Spicy Stares and Ink

I pressed the slippery ink

thick and aggressive

down on the paper,

willing some cacophony

to escape my shaking hand

and form words

in between the crispy college rule.

You didn’t mean to stare,

I know,

but it seemed neither

one of us could hold

our eyes in our lightning bolt sockets

with flies buzzing

round the coffee filters,

the emergency exits clearly marked,

begging me to take them

seriously,

when really I just wanted

to hear syllables

slip off your spicy tongue,

either honest painful secrets

kept inside for fear

of their gritty teeth

eating you from the inside out,

or even talks of the way
rain sliding down your back
made you feel at home,

and those sweet delicate

kisses

that made us both forget

our heavy hungry lives,

just for a blinking moment,

our moans reaching up

like drowning arms

to heaven. 

Evening Rain

I hungered for the rain,

come wash over me,

and aint it funny….

life and her clouds,

his hands,

the sky so beautiful

it made me shake with joy.

At this moment,

I decided to

let the calm n warmth n

peace float in

through open windows,

down walls,

seeping through the

cracks in broken hearts

and mirrors,

found round

my room,

when the sun shone

with pleasure,

in vibrating reflection,

wanting for company,

in the intriguing early hours,

when I was awake now

more and again,

and the world cuddled up

on me different,

kinda fuzzy and

lil bit cozy,

in the dawn,

with cups of

dark roast

and the sparkling

twinkles of sounds

that lifted me up,

cardinal sighs in the twisted

trees that talked

with me,

in hope and hushed tones.

Thanks you kindly,

for hanging round,

even without words,

just stutters,

liquors,

fresh delights,

blushes in the dark,

scribblings on soft pages,

tantric visions,

leaving us holier than

we came,

with perhaps

a few bruises

along the way,

but oh,

the road was lovely

even in the evening. 

Fantasy blood

The waters are calling
for armageddon,
I inhabit the earth,
breathe deep,
in and out,
measure the distance
between fantasy and reality.

I write out,
then I bleed,
the ink stained red
with the anger and pain.
The mark of the demon,
etched into my doorframe.

Pleasure landed swiftly
and the black crows discuss
in hushed tones,
the battle of wits
yet to come.

He walked in through
the back door and coughed slightly.
It reminded me of home,
my sighs make the rafters shutter.
I crave a cold chill,
every so often,
when it rains.

- Megan

Moments of Revelation Beauty.

We have moments, moments of revelation beauty. Shiver moments keeping us humble. Life is a series of unforgettable and regrettable moments. What is one to do? We breathe, heads to the ground, panting like dogs to stay awake in a world that is asleep. We are the radiant dead, basking in the glory of the sun that we call our own, like we could own something so unattainable, like love or death or hatred. You may kill to create but that makes you no god, just dust. All is back to grey matter, in the end. Light is stifled out of us as we try to measure up to a society that would whore us out to the lust hungry anyway. And people call me dark. My dark is just a different reality than the one you live in. Your hollow words and actions, your dank whispers and promises that you never kept, swept under the rug like everything else. Your love means nothing since I knew that you had nothing to give in the first place. Bastard beauty makes you no better than anyone else.

I hated the you that I saw in myself. Mirrors were to hard to look into, shallow breath, cuts from the earth that birthed you, bleeding and sputtering. I was not like you. I saw wings on my angels, real pieces of heaven walking on this earth. You were caught between death and dying spirit. I was the reborn flower, the seed that refused to take your water and spat it back out, poison that is was. I will go dry before I let you run me, own me as you said you owned the moon. But I knew her better than that.

Moon says she laughs in your face and she does your dance before she rams the sharp blade into your thick skull, not to live for long, awake and unafraid. Torrents of tassels hurt my sleep. She moans and arcs her beautiful back into ecstasy, hair in her face. She is fully in that moment, forgetting the bed under her, the pillow at her head, the girl over her whose hands give her this communion with the four walls, the house, the street, the town and all its people. In this moment, we are all called to live it with her. We are to feel her