever woke first

immediately went to wake the other.

We never fought.

Not one hard or sharp

remark our entire lives, no matter what,

and that sets a certain standard

of acceptable behavior. Drift

compatible, pilot a Jaeger or bust.

He didn’t like the other boys,

loud and crude, baying and shallow,

and I found most people

painfully dull.

We did everything together,

day in day out, he’d respond

to my thoughts as if spoken aloud.

He taught me to draw. Wilted

under confrontation or unknown terrain,

but we’d spend hours on RTS regardless

at his behest.

If I was hungry, he’d ask for food

or drive to get it himself. On Thanksgiving

first to the table

just to make sure everyone and their dog knew

my favorite was legs.

When I fell and tore my knee open

on a mountain in the dark

and he wasn’t strong enough

to pick me up, instead he walked

in front of me and announced

every rock, divot, root and branch

until we made it back down.

Reprimanded our parents

for their carelessness that whole trip.

His infant brother

had stopped breathing

and died in his crib

and he just

became the most Goose,

fully embodied the brood.

I did nothing alone.

Prepubescent boy out here

doing the work of ten mothers.

Would I sleep forever?

Not on his watch.

You know

he’s said it three times

in thirty-seven years.

Woke every morning at his house—

sunshine yellow inside like mine,

goth shit everywhere—

to find coffee and a protein pancake waiting

on the counter.

I don’t need to hear the words.

Ear to the Ground

I typically operate

on actionable sympathy

rather than empathy.

Much like the grasshopper mouse,

I resist paralysis, venom

turns pain killer in my veins,

I’ve got binding proteins

you wouldn’t believe.

Nocturnal predation

in the most secret places,

closing my eyes on the new moon,

I hunt by touch. Sensation alone.

You’ll hear my howl

100 meters around scaled up,

the call to battle.

Life on Earth is fungal based,

the mycorrhizal network

a vast consciousness fed

by all of us.

When I’m tapped

for systems maintenance,

my sleep cycle brings a problem

to my attention. Non-linear,

no tense, full circle,

all at once.

I dreamt

a stranger’s coffee table in the night,

traffic running through, mundane discussion,

nothing to see here, city lights blurred outside.

Mexico.

I just know.

But the longer I stared

at that table, what I felt

was choking despair, frenzied

for an exit, a helping hand,

the absolute certainty

of demise.

So many.

Trapped.

State sanctioned USA

concentration camps.

Children dead of typhus.

Women giving birth in chains.

What’s more,

I felt the land, a gaping,

festering wound.

The bone chilling ache

of a silenced mother.

Not dumb, ignored.

Call it what you want,

sometimes words

are like photographing the moon

with your phone. Dreams

chart data points, make what’s distant

real.

Personal.

I felt Her desperately

asking me to hold

a barely swaddled baby,

shrouded in tattered threads,

a shrieking void in need

of a name.

They Grow Up So Fast

He was a picky eater,

I cleaned my plate.

I’d be ugly on purpose

because he hid his face—

so what got skin like a toad’s butt,

I like toads,

toads are good, anyway,

they put him on Accutane,

so we avoided sunlight.

I’d always dig in

and stay up late. Do whatever,

talk about anything. Watch how

your inner monologue

starts to sound like mine,

ugly duckling blues?

Not in this house.

He’d reinvent himself

every few months

and I kept in my closet

every piece of every version

dead and gone.

If he threw it out,

did some inverse Dorian Gray,

I picked it up,

gave it new life or a final resting place.

None of those guys were trash.

He liked slow mopey folksy metal-ish

and I jammed to anything sounded like

two titans fighting to the death—

we met in the middle on Dax Riggs

and some jazz.

He found all my favorite bands,

brought Word and Culture from the City

like it was the 1700s. Scottsdale man.

He came to live with us first chance.

Where he drew warped corpses and gore,

graphite only,

I drew wild and colorful beasts and fairies.

He asked me to sing

Small Two of Pieces from Xenogears,

and I couldn’t fathom why,

but I complied, for I would never deny

him such a shy thing. I really hope

he deleted that file. His wife

proposed without hesitation

after one year. Always says

he’s a fucking unicorn.

Asked me to perform

the handfasting

which I then had to learn

on the fly.

When asked after all that time

how she knew,

what made her decide,

she said you gotta look

at the most important

woman in his life.

Sleeper Agent

When you combine

maximum Arizona drawl

with maximum poetic efficiency,

on paper, what you get

sounds a helluva lot

like an Irish accent.

Found that out the hard way.

The Bear Mother assortment

dredged from my older works

needed a name. I dreamt

someone held out a silver ring,

two knots winding side by side,

a disembodied voice

cut in and out from behind,

fuzzy signal, baby’s first quest shit,

wizard nonsense,

something like

trust that was broken

will be restored,

what was lost

will be reborn,

when two rivers

flow as one.

And like a fool

who’s never read Tolkien,

I put it on

because I wanted to boost the signal,

got me right in the fuck it why not.

Magic 101, fuck.

Suddenly I was surrounded,

someplace else entirely, a deep

sun laved forest. A massive congregation

of very much not Christian Celts

bustled around each other

to have a look. Their leader,

who wore a pelt, told me—

mind you I don’t speak Gaelic,

I understood

with my heart—

that their home was lost.

They could not return

though the way was clear,

because they could not rest.

Instead they would move on

here.

He explained

how a land should be,

how a living fortress

repels ill-intent, the importance

of remaining unseen

in both times of war and peace.

The relationship

between a people and their trees.

I saw what once was,

what could yet be, a golden horizon

in every direction.

Then it was just me,

but the land was alive

with very much more

than I could plainly see.

The only building

was my little cottage

and wouldn’t you know it

a baby bear was inside

tumbling around my skirt

in the kitchen.

I’d left my door open

to the forest.

I said

your mom’s gonna be pissed,

you can’t just trust humans,

joke’s on me though because mom

was asleep in my living room.

We all just lived there now.

I said

I gotta go to the bathroom,

and the goddamn baby bear

came too

because that’s what babies do.

Mothers never piss alone.

Have you ever tried to squat

with a baby bear half in your lap?

Fuck.

I woke up

endorphins run over, levees bust

with my mysterious photosynthesis.

Weightless, neither itch nor ache,

pure joy eternal everyone. What I call

Real Gold. The Sacred Heart. The opposite

of a black hole. Wellspring.

First thought,

gotta pee.

The next,

why the fuck

are the Irish here?

But when I looked back,

retraced my steps, I realized.

Oh,

I built a house.

Somewhat Stubborn

The very first time

I defeated my brother

in battle, he won’t acknowledge.

He always picked Undead

and I always picked Night Elves.

He played for maximum destruction—

how the game was designed—

and I played for maximum variety

of life.

My structures were alive

because they were trees. Walked,

though very slowly. Additionally,

elves possessed Shadowmeld,

stationary invisibility.

All that remained

was my mother tree.

I memorized the map, manner

and speed of his patrols, recognized

every unit’s pattern.

We walked.

I kept on

for hours.

Unless every single one

of my creatures were dead

he could not claim victory.

Hours.

Finally, exasperated, exhausted,

he came back to my room and demanded

that I concede.

I looked him right in the eyes.

Never.

And he believed me.

In what nonsense world

can corpses fight forest?

Forest eat corpses.

That is the way of thing.

I am not fooled

by your little game.

Green Gables

The inspiration for The Sisterhood

came from a dream wayyy back.

I was a spirit hovering

around a busted cement lot

next to an abandoned old-old

stone church. Guessing Catholic.

That jagged foundation was a junkyard gym

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

Yeah, I know, what the fuck.

Moss, vines, ferns, and clover

burst and sprawled from every crevice.

They were waiting on a sign.

I tried to introduce myself

since this looked exactly like

my kinda party,

but they couldn’t properly hear me,

must’ve been the bad habits,

and I was like hey guys, helloooo,

why are we waiting?? For fuck’s sake.

When I peeled back the chain link

to survey the terrain beyond

it was a hideous city,

fresh industrial revolution poison,

devoid of trees.

A friend recently said

she couldn’t look at pictures of herself

from before her Baby died. That girl

knew nothing of the world.

Started going to church with her daughter

because she found solace in the companionship

of all the older women. Recalled

that time I told her about my cat

who wanted nothing more

than to drape across my chest

and gaze at my face purring

herself to sleep, one paw outstretched

to touch my cheek.

