tiny meager mighty things

How do we hear what speaks in echoes?

if we hush our breath

can we hear the ancestors dance?

is that my ancestor’s skirt rustling in the wind?

who but the gods can tell

with their journals full of secrets

like Laplace and his demon

chronicling memories of the past

creating infinite space for future dreams

Isis

sits scrawling lazily

tiny meager mighty things

Icarus

spreads their wings and shoots

directly into the sun

on earth we call it lightning

as their wings fall from the clouds

feathers scatter then burn

before ever reaching ground

Thinning fabric

We broke up the other day, I’m trying to pretend not to notice

Truth to tell we were never really together

I try to recall the times you’ve broken my heart

I’ve let them fade into the fabric of our story

Fabric worn thin by my worrying hands retracing patterns again and again

Trying to commit us to memory

I glance at your piece of our cloth, you’ve cut out bits of us, leaving patches in our truth

I wonder if you remember what it looked like before you erased us

Does your mind recall how beautiful we were?

Threads woven together bright and dark, hazy and shining

Like sun breaking through clouds after a raging storm

These days, you see only the storm, can only take in the chaos

Should your fingers try to retrace us, they’d find holes held together by trivial pieces of our memory

I still see us, breaking boldly through clouds

Weaving our story together with threads of tenderness, laughter and pain

How could you cut us apart?

I’ve kept my piece intact; fingers retrace our history at times lovingly, at times mournful

Feeling always where we’ve thinned out

Our fabric is worn, the time has come to put us away

Tracing patterns once more I fold us up and place us in my dresser, next to old faded sweatshirts of love gone by

What you choose to do with your fabric, I have no say

For my part, I’ll keep mine hidden and safe

Neatly folded and forgotten as we carry on the aimless game we play

We broke up the other day and today, the sun is hidden away

Skies are dark, dreary and grey, contented to stay that way

Mad as Hell

Cant you see your ignorance brings pain
Over and over and over again?

Tell me, what do you get 

From being an insufferable fucking twit?
I’d smack hard upon your face

If I thought for a second it would make you change
But your ingnorance is so deeply ingrained

It’s not astounding to see you have no shame

Benefiting from bodies lain

Casually in unmarked graves
Where will you be in a hundred years

When all that remains of us are your tears

Trickling down your pale white face

As buildings burn and what’s left of your race
Are sitting on the searing coals

With nothing to eat and only each other to hold?

Open Adoption

I used to check the mailbox every day

looking for something with my name

written in loose cursive,

with a Georgia postage stamp

telling me you love me

I dream of that mailbox

barren and sad, creaky door

flaccid flag, with nothing inside

I dream of ups drivers and big brown parcels,

just for me

I read your letters

to my mother

the woman who raised me

I hear the pain in your hand

when you ask why she doesn’t write

I’m sorry she didn’t write

I’m sorry for what was stolen from us

I’m afraid you’ve died

I look up your name in the obituaries online

like a ritual

So many have died

None are your age

It’s mothers day and my dreams say

I have repressed rage

I always thought it was a super power

Being able to stash it away, but

now there is only pain

and feeling afraid

My dreams tell me

I can’t live this way

Charlie Was a Sinner…

You like that 

I want you

enjoy the way

I tense 

When you press your

breasts against me

It excites you,

I can tell

but 

I’m not here to play

this is not a game

I want with my soul

Not my cunt

You press your breasts

against me

Then 

tell me to run 

These Women…

I’m attracted to women the world says are broken.

They drink plenty of water, out of bottles and jugs. They’ve lived a hard life. Know what it takes to make themselves get up in the morning. I’m attracted to women who see their scars as blessings. Who fight daily to survive. To exist.

The world judges these women. Calls them reckless, lost. They’re not. They’re on a quest to find themselves, searching in cracks and crevices rarely visited by daylight. Turning over rocks and pawing through the damp, musky dirt, unearthing broken seeds, and crushed rotting leaves with insects dancing across them. These women sit and watch life, in all its forms. You’ll find them on bar stools and in alleyways staring at the stars, if they can find them though the din. Always watching, looking, a passive sort of quest.

black madonna.jpg

The world which was shown them was harsh and cruel, and attacked at such a young age that it forced them to retreat into themselves, crawl into the haven of their minds and close the door. Lock it shut with barricades of chairs and dressers and books. A haven from the world they were too young to escape, one which guides and weaves them through life as adults.

Adult children, refusing to grow up because they don’t want to become like their teachers. The ones that lied to them, and abused them. Misused them. The ones called safety. Family. Adults.

See, they have learned not to trust what they have been taught, because they have learned that the people who taught them cannot be trusted.

So they make their own rules, go by their own code of conduct. These women laugh the loudest, dance the biggest, love the hardest. I’m attracted to them and won’t never ever stop, because these women?

They are on a quest to find what it means to be alive.