This is a poem that I just got published in an online journal called Elephant Journal. It's about Revolution and bringing back the light into a dark world of suffering. Check it out.
https://www.elephantjournal.com/2017/10/for-the-dreamers-this-is-how-we-take-back-the-light/https://www.elephantjournal.com/2017/10/for-the-dreamers-this-is-how-we-take-back-the-light/
Home Fuck
White veiled widow
drags to the beat of
the drum
trailing tears
behind her
that become frogs of
the forest
bouncing back to
their moss laced
logs.
And I used to be
better
at time travel,
but lost the talent
as the years passed
and the dreaming
became a chore,
and the mountains of
sorrow
closed in,
and the snowman
melted
outside my window in
the sun.
What did you say to
me?
All I heard was bent
echos,
wicked and bloody
twisted pulses,
screech sound and
metal,
deep pelvic
vibration
but no syllables,
just bones crunching
and
teeth clenching to
the nerves underneath.
What was I thinking?
Hush that mouth of yours,
Hush that mouth of yours,
muse and water,
writer and the
weather,
mad and talented,
novocaine and
answers,
boring voices and
closest space,
squint hard
and see the spectral
glory
in between this
nonsense
and fuck these words
home.
Eat the Sunrise
Old at 30
was exhausting,
nightmares in the daytime,
nightmares in the night.
Burn the whole damn thing down,
I say,
burn it all:
the pigs sloshing muck up on the big White Hill,
the snakes getting high on
hollering at the girls that walk by
on city avenues,
the spiders hissing and spitting up and down Wall Street,
the sheep sitting on their thrones
licking their money.
Let’s shake rough the dust
off our downy feathers.
Wild beasts we are:
be sex and storm,
be obscene with your laughter,
fuck the winter away,
rock hard and hazardous
to the rhythms
of the thunder
and never fake it,
keep the moans loud and wide.
Eat the sunrise
and spit it back out
if you don’t like it,
but leave your door open
just in case
someone craves
to tell a secret
or at the right angle
the light
comes through.
Published Work on Elephant Journal
A poetry piece I wrote was just published on Elephant Journal. Check it out and help an artist out by sharing it. Thank you!
http://www.elephantjournal.com/2017/01/ode-to-wild-eyed-revolutionary-women-poem/
In the Winter She Takes Me
He asked me how I felt,
“like pin drops on the skin,” I said,
and he huffed away,
an elephant from another time.
He had left before
I could explain that
I was a very odd little girl
lost in a gritty n twisted little land.
Ever still the awkward octopus
rubbing my body against
the walls at parties,
eyes shifting to my eight shoes,
listening through your words
to the other side of syllables,
walking home in the fog alone
and being afraid of my own monsters
who came creeping
regardless of the weather.
However
I did have the
smooth rhythms of the moon,
her headdress high,
her eyes glowing fierce gold.
She sometimes would
gently fold me
into air and expansive space
to a place
to stretch,
to linger loud,
to liven the bones,
healing sex breaths and tones.
She takes me home
in the winter.
The song
There are those days
when you’ve eaten the last of the pop tarts
and washed them down with the last beer and
there’s not a goddamn thing left in your fridge.
Your hungry and pissed
and the overwhelming sense of gloom and
graveyard doom
comes a creepin.
The walls start talking,
hissing insults your way
and are choosing whether or not
to come crashing down.
Your pillows feel like bricks and
tick
tick
tick
time bombs.
You try starting thirteen different books
to shake off and distract from the pain of this sick life
but none of them stick.
The so-called friends
won’t text back,
the panic of the dark
starts to settle into chilled bones,
the world starts to tilt to the pointless and blank.
And just when hope is
snuffed out,
strangled out of your head,
you find that one song
you used to listen to
hundreds of times
after your brother died,
and you turn it on,
all the way up,
all the way up,
and it becomes a prayer,
a deliverance from the dark.
Masks
The grey clouds
craved to dance
with me
but all I could do
was mirror the rain
with tears.
Fake laughter came later
in between
my screams
that were not heard
though I didn’t realize
my twisted cries
were just in my head
and that my face only showed
apathy and stern silence
in a world
that still barely saw
the lie on one’s face
much less the
heavens and underworlds
underneath the skin.
How terribly fucking boring.
And whilst others only saw the superficial,
I could see too much of your underbelly masks,
and though I was thought
out of my mind,
I stood at the top of your stairs,
saw your sick basement creepers
and your feeble ceiling soon to be
crumbling down on you.
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