She’d met a lady

whose grown daughter a state away

with children of her own would play

her mother’s testimonies

when she tucked herself in

for her nap midday.

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

the Big Mama.

She never had one.

That girl

was dead, and every day

she wondered if she was strong enough,

if maybe she needed meds to function, I said

feelings demand to be felt,

you carry your babies all your life,

dead or alive. No one else

knows what your path must look like,

how much of yourself must die

or cauterize. But if my own mother

and grandmother

could walk off heart attacks

they didn’t even realize they had

because that pain was just

spittle in the ocean of discomfort,

then surely you can keep going too,

and whoever you’ve become

at the end of your road,

I’m proud to know her.

Key Victory

Fun fact,

grasshopper mice are so aggressive

that they can hunt and kill

venomous desert predators

54 times their own size,

whose natural diet

also includes mice. In single combat.

A particular piquant victory

over my brother, we had all gathered

for a game of Risk,

and the men were very generous

with their advice on the art of war,

and ladies we all know men are only generous

when they don’t feel threatened.

My sister turtled up

and flicked through her phone

in an eye rolling show of disinterest,

just letting the boys puff up

and duke it out. I puttered around

all 🙂 paying very close attention

to their advice. Fascinating.

Eventually,

she reached over and took my hand,

as I’d built a massive fighting force

in the “middle of nowhere”

and she knew immediately

my plan

and why I hesitated.

The boys teased

“Awww are you friends?”

And she had the look said

Go For The Jugular Bitch, Do It.

I got your six.

Oh they all looked sick,

properly aghast,

does the book say she can do that,

when I rained destruction

on their exposed backs. Bloodbath.

I was the hammer

and she the anvil. Iron sharpens iron.

It was like that side plot

from The Power

where two sisters separated

by bitter circumstance reunited

when one became a pregnant warlord

and the other killed her dictator husband

then sent his military into an ambush.

The boys pouted,

“Congratulations,

you have to fight each other now.”

To which she responded with ice,

“No we don’t.”

She gave me

all of her troops and stuff

as a present,

declared us one. Flipped the bird.

They had all forgotten

that only a map is flat.

The world

is round.

Coagulate

I can give you a peek

at what we’re up against.

The axis of my dreams, all of them,

since I was a little girl.

I’ve mentioned the atomless void,

it’s not death, it’s nonexistence,

negation. A cancer

that consumes everything. A mistake.

For so long I wandered crumbling landscapes

beneath a whispering sky, the rot

within every rapist and pedophile’s mind,

that which compels grotesque experimentation

upon our own kind. There was always someone

I was trying to find.

Time

was not on my side.

Hollowed by grief and battered wings,

I had to try.

The voices howled, screamed, chittered,

and I saw every hole I found filled

with whatever it took, made it make sense,

found a mess and put it right. Organized

aftermath, broke it down into usable parts.

Riding just ahead of the storm. Eldritch junkyards.

Apocalypse after apocalypse.

I pulled souls off ledges, whatever precipice,

at the last possible second. Found the First

ever violated and made her Watch

as I ripped the Red One apart.

A collateral save

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

I was looking for someone.

Asked them all,

have you seen this person I miss?

And yes, I always remember

my primary objective.

Fun fact,

all my dreams are lucid. The only rule

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

My dreams are interconnected. My actions

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

Serve

a purpose.

If you find yourself incinerating demons—

for lack of a better term— you’re headed

in the right direction.

Most recently, a compound of scientists

fucking with shit they shouldn’t

suddenly compressed into 2D painterly

animation as It broke containment

through little more than a pinhole.

They mutated and twisted,

scribbled eyes and mouths, turned less than dust,

whatever sounds of anguish they made extinguished,

mute.

From within myself I heard

the Many Voice Woman lilting, sing-song,

leaden as a lullaby on the putrid floor

of a concentration camp.

“There’s no one left to turn to,

there’s nowhere left to hide.”

I think the fuck not.

Hole plugged.

Still looking. Oddly enough,

when my mother wanted us

to see the fortune teller once,

because she had…something to prove I guess??

That tricky island lady said

I wasn’t sent alone. She did emphasize

Sent.

Mass Effect

He bootlegged a second copy

and built me a better PC

so we could parallel play.

He wanted to know

what decisions I’d make.

I knew well enough his way.

Skipped all the dialogue,

speed ran only the main plot,

maximum aggression.

Me? I spoke with everyone,

everywhere, read every word,

equally ruthless. But helpful.

Asked a space ho on a space station

why she was sad, pimp stole her money,

so I slaughtered the whole cartel.

Gutted every den of iniquity.

I’m nothing if not thorough.

Things like that.

Farmers beefing on a haunted moon?

I got time. The human-snubbing

space UN and their favorite rogue operative

along with the Geth

could wait.

Colonel Shepherd Yes.

My brother and I

were tactically aligned

right down to the Big Space Bug Princess,

the last of her kind, being tortured

on a black site. Her children stolen

and enslaved.

We both freed her

amid warnings of extreme danger.

She said she’d sing of us

to future generations. Her children

would know our mercy. Our kindness.

This gesture wiped our respective Evil Points.

The difference

was he didn’t think she’d do it,

descend upon the galaxy as her ancestors did.

I believed

that to be within her rights. Fuck this shit.

Given the chance, Big Space Bug Princess

would become my best friend.

I’d make certain

she’d never see a cage again.

Anyway, our decisions only diverged

at the very end.

The Council’s favorite prick

betrayed everyone because of course he did

I fucking SAID, brought down the Geth

for a coup occupations whatever.

They hailed my ship begging for aid.

I chose

to take my sweet, sweet time.

All of them died. The galaxy

was without governance. I swooped in

and punched him to death in a corner

—took some doing—out of spite,

because the first thing he did from jump

was kill the lizard man I wanted to fuck—

the only one worth a hump—

I made the time. Then, I directed

patsy Admiral General Whatever guy

to rise to the occasion,

soothe everyone in the wake

of these terrible events. Humans

would become the angels.

Outcasts no longer.

The final cut scene

a blood red nebula

like I was some kinda

Sith Lord.

My brother was mortified

like, “That’s the government!”

And I was all, “So what?”

That was me out there

taking the time

to hear everyone. Listen.

Finding solutions to problems

on the ground, ones that worked.

He looked

like he’d never seen me before.

Rematriation

Well every moment you waste

is one moment more

than someone else had to spare.

Change is only gradual

for those afforded the luxury

to choose

whether or not they care.

Care is not

ritual social media flagellation

from relative material comfort.

Scooting money around.

Care makes certain

by whatever means necessary,

understands

the landscape

of blood sacrifice. Given two hands,

you must run the soup kitchen

and put Nazis in the ground.

You owe your allegiance

to the topsoil.

Where your food grows.

To the wild. I’ve said

sometimes through the mists

of night, woven wakeful between

dreams

a mother asks me

to hold her baby. A feeling,

not literally. Sometimes

I simply lay abed

and weep shuddering

before returning to sleep.

That’s how Nanih Waiya

came to be.

Imagery

from an old history

book suddenly

sprang to mind. The way

the author heavily implied

that his own people

were two-faced with a dark side, but

the behavior described

was Customer Service Minimum Wage.

Of course you smile at the racist moneyed Manager

in your impoverished right-to-work state

who bullied your coworker into miscarriage, play nice

then trash her car.

Don’t you know anything?

Tending a crop you cannot see

until exhumed by the spade.

How right up until she gave

her last, her children maintained

a joyful face.

The hollow

when it seemed

their mother’s love betrayed.

The grave was just their place.

Their grace had gone away.

You know,

first I ever saw the flag,

I went oh I know this one!

Moss, Death, Fire or

maybe Milk in the middle there.

Death Milk!

What do you mean no?

Catholic, Peace, Protestant?

Oh fuck off,

what is this

Wrong Answers Only shit?

Bad Brigid Only please.

Put some respect on my snakes.

A mother’s worst nightmare.

I remembered

from the news, pictures

and shitty comments

disparaging desperate mothers

who had walked the length of Mexico

only to have their children

snatched at the border

of those cartels’ number one customer

by people whose language

they didn’t know.

If they ever saw them again

those children had become strangers.

The look on those mother’s faces

I’ll never forget.

I remembered

a mural in my ex’s city of birth

that featured dark-skinned, Chinese,

and curly red-haired people

in the Aztec style.

He told the story

of how one day the Irish emerged

from the desert on foot,

followed the sound of church bells.

The sound of home.

The most flamboyant

piece of clothing

my Mexican boyfriend owned

was a kilt sewn

by his cousin’s 80 year old abuelita

on an iron Singer.

His favorite holiday

was St Patrick’s Day of all things.

Me? I’m not a fan

of anyone who hates snakes.

Finally, I remembered

the Eternal Heart

sculpture of my people.

The mound, the Trail of Tears,

the sacred diamond back rattlesnake,

mostly peaceful but warns you once

with a sound like sizzling rain

(if it’s of significant age),

don’t tread on me. I bite

fast as lightning.

My venom corrodes blood vessels,

unstitches organs.

I’ll swallow you whole.

As for the mother,

she did the best any could

with what little remained.

The loss of dignity,

of self respect,

when a mother must walk

with nothing and a baby bare

and pray

a stranger sees themselves

in her face. Has the strength

to fight in her name.

When your children survive

but still refuse you proper clothes,

can’t even

spit the cross out their mouths,

think the fight is over

which scripture’s dick to suck,

instead of 80% forest and ancestors housed,

they pimp you out

to the highest bidder,

keep you prostrate and overgrazed

by herds earmarked for export. Or else property

of the church. Ungrateful

doesn’t cover it. Think it matters,

makes a difference, if the pockets lined

are their own. For what?

Still paying rent to a landlord.

Placing their faith in the wrong flock.

Forgotten what it means to be a swan.

How’s that for some Goddess Guilt?

Girl, I smell the same pile of pig shit

by the hovel door

everywhere I go.

If you’ve read my work

you can’t say you don’t

know better. Cowards.

She doesn’t need to hear the words.

November 30, 2025

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

Get Real

I’m no

manic pixie dream girl

but I’ll slam shot after shot

of whatever the fuck

I’ve got going on, raw dog,

before I accept the mass delusion

that money is real.

I said all gold is fool’s gold,

normalcy bias a fatal flaw,

absolutely nothing about motherhood

is clean or subtle, cradle to grave,

farm to table, mound and maypole,

gash and guttural, bone and blood.

Oh I’m whimsical, cocktail molotov,

can drown those sorrows pretty papa,

or you can get in the car

’cause mama wants a concubine.

A companion,

I’m several hands full, keep that mouth

open. Eyes

on me. I’ll learn you a thing.

How to handle, I’ve got keys

to the kingdom, the language of dreams,

men cling to words

but I know what they mean.

The Diagnosis, bitch please,

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

miss me with that navel gaze,

you can be any way

and let ’em choke on it, your purpose

is not fit for consumption, to digest

yourself in their service. For profit. Listen,

the world is just

really big.

I’m not sayin’ it ain’t tough,

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

I’ve got strong arms and a warm heart,

ingredients and a wood fire oven

shaped like a fat blue fish

and that’s a pretty good start.

Making Biscuits

I like a bit o’ chatterbox,

come here turn those pockets out,

rocks, leaves, feathers, worms,

I’ll help you find a place

for all your little treasures,

they make sense to me.

Dove I don’t condescend, joy

is a lifelong domain. Flowers

in a mother’s garden. Her worst fear

for a child to fall silent

at any age. If it’s got a pulse

I’ve got the skill to cultivate.

Hell, even if it doesn’t.

I’ve said,

this world wasn’t made for us,

love we’re at disadvantage,

I know, I know it’s a lot,

some better girl or boy locked

behind a paywall, could have been

withdrawal, you from before.

Before. Before. You could just

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

I know.

There comes a time

you evaluate

the standard of life

you’re willing to accept.

Imagine then, however bad it gets,

that, but my hands in your hair,

a thick blanket,

my fingers lightly tracing your veins

on the porch in the rain,

I’ve lit candles, can murmur or sing

or observe the quiet, read

a silly story. Hold

you all night. Every night.

Make a meal

from next to nothing.

Whatever’s left to give,

I’ll take, it’s not my way

to stipulate uniform shape,

to morosely commiserate.

I am here

whatever you decide, please

don’t take offense

at my sunshine.

I’ll make a place

for you to thrive or die.

As an arborist might say,

the best time to plant

a tree

was thirty years ago.

The next best time

is today.

From Beneath You I Devour

So you weren’t born

to a good example. Ass end

of nowhere trailer, barely there

parents or straight toxic,

the addict early onset arthritis back bent

of workin’ class.

Callings and careers are what happen

to other people. Art is wonderful

but it won’t pay rent. College

equals ruinous debt.

Should you attend,

you’re surrounded by kids

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

they may have problems

but money ain’t one. Schools are funded

accordin’ to median income, there’s a chasm

miles wide and you’re alone

playin’ catch up.

Every fuckin’ day,

am I good enough?

Is this just what I deserve?

They don’t even look

at how much groceries cost, just fill their carts,

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

in the pantry knowin’ you’re allergic,

ate until your mouth bled

and your throat a closed fist o’ needles.

Knew just when to stop

because you couldn’t afford a doctor.

You feel more kinship

with that homeless woman off her meds,

who tags along whenever you’re downtown,

and shit, why take ’em?

So she can fully perceive

the abject despair of her situation?

Relive the rapes?

Front row seat

to humanity’s degradation.

Getting Help is a long wait

for a train don’t come.

There is no help without support.

This is what I’m talkin’ about,

sit the fuck down, look at me,

poverty is violence,

a deliberate choice of the upper class.

If they’re so great,

where are all the trees? Animals.

Clean air. Fresh water. Stars visible

to the naked eye. Food. Shelter.

They’ve built pedophile island instead.

There comes a time

you evaluate

the standard of life

you’re willin’ to accept.

Empty Chair

I’m always holding two hands

when I enter the room. The child

who just got here and the child

who became a mother too soon.

Neither understands

the needs of the other,

has the patience, the bandwidth.

A woman’s hips

aren’t fully developed

until she is twenty-five years old.

How old was yours?

With few exceptions,

the presence of a man

almost always

makes it worse.

He’ll see his wife,

mother of two, drink every day,

smoke blunts as soon as she wakes,

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

makes it fun, he don’t care.

Her Catholic parents frown.

We’ll be camping

and I’ll stumble across her

hiding behind a tree

from her kids,

getting high. She’ll be like,

shhh I’m not here,

I know I should stop

but I get so tired.

I can’t hear myself.

They’re so loud.

And smile and say

I’m not a natural at being a mother

like you.

You’re so good with them.

They don’t bother you at all.

You know so much

like my grandma.

And as always

I’ll respond

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

to grow up. Just because

a sapling blooms doesn’t mean

it’s ready to bear fruit.

Forcing harvest

forever stunts its growth,

overburdens its roots and limbs.

There’s a reason

human women evolved

to live on long past

menopause.

You’re not meant

to do this alone.

Hard Questions

Approximately 30%

of US households make 50k or less.

In this economy, that’s poor.

One hand out the grave dug every day at work.

One medical emergency away

from homeless or bankrupt.

Two full-time minimum wage jobs (rare)

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

You might rise above

if your family has money, connections,

or love.

People ask

why don’t we just stop

breeding.

Catholic.

Religion in general.

The pill fucks with your health.

Abortion costs one month’s rent

and the penis involved won’t drop a cent

wash his junk or wash his hands,

so that’s a UTI. At best.

That’s right class,

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

take a guess

which one most media depicts.

The most successful women among them

still got flesh on full display. Meat market.

Yeah, women could ignore men, forego sex,

one of the few…”pleasures” afforded to us

regardless of class and work together instead.

We’d be better off.

Kids won’t get shot to death

in school, have to cover

their tiny bodies

with their best friend’s blood

to survive

the tantrum of a boy girls didn’t like,

if they’re not there to begin with.

Holistic

People suck

at identifying specific stressors,

accurately calculating impact

of significant life events.

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

how you carry yourself, twitch, agitate

at slammed doors or certain words,

how, if, when you cry during a movie

and be like

ah,

your father was abusive.

Understood.

Developmentally you are…here.

Plants can’t tell you what’s wrong.

You gotta pay attention,

assess a person’s quiet—

not to be confused with silence—

a body isn’t separate nations,

it’s interconnected regions,

a web of climates

and growth habits.

I sense a storm brewing

leagues off

like some kinda

vest-on dog like

slow your roll ho you’re gonna

have a seizure, you’d think

I could smell brain chemistry.

Got them animal instincts.

An old schoolmate

who grew up nearby

might appear suddenly

in a panic, suspect

an overdose but can’t

afford the hospital,

where he could be deported,

but remembers

my house, my garden

like his abuelita. Hushes

his voice like its church.

Won’t go to his mama

because she’s Catholic.

Or I’ll receive messages

from friends hours away

after a 72 hour psych hold

saying that if I didn’t know

no one did. Balk a bit

when I suggest

their husband and kids

are the source of duress.

They’re women,

how could that be?

Catholic.

Gets those hooks in.

The mind

hot wires key associations,

that’s the control panel

for endorphins.

The reason

people reach out

take shelter, cry, hunker, expose,

is because the forgotten space

I occupy

is Tree. Forest. Queen on the chessboard.

Old lady in the cottage.

And the number one thing

a forest does

is slow

the sympathetic nervous system,

turn fight or flight

to rest and digest.

Regulars

A retired man, always Clown On,

so you know there’s somethin’,

I don’t prod.

I play along as he dissembles

at length. Some people just wanna

talk.

Suddenly he looks over

and notes…somethin’ in my face.

Hands on my hips, starin’ a distance.

He cracks a joke and I just say

I’m always thinkin’. Busy inside.

Then, sheepish, asks if I’m annoyed,

that it’s been brought to his attention

he wears on some folk.

I don’t mind at all, not a bit,

and that’s the truth

not customer service.

My boss comes out for a chat

and he segues to the topic

of his wife.

How the stress

of helpin’ him overcome alcoholism

turned her to drink herself

after lifelong abstinence.

The whole time endometriosis

ravaged everythin’ within reach, returned

even after hysterectomy.

After eight years of drink,

he came home and she was gone.

They found her body

in a motel outside Barstow.

He didn’t know

how extensive the scars

until they cut her open.

So he comes to the health food store.

Looks me in the eye then,

with a fragile smile,

and says you women, pause,

endure so much. Your pain

falls on deaf ears. You all

should be allowed to carry a gun

and shoot a man

whenever it hurts.

My boss is shocked.

I belly laugh

and that’s all he wants.

After he goes, she says his wits

are addled because of pills.

Opioid addict.

Or as I call it, Lovelost.

Demeter gives us a hint.

It’s a yellow rope

frayed at both ends

like the one Wagon Girl used

to tie her best shoppin’ cart

to our utility gate on Samhain.

Didn’t write her given name, just Wagon Girl

in crayon.

A partin’ gift.

We won’t be seein’ her again.

I wouldn’t use the word addled,

I won’t even call it sad,

and I understand well enough

the mash-up, the remix, listen,

I’ll make you a promise.

You can be a jokester

with a lame hind

in my garden so long as

you keep showin’ up,

as long as you can bear it,

keep puttin’ that grubby rope in my hand

and I’ll see about those edges.

Right now, extra cases of pickle juice.

Rosary

I list facts

like pits on a string.

Contemplation beads, I wake up,

let’s see, let’s see

what can be done, there’s maybe

fifteen years—yes fifteen, scientists

from their place of privilege

and proper speak

underestimate—

until 2C.

The most deadly natural disasters

are heatwaves.

They’ve not been looking right,

crops are already failing

as laborers drop dead

from renal failure, stroke, salt deficiency,

and heart disease

in Other Countries.

2/3 of Arizona’s farmland run dry.

If your food comes packaged

from a grocery store

you’re on borrowed time.

Women, land, water.

Everything else is noise.

A castle in the sky.

Governments whine, ladies,

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

any day now we’re gonna win,

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

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

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

A mere skirmish. We’ll just use drones.

Don’t you know I’m a hero,

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

once in a blue moon. Come back to bed.

This time

it’ll be different.

Serving Suggestion

Now some of you ladies

know all about this shit.

Anorexia nervosa

is the most lethal mental illness,

cases upwards 90% female—

which is fuckin’ crazy

’cause we’re the sex put max points

into famine resistance.

Persistence predator endurance.

We store fat subcutaneous

and dimple grip that shit at no danger

to our hearts. Estrogen protects,

hydrates, insulates, balances,

mineralizes bone, repairs neurons.

The fat on our hips and thighs

is rich in omega-3s, crucial

for brain development, plasticity,

and easing the symptoms

of menopause.

At my thinnest (against my will)

I could not even fit one leg

through the waist

of my mother’s wedding dress.

She stopped touching me

at two weeks old

and found a way

to fit back into her pants.

Take a shot any of it sounds familiar.

Every comment is a veiled insult,

ignores you if you need help,

saw your first period and left you

cryin’ on the floor with no explanation

whatsoever,

imagines shared faults if she wants to bond,

only your belongings are Mess,

doesn’t understand why you’d want

more than like five clothes,

that’s definitely enough

for groceries,

what do you mean

you’re hungry?

Ladies, how we doin’? Try not

to black out or piss your pants.

Someone’s kind to you

and she makes sure you know

she knows better, finds

their affection bizarre.

Says she’s ashamed

to have made such an evil

daughter,

because when a boy

kept touchin’ you

after you said stop

you put a pencil

through his fuckin’ hand

calmly and without remorse.

You’re right that’s specific.

If you use big words

or subtly correct logical fallacy

it’s a personal affront.

Tapes vicious diatribes

to your bathroom mirror

and bedroom door and bemoans

your attitude to everyone afterwards,

if you confront her about that she screams,

stomps, slaps your face, slams cupboards,

takes off

for six hours.

When she returns

pretends everything is fine.

Hell, she might even do somethin’ nice.

Of course, if questioned much later,

doesn’t remember.

All the while,

she asks you to try on that dress.

You get a boyfriend

and bring him by

’cause it’s hard to date

and hide where you live.

She fawns all over him

like your brother and dad

and constantly insists

you serve him a plate.

Female Rage

I never yell.

No matter how strong

my emotions, I scruff them

and hold them at arm’s length.

I will always, always communicate,

even if it’s just to say

I’ve got a situation, and we need

to revisit this subject at a later date.

I’m leaving now,

but I am not going away.

I am not angry, okay?

I just need to think.

Decompress. Percolate.

Though things are unlikely

to reach this point.

The one area

I managed to excel most in life,

is strong bonds. Any kind.

Gods stacked the fuckin’ deck

but I treat a person right.

Of your humanity

I never lose sight.

I always seek

to preserve dignity.

Yours and mine.

But when it comes to women

at large,

society does not feel the same.

Doctors in a blue state

point blank

ignored

my best friend’s obvious preeclampsia.

Said nothing was wrong. I warned

and warned and warned,

my Scottish foremother

delivered alone and went blind on the kitchen floor,

it’s the number one fatal complication, push,

and sure enough,

every single doctor blew her off.

Prescribed wildly inappropriate meds

for her worsening condition after birth.

Finally her husband

drove her to an emergency room

somewhere else

and made a huge fuss—

the man is not a natural at confrontation—

those doctors’ incompetence

risked multiple organ collapse,

called her husband and newborn back

to say goodbye, the priest

to read her rites.

She nearly died

because those blue state doctors

were too scared

to discuss potential termination.

She wouldn’t have. Catholic.

But my best friend

matters. Herself. A whole person.

She deserved

to hold her daughter

instead of be traumatized.

To be handled warmly

and given every option beforehand.

Pregnancy

is the most dangerous thing

a human body does.

Withholding information,

restricting choice, applying leverage

or perverse incentive

is attempted murder.

There was a panel on women’s health

and not a single woman present.

When the population dropped

after the invention of The Pill,

it wasn’t because men suddenly cared,

our defenses just improved, plus

they thought it would get them laid.

Found other ways to guarantee

workers and soldiers.

Gamble futures like it’s cards.

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

I’ll show you Atlas Shrugged, fuck ass

turned God’s house into a marketplace.

They nailed Him up so She would starve,

a cruel mockery of the Sacred Heart.

To be clear,

you do not sit at this table

with an opinion

when you’ve put forth

less real world effort,

incurred fewer lifelong consequences,

than it takes to give birth.

Paid the price off your own back

to carry every single one.

November 23, 2025

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

Cold out there and can’t get in

Scratchin’ those walls, how long has it been?

You’re wearin’ rags and chasin’ a match

Whose lips hold your name best

.

No need to speak, your heart is havin’ trouble

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

I can speak

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

My heart I’m singin’ low

.

We can lay together

No distance ever meant a thing

Stay right here forever

Until the seasons turn again

.

Where we’re goin’, that garden yeah

Made you a promise, if you were my man

And all their talkin’ clouded your mind

It was always me

Turn your head just a

.

Beat, beat, beat, your signals crossed and tangled

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

Find your feet

You can’t feel the heat yet but I

Speak, speak, speak, spinnin’ charnel into gold

.

We can lay together

No distance ever meant a thing

Stay right here forever

Until the seasons turn again

.

Mm-mm-mm-mm

Oh we lay, and we lay, and we lay

Mm-mm-mm-mm

We can lay together

Our night is always young like this

Stay right here forever

You’ll find a way to love again

My love will always rise again

I’ll always find my love

.

We can lay together

No distance ever meant a thing

Stay right here forever

Until the seasons turn again

.

Mm-mm-mm-mm

Mm-mm-mm-mm

.

@~^~

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

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

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

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

November 16, 2025

gothic romance, lyrics
Black Knight

Ovulation

Shit, been faithful as Penelope

waitin’ on Odysseus’ wack ass,

fuck the fuck’s this fool at?

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

go where my dogs at

and got ten leash in the hand,

whole high octane shep pack

and not a one got legs enough

get up on all that.

This right here, mama got back,

not just the kind rip ya pants,

break the bed, pray the bed ’cause

ain’t spine bumps all greyhound,

those dimples where it disappeared,

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

spent hours on the irons

so you’d stand a chance,

hun he gave up the ghost

but you’ve still got hands,

you’ve got hands and I want ’em,

just once ain’t ever enough,

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

put you out to pasture darlin’ right

right here, I promise I can be sweet,

I can be so

tender,

lazy strings so s-slow,

I can spell the shape

of your every need with my tongue

’til you’re the dark kinda soft

and lap that shit up. Waste not a drop.

It’s not enough.

Way the earth cleaves against root,

I take possession, I want

every inch of you. Give me color,

quiver, mouthfeel. Lips

on the bob of your throat. Arms

up over head, I’ll hold you down

while you decompose, this is how

mama makes

music.

Divination

Like a man gets me in my feelins,

daisy chainin’ patience tap a trunk,

waits a season if he must, mannered mouth,

dog deep in the sugars when they come,

s-sticky sap that muzzle shut

all the time it took,

oh he’s in it now.

Wove an arch, willow whipped ablaze,

marked the hollow where we’ll lay,

he’ll be a busy busy boy indeed much

much longer than a year and a day,

fix his pretty crown and drag

him all the way down

to bless this Beltane gate.

Pick the leaves from his hair,

trace the flats of his hands,

fingers love slicked double dipped

with our scent, my boy knows it,

has the taste, the palate,

lay and lay again, singin’ sinews

where he’s bent, x marks the spot,

a circlet every wheel spoke

made of any everythin’ around

for my favorite, my only one,

oh you know you know a man

is only God

the moment of his death. His woman

gives that to him.

Intoxication

What can I say,

I grew up on Mead Lane,

mama likes a frenzy, she inebriates,

blanket for his back, ridin’ just enough rough,

nape exposed and thigh sized up,

we’ll find out if this simple stud

has the makins of a King.

Honey when I say I want him hung,

I’m talkin’ Odin’s absolute surrender,

flyin’ fuck ’bout manhood ’cause he wants

to Know.

Gotta do to get there, banfilid blood drunk

battle madness, blade of the poetess

plungin’ at his heart. You know I fuck

with some mixed media,

one part science and two part metaphor

shaken on the rocks. Capsized.

No glass baby boy, open wide

open, tense shift perspective bump,

don’t ask who that was, wanna

see stars in your eyes when it’s

when it’s done. Give me tears

after one shot, swallow hard

and feel me burn. Belly twitch.

Amber lit hairs, buttered limbs slip

and slide, don’t care what’s next

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

you know

valkyries are swan maidens.

Confession

Call me Lancelot ’cause I’d fuckin’

risk it all,

wreck a table, a house, a kingdom

over true love. Fuck’s a grail got?

God? Hah. See you’re Guinevere

in this scenario, it’s not the chromosomes,

it’s the calluses, the seasoned touch,

horse ought to be wild and willin’,

let run, not fancy in a barn,

I want your hair down, guard

unlaced, or you weren’t wearin’ it,

let me know your plans tonight,

who your rider is.

I’m easy on the reins,

my legs do the navigatin’,

happy holdin’ on a bit, idle ya,

cradle strength of a pulse content,

swell and spent of each breath shared,

I said forever and that’s what I meant,

stars as my witness fervent, an oath,

some must be broken and others upheld,

swearin’ on God, King, or Country well,

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

barbed wire barrier call the shrike impale

traitors to the Sacred Heart herself,

among brambles rampant, berry stained,

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

where we’d go if we just left tonight,

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

into the wild.

Oh if Love were always convenient,

we’d never understand sacrifice,

fletch the pain required to fly,

where no two spirits more alike,

as if fine-tuned from on high,

every shiver wish sprung alive,

the final kiss on every bitter why,

society may scorn and decry,

who knows not their self entire,

knows naught of true desire,

fire pure. We’re here on Earth

to keep each other warm.

Ride.

Remission

By now I’ve got a reputation,

and people jump the chance

to think a woman crazy, but see

that even keel I’ve maintained,

if run aground by thrashin’ waves,

it was never ’cause of that.

My ghosts are subtle, tasteful, even kind,

like damn you a busy bitch never mind,

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

More than five.

Faintly clown the laundry song in bed

once or twice,

left my warm cocoon, very funny guys.

Mostly that front’s quiet as a mass grave.

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

You know how a life threatenin’ infection

can put an autoimmune disease in sleep mode?

How a chronic ache can temporarily subside

if you like…stab yourself? Burn your palm.

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

Remember Eddie and Venom?

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

anyway,

they’re buddies. It’s all…good. Fully

assimilated if not strictly blendin’ in.

Maybe worry about the apocalypse,

or bein’ dirt poor in America.

Or! That tablet papyrus whatever

written by some old codger to his spawn

tellin’ him to marry a good-time girl,

known to her village, let her be loud

and indulge herself, do not deny her,

for a joyful nature

marks calm waters,

smooth sailin’.

Benediction

This mouthpiece drippin’ blood,

bids a hollow muscle size of a fist

to pump.

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

and I’m not one to hesitate or deviate,

dead or alive what’s owed to me,

a matter of semantics when a goddess

takes a mate.

The command for either is the same,

and man’s only job ever been

sing pretty, give baby, be jolly and die.

The good way. Winged kisses huntin’

on a hedge maze, struck

by tooth or thorn or claw, variety

is spice. The many shapes

I take pleasure in. To be my One

is to check the Other box, Pandora not,

you were never locked, mine own heart

from the very start. No fatal form

I can’t recognize, improvise. Not my fault

they can’t handle what they see inside.

I’m bright.

The secret sun of a moonless sky,

what heat yet writhes in your veins,

or in your loins navigate by.

It’s my design. Men think they rise

to meet the divine. Some lofty Daddy

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

A spoiled child’s cry.

Make your bed and act right.

Any woman knows each month,

where we stood and bore the pulp,

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

so we’d outpace extinction,

strove every step to develop humans.

Graciously await the day

you give back what you took,

return to Her, there is no great Above,

just a froth of stars in a tomb endless,

the gift of consciousness diminishes,

slips further from your desperate grip,

smothers if you cling to it. We learn young,

circadian and infradian rhythms, submit to sleep,

weaned from mother’s milk with lullabies,

rottin’ grown teeth sucklin’ that I,

we take our pain with our paradise,

all that grace your plate reminds,

you become life.

November 9, 2025

gothic romance, rap-ish, rematriation, storytelling
Lachryphagy

Do It Weird

The best roommate I ever had,

after we hung out twice,

showed up at my apartment

one year later, after hackin’

into the university mainframe

to find my address

and said

“I love you.

Let’s be roommates.”

To be clear,

she already had a place,

she just decided

she’d rather live with me.

And since that sure was somethin’

I said alright.

One night

on the other side of our studio

in the dark she asked,

“Do you cry yourself to sleep a lot?”

“…yeah.”

“Wanna go get ice cream?”

You know what, “Yeah.”

Look, neither of us

were playin’ with a full deck,

firin’ on all cylinders, you know,

so, midnight ice creams, drivin’ ’round,

pinky promised to always eat dinner

together no matter what was goin’ on,

takin’ turns to cook,

kept her dick conveyor belt

out the house, always checked in

clockwork like I was her pimp

or her mom.

Runnin’ from the cops,

trickin’ the nastiest creeps

we could find on Craigslist

into the Mandarin Buffet parkin’ lot

for a bit o’ booby trap,

watchin’ on our bellies from the balcony

like catfish Batmans.

She always made me eggs and coffee

when I was up late writin’ essays,

with cheese, for my brain.

Held her hand

for her lady appointments

literally.

Broke my classmate’s windshield

because he thought “group project”

meant “date”

just for a dramatic escape.

When the day came

to part ways, she revealed

(formally) that she had BPD

and had been off her meds

the entire time.

I was like,

yeah.

How was it?

She said all the worst

symptoms were so much less

when I was around. Manageable.

Didn’t have confidence in herself

until now. Her former psychologist,

appointed by her guardian

hadn’t kept her best interest

at heart. Their goal

had been to compel docility. Compliance.

Like how hospitals, when faced

with a woman in agony,

are more likely to administer

sedatives or tranquilizers

instead of pain killers.

There’s a difference,

and it’s sinister.

No, we weren’t normal.

Nope not at all.

But we sure were

somethin’.

(She found a better shrink

and better meds

by the way.)

Show Your Work

A professor almost accused me

of plagiarism. He wanted proof

that I didn’t copy my essay

word for word

from a professionally published paper.

What he got

was a notebook doodle read

Dionysus v. Pentheus

with a mess o’ swirls explodin’ off

the former, one daisy sproutin’

off the D. My boy got a flower

’cause he’s good.

Pentheus got nothin’

’cause fuck him.

I am a simple woman.

I do not take notes.

My concepts and theses emerge

fully formed from the sea foam.

Have I mentioned

this class

was at 8am?

No.

I do not show up

when it’s borin’, especially

if it’s a sausage fest, I do not

enter class discussion

with people who tense

at the word

anarchist.

I sit down

for a written final

and do it in iambic pentameter,

drop two sonnets at the end,

and hope extra credit

neutralizes the attendance score.

Proof.

The nerve.

Like men ain’t imprison

every woman alive, invent church, order cheek swabs,

blood tests, have the whole court watch ’em fuck,

just so they can tell themselves

they’re the father

and still skip child support.

‘Bout to choke your ass

with this umbilical cord.

Sober

It’s hard to explain

unless you’ve been,

I’d walk around in the cold

cryin’ all night, not loud, just

breathin’, frozen tracks down my face.

Nearly every night. Like my ancestors

said you gotta keep movin’ or die.

Waves and waves of gnawin’ ache.

So if I struggled, a stranger by day,

that’s why.

For this there’s no name.

No substance to blame. I don’t do drugs,

I just cry. Sorry, gotta go,

it’s high tide. I know,

a few minutes ago I was fine.

Got chilled green tea bags

for my eyes.

There was a woman

I meant to be, but she was not

inside.

There’s a moment

at first light when the tears

are spent. Refracted beams

through heavy, glistenin’ lashes,

a dewy dawn palette and birds

peep, chitter, and stir. Fog wisps.

It’s not numb.

We made it.

Have I mentioned

that class

was at 8am?

Fuck.

OCEAN

Theory is,

your core personality, your nature,

is more or less established

between ages five and eight,

by which time your subconscious

has achieved summation of your environment,

knows what you must become

to survive.

If your caregivers were responsive,

showed genuine delight in your presence.

This is your root, your medicine.

Change

beyond this point, purposeful or perverse,

requires extraordinary duress,

extreme effort.

Our acronym means:

Openness, Conscientiousness, Extraversion,

Agreeableness, Neuroticism.

Most of my friends

have been bright, vibrant, warm

and loud. Saw a hideous gutter bird

and said that’s my girl.

The sunniest spot

of my college career

was the most well adjusted person

I have ever met. Not without skeletons.

Discovered I too grew up on a diet

of Within Temptation and Theatre of Tragedy

and kept a bottle of olive oil on the toilet tank

and knew right away

we were soulmates. We’d always

get along. That was it.

I was her person.

And you know me by now.

I was built to boo up.

I love to love.

Grandpa just about never

put me down

So there we were,

proper meals and all,

if she put her hand in mine

all a sudden now and then

that’s just how it go.

A massive bang shook the store,

everythin’ went dark, and both

of us immediately grabbed each other

with our off-hands

and weapons in the right. Full Neanderthal.

‘Bout to go ape shit some fool pop out.

Didn’t occur to me until she said so,

’bout her havin’ PTSD. Said it was less

when I was around. That was somethin’.

Well of course, with her big heart, determined

as Dawn dish soap on oil tarred feathers,

we were sittin’ at Starbucks

talkin’ ’bout class and she said

that on the surface I was like

a corpse pterodactyl with spikes and poison,

cold as moonlight, basically a demon.

But that’s not who I was inside.

She said the truth,

if someone really looked, they’d find

I was a phoenix. I burned

hotter and brighter than the sun.

I was fight, fire, and love.

And man I tried to be nonchalant,

how do you even take a compliment like that?

Literally no one on Earth

had ever believed in me more. I still cry.

Anyways, remember your root.

Ask not why your ship is haunted, derelict,

got shot by cannons and shit, what matters

is who’s at the helm.

Othala

Got more old friends than Aragorn,

broody, distant, and wistful ’cause

I’m always missin’ someone,

never had a full house

but sure would like one sometime.

A family that’s mine.

You might ask

why your mama got

hair like a crone, well

when I was young

I gathered up the hungry, lonely ghosts

and brought them all home,

housed them in my bones,

listened

and felt all their pain unheard,

so that you wouldn’t have to.

I may have been small,

but I wasn’t scared.

The greater the hunger,

the hotter I burned.

That’s why we live way up here

with volcanoes and white mountains,

where some ice never melts.

As for why your daddy’s Like That, well,

I like hair, whimsy, and mischief.

I am a simple woman.

I love consistency and can’t abide boredom.

Weren’t gonna be no normie’s bones

laid down beside mine.

Called every favor

in my stars just to produce a creature

has the timbre of all my nights underfoot,

the range for these acoustics, the right touch,

knows a fuck thing ’bout the places I’ve been,

anythin’ approachin’ what it takes to be my man,

could say I invented who don’t exist. So I tell ya

he’s around.

You might ask

if you’ll know the ghosts too,

gods the whole world’s drowned but

ghosts are your mama’s medicine—

yours may prove different entirely—

and they’ll take their rest

when I do.

Compound Fracture

Where did they come from?

Well by now you’ve noticed

the only other person wears your face

is me. My mama. Her mama.

Once,

the Earth was green.

Our people lived

in the forests and swamps

of the Mississippi Delta

and beyond.

Imagine everywhere there’s asphalt,

nothin’, and cement. Brick.

It was trees. Our neighbors

cared for grasslands vast as an ocean,

waves crested with tails silver and golden.

The night sky was a great river of stars and spirits.

There were more kinds of life

than names given for.

The air breathable. The water drinkable.

Even the sun was kind.

Our foremothers protected the Mother Mound.

Everyone. Our people loved

to see somethin’ of the wild

in a face, such as beasts or birds.

High cheekbones, aquiline nose,

fine, angular features. We were known

also as Long Hairs.

The face was not round and wide

as a child’s, we did not aim

to pose for pictures

or live in a screen starin’ at ourselves,

to be easily digestible.

We were out there

with all our winged and many legged

sisters, brothers, and cousins.

Then the colonizers came.

The rape of the Americas

was the largest genocide

in human history.

In one century, a heartbeat,

they murdered 90% of her tribes,

about 1/5 of the world’s entire population

at the time.

The land

stripped first of her protectors,

then of her trees. Those white folk,

they invented hunger. Famine. Brought disease.

Loved coin more than the forest,

paid no love or respect at all

to their women, who were chattel.

Allowed no freedom or choice.

Bred to death.

They poisoned the mind

with religion. Kept the body weak.

You do not see your face

because they killed us all.

Nearly all.

Our bones

can only echo, a wail

barely begins to describe

everythin’ we lost.

November 2, 2025

climate change, family, rematriation, Samhain, storytelling
October 31st

Night Blooming

Grandpa who raised me

until I was eight, my world,

was many things.

Musician, singer, athlete, carpenter,

biology major, mechanical engineer

in the army. One thing in particular

bound us together. Enraptured

by Disney’s Fantasia, until the VHS

burned through.

To everyone else it made no sense.

No words, only instrumentals

set to wildly diverse animations,

stories within stories, a full orchestra.

The first creative experiment

of its kind.

Everything, everywhere, all at once.

But no matter how you mix it up,

there’s a universal thread,

and trained to its tension

you’ll always find your way.

He dropped dead in my bathroom.

I don’t remember much for a bit

after that.

Staring at the back of a pew

wondering why the adults were so sad.

When someone bothered to check,

I was just playing pretend

with my makeshift toys

minding my business on the trailer floor

for hours.

My parents warned my teachers

of potential disruption. Upset.

Grandpa had been

my favorite.

I was a perfect angel.

Silent. Tranquil. Stoic. So much so,

my handsy and unruly

assigned seat peers

quickly learned to mind

direction.

Who loved me best

was someplace within

and I strove to reach him.

Nourishment.

Outside

there was not much.

In fact, much, much less.

If I tried sharing myself

it was either a stone wall

or a listless stare followed by

“…cool.”

The only place

I ever belonged had gone

somewhere. The last man

who ever saw me. Person

in general. Whole.

It’s okay, you can just

decide not to be alone

without anyone’s help.

Be someplace else yourself.

A double life. Hidden

realm.

Perhaps

they thought it mercy

to never acknowledge

or encourage me, a bloom

barren soil couldn’t afford

to feed.

Always the one mouth

too many.

Better to remain

a misspent seed. For so long

I agreed. I was allowed books

because those were free.

From the library at least.

I was nobody

from nowhere with a future

of nothing.

Unseen.

Until quite recently. Tonight,

a Zuni story about the plant Datura

tells of a girl and a boy

who found a secret path to the surface

from the underworld. Together.

Twins. They made themselves

flower crowns

and gained power over dreams,

sleep, and the dead. These gifts

weren’t meant to be imposed

upon mortals above ground.

When the sun gods found out,

they didn’t send them back down.

The forbidden twins vanished

hand in hand.

Their flowers grow where they went,

where they left, but nothing really leaves

that exists. Those sun gods took credit, but.

Some phantom scent

dispersed at dawn.

Something slips

from the corner of your eye.

Datura is a Solanaceae,

pollinated by sphinx moths,

associated with indigenous shamans

and the ancestors, roots

used under strictest protocols, methods

honed over generations.

Absolutely toxic, never safe,

the smallest piece is dangerous, concentration

so unpredictable once taken form

that it’s impossible

to calculate a consistent dose. Do not touch.

Just as only the plant knows how much

poison is where, only your ancestors

can train this…gift. Pray they are kind,

their love thick and honeyed golden as mine,

your shadows readily sit pretty

and feed from fingertips, barest brush.

Make good with your dead.

It’s effects

include extreme psychosis, that is

auditory and visual hallucinations, vivid

and completely indistinguishable from reality—

Waking nightmares, no euphoria and never pleasant.

Eldritch delirium.

It can take away your pain

as a maker of ghosts. What you become.

Keeps you under for surgery or

to set a bad break. Fine line that or

total central nervous system collapse.

Stormy behavior. Depression. Panic attacks.

Permanent brain damage.

Blackouts. Holes.

Missing memories.

Death.

October 31, 2025

family, Samhain, storytelling
Baby’s First Jacket Spikes

Microburst

For when they don’t wanna

use the T word. Like the wind

makes a fist and boxes

some roofs off, throws

some furniture

into the neighbor’s yard

blocks down,

and by that I mean

half your house

and also the power grid.

Used to be rare.

The night I wrote Blackthorn

I went to bed early and woke

abruptly at midnight.

There hadn’t been a single cloud

in the sky for many miles

but tree chimes don’t lie.

A storm was outside.

Weather app transmission cut off

hours prior. Clear through dawn.

Not.

My willows swayed and shook,

but I know my work,

knew their strong arms

would hold, their roots

firmly anchored.

Sudden temperature drop.

The cats stood guard but noted

my lack of concern. Thunder,

lightning, rain.

My preferred lullaby.

Something-omething spicy brains and ions.

The thing about acacia willows,

they’re pioneer trees.

Fast growing nitrogen fixers.

Favorites of livestock, birds, and bees.

You gotta keep ’em trimmed back

and train hard for a trunk

when they’re young. Seedlings.

Be aggressive.

They get ahead of themselves.

Regardless, at least once,

they’ll take a tumble.

Hit the ground real good.

All scraped, sappy, and raw.

No matter how bad it looks

do not give up.

Clean the open wound

and bandage those trunks

whatever position or predicament

they find themselves in.

Wait.

The city and your snotty neighbors

will complain. Tell them fuck off.

Over time

your willows will stand upright,

pull from their own strength.

They will not fall again.

When the next storm hits

yours will be the only house

undamaged.

Out of Order

What’re all the willows for?

That’s when you speed run

barren salty silt to forest floor.

If there’s no mycelium, microbes,

worms, more, then

that’s not soil. It’s dirt. Silent screamin’.

This task,

havin’ to terraform your own

fuckin’ planet

requires biomass. Lots and lots

of death. Decay. Compost. Mulch.

Topsoil should never be exposed.

Leave those fuckin’ leaves

right where they fell.

On the ground where they belong.

Fuck you and the grass lawn

you rode in on. Or in Arizona’s case,

rocks.

No poison, no lawnmower,

no fuckin’ herbivores in one spot too long.

If you want more than a homely number—

it takes not much to feed your whole town—

expect predation and do not interfere.

Fuck your profit margins and your bottom line.

You do not have the right.

Fun fact:

pesticides cause

breast and cervical cancer.

Women have highly absorbent

skin. Much like geckos

whom your yard can’t support

if there’s any contaminants at all.

Don’t even get me started

on plastics and petroleum. Fuckin’ oil.

You get the picture.

What’s done to women

is done to the Earth.

We are one.

What doesn’t serve us

is an affront to life.

A dogma viral,

an extinction spiral.

So there’s me in the moonlight,

ten trees to start, ten more on the way,

with elemental sulfur, blood meal, and wood chips

because suicide looks a lot like a pH of 10,

rippin’ up the entire yard

of rocks.

Fuck off.

Reverb Recall

“Hi mom.”

A little, very small,

from the clothes rack jungle

of my first job

found me folding on the floor

and sat down

gazing daisy-eyed at my face

awaiting instruction.

Ignored his dad

who finally stage whispered

“That’s not your mom,” and

“are you helping?”

Further on, I watched

a silly show about angels,

an episode about the daughter

of the Morning Star

whose human mother wept

when she saw her wings

were blades. Feathers razor sharp.

She traveled back in time—

an ability not even God possessed—

to course correct

and beat the shit

out of her dead beat dad. Asked

what horror

made her daughter become a weapon.

She assured, her most frightening traits

manifested from deepest love

for her mother. Power where she’d had none.

A champion.

The very moment

she came home on screen

the wind picked up

and beat the door.

My formerly feral kitten

silently tumbled into my lap

to cozy in my knotted

skirt swag. A hammock.

Lights flickered. All at once.

“Hi mom.”

See I’ve a wide memory,

swallows detritus and details like the sea,

and something’s always

waiting.

It occurred to me

that it’s never Help Daddy,

it’s Hail Mary.

Everything Matters

The kitten Maize,

a scrappy tortoise shell

I’d taken,

lured from the crackhead cat house—

no judgment, someone’s gotta

hold ’em down,

one of my best friends

is the traumatized daughter

of a bipolar crack ho,

and we all know

bipolar is the new hysteria.

Idk you’re a woman idgaf.

I digress—

she needed

antibiotics for her eyes,

crusted by infection. So small.

I doted

on her little sneezes.

Massaged her baby lungs.

She remained partially blind

but that didn’t slow her down,

she radiated

happiness and love

all she’d ever known.

Always in my skirt

whether I sat or worked.

One night she slipped out

and our street a favorite

for speeding cars,

reckless drivers. So I didn’t look up

when I heard some asshole

bottom out, no muffler.

I knew something was wrong

when her absence,

her lack of checking in,

threw the rhythm of the house off.

I went outside

and immediately spotted

her smashed body’s silhouette

on the pavement. I knew.

I knew. And I still

cry about it, I always will.

If you wonder

why I tense up, agitate,

whenever a car’s too loud. Too fast.

Wrong kind of bump in the bed.

She never stood a chance.

I scooped her up, wracked

with sobs and buried her,

I don’t stand ’round let the grass grow.

Found out my biker neighbor

across the way

had been awake and moved to help

but her husband died recently

and soon as she heard me

on the black road

she just stopped

stricken with tears herself.

Strays

A few things.

Big water and small water

are the same, always

returns to the source.

I do hit a segue, throw

from left field.

Animal companionship

is a human right

and that is a hill

you will die by my hand, don’t

try to debate.

Often what halts

an elder’s sharp decline

is a new kitten or puppy

to replace the one that died.

They are not lesser lights,

the richer your soul their lessons mind,

how there’s no one right way to be,

a hand’s a hand’s a friend to these.

Take my man Jackson Galaxy,

a distressed musician who nursed

a sick cat and in so doing

saved himself. Many such tales.

They’re his life’s work now.

A family called him for help

when their cat went off the rails,

at a loss, didn’t want to give her up,

behavior suddenly unpredictable,

she’d shredded both arms

on their very young son.

Galaxy’s last ditch effort

revealed that a jarring sound

from an open door, once,

had left her scarred—

You know, PTSD

was studied and treated in dogs

long before soldiers,

but “real doctors” looked down on vets

and no one listened—

A moment they thought

nothing of

reshaped her world.

A creature of fractures,

triggers.

Ultimately

the parents asked their son

what he wanted to do.

Still hurting and very scared,

he wouldn’t see her go,

he’d help her find solid footing

himself.

Use every cat daddy trick in the book.

This was his girl.

Well of course

there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Like Galaxy says,

never without tears,

every cat

deserves a home.

Tombstone

Like any Arizona girl

born in a whole wide dry

river bed of rock bottoms

worth her weight

in salt and burrs,

I’m versed in westerns

and Lord,

I may have been like twelve,

but I fuck with that

southern drawl

disaster gunslinger dandy shit,

boy be prone to melancholy and like

all the drugs,

default drunk. A real Dionysus

hot mess.

Val Kilmer killed it.

Doc Holliday is my fuckin’ man.

Learned everything I know

’bout how to handle weaklings and bullies

from Wyatt Earp. Barely restrained

straight laced tiger in a cage.

Of course they’re Best Fuckin’ Friends,

it’s a mystery how they even met, in retrospect,

dentists doubled as surgeons back then—

that’s right, lung hackin’ piano guy is also a dentist,

god they just let people do whatever—

so maybe Earp got shot.

Strange pairs are my catnip—

Lucy and Quincey

deserved happily ever after,

fuck you Stoker, I love my goth boy waifs

but I always roll

yolo yeehaw, ranged dps raid tank mama,

pull up with my bards and spam debuff,

like a bask maw gator with a butterfly crown

kissy sippin’ on my salt,

anyhow, dad thought it funny as fuck

when I invoked the spirit

of the handlebar mustache.

Disneyland? Saloon wench?

Nah.

One hit KO showdown at the O.K. Corral

’bout to Land Back black bag some rabid dogs,

hats off for the law of bad mom pistol whip,

watch how fast I dig a ditch,

s-s-six feet and then some when I say get gone,

let the let the bodies hit the floor,

battle gimme good good vibrato real low,

I’ll be your baby maker undertaker say ah,

drop a beat so hard I nasty necromance,

check your sullen ass tryna cut a glance,

think yourself a man,

don’t make me waste a glass.

I, I, I digress.

In my thug feelins

when our besties ride out

to balance the scales,

too many men eyes bigger’n their stomachs

and killin’ what’s left,

Earp become the dark hand

of some kinda law

and Doc’s on his last legs

sayin’ he’s the only reason

he ever had any hope at all.

His last wish

is for Earp to light the fuse

on that socially acceptable bomb

and blow it all up

to pursue his true love,

a free spirit Lady Devil, his Rhiannon,

no plan here I am where will we go,

just once what he woulda done

ever had fortune to find the One,

which he does. And that’s all

well and good but shit,

have you considered,

what if

Wyatt Earp were a woman?

Nemesis

Well we just watched

s2e2 and reiterate:

Ingrid Derian is the best

character on Watson

and the best thing to happen

to Sherlock Holmes period,

as a public domain body of work

and may I just take a moment to say

whatever fuckin’ song they play

at the start, that’s a voice,

haven’t looked it up yet

on account of distraction,

wasn’t focused on lyrics, but it’s like

bruises and cat tongues and I feel very

witch from Hansel and Gretel about it,

like come see me in the forest baby,

don’t mind my teeth,

get yo ass up in my kitchen

’bout to put somethin’ in the oven,

whole baker’s dozen son, fist full

of my favorite spice

on this episode of Master Chef.

I digress.

That shit wrote itself, how the fuck

those writers fumble a voice that fine

on a scene so lame. No chemistry.

Goddamn shame.

By the way, Sherlock doesn’t use

an imprecise term. Nemesis.

He is correct, people forget

she is a daughter of Nyx.

The path you walk,

its underside,

darkest truth

on the edge of a knife, a sword arm,

death to the deceiver, severance

of fruits undeserved, for which

you did not labor, exsanguinator

of hubris. Failure

to honor the gifts of the gods.

Hone them. Wield them.

Remember the Dark Mother.

Zeus ain’t fuck shit.

When their father

broke her sister’s back

and all her professional betters

turned theirs, saw the truth

and hung up their hands,

sent a girl

with useless legs and no defense

home to an abuser,

Ingrid showed steel

as the eldest and made

absolute certain

he could never lay a hand

on her sister again.

Ever again.

People fancy themselves champions,

agents of the greater good, have cake

and eat it too, but the price

of truly protecting

even just one, to serve a cause,

see it done,

is always blood.

Your field of fucks

should be a Shire of burial mounds.

Ingrid clocks that tricky bastard,

“alien hand syndrome” trust fund dipshit,

and says there’s one way for sure

to reduce the violent hand’s motor functions

to zero.

Be still my heart.

My girl. Get ’em.

You know, “sociopath”

is just how they pathologize

justice at a woman’s hand,

frequently a man dead,

premeditated without regret,

dispatched in calm fashion,

tit for tat the evil he’s done,

just takin’ out the trash.

People’s favorite horse to trot,

a real woman, Aileen Wuornos

had the only sane and measured

response to the first and worst

form of slavery. Prostitution.

She did nothing wrong.

Every single one of those men

got what they deserved.

Money changing hands

is never consent. Entertainment.

First or second hand rape.

They deserved worse,

that’s right clutch those pearls

at the law of the wild

unto Herself.

It’s always self defense.

Full Metal Alchemist

Captain Bible Thump himself

said God would throw me down

to Hell

on account of bein’ a witch,

oh he meant it,

see also: a woman

with spirit and opinions,

uncomfortable questions,

and gods bless him,

MENSA Quantum Physics

fuckin’ had enough. Sick to death

of this kid’s shit. Not usually one

for confrontation, in the spirit

of schoolyard one-upmanship said

I’d just go down there and overpower Satan,

eat him

like fuckin’ Cronos and take

his place in the vacuum left behind,

then I’d finish the fight he fuckin’ started

and eat God. The universe

would be reborn in my image.

There is no sin I commit.

Flamboyant Gay Bass,

son of a Mexican pastor,

cackled in C2 for emphasis

and said “Fuck Him.”

Fuck around enough

and people be willin’ to build

a bridge of broken bodies

just for one clean shot at God.

Pig iron

for a Lance of Longinus

in the hands of a woman

bringin’ Heaven to Earth.

Boys.

Soldiers.

My Bass,

all he sound a grown man

payin’ taxes buyin’ socks and shit,

was my Baby. Saw the writing

on the walls before he was a teen

and said bullies not today.

Sometimes boys wear pretty things

and that’s okay.

Had to talk him down

from suicide

because of his dad and

I do not forgive. Thank stars

his last impulse before the end

was to check in. Graveyard shift

pinch hitter.

Styx not today.

I took great care

many great pains,

on this particular pair of wings.

Once you go black

you never go back

hits different

when I do it.

His dad disowned him

when he said

everything he ever learned

about being a real man

he learned from me,

I was ten times

the size he’d ever be,

God is nothing, hollow inside,

and so is he.

Told me his only faith,

the two of us laughing

so hard we cry in the rain, synchronized,

the same gestures and off hand remarks

at the exact same time. At the Big Bang

his atoms must have been born

next to mine.

Bright Children of the Night.

Blood is the secret ingredient,

how a Friend becomes Best.

Brought me flowers

on Father’s Day.

When he left, flew the nest,

he never looked back again,

and that’s okay.

October 26, 2025

climate change, Land Back, love, punk, rematriation, spooky season, storytelling