Published Work on Elephant Journal

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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.

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 
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.


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.

Back Up Brain

Back up brain,
back up brain,
drive me down those curvy creepy roads
away from these haunted humans
spitting and fitting
their sick stories
into my face
as if it wouldn’t
effect me.

And in the end times,
old souls were
put on trial
for all humanity’s war crimes
because we had seen it all
in our prophetic heads and thus
found compliant,
and the ones who acted their violence out
were free to walk the planet.
Ain’t that always the way?
We tried to warn you,
and even still remembered your pathetic names,
the ones who splattered blood on the pavement,
and whose teeth clattered,
crunched and gnawed
at the bones
of their own ancestors.
They drank gasoline in the dirt
instead of
shouting out the wrongs of the world,
got fucked up in the marshy mire,
under the ground,
in the water,
and left the world to rot

in their wake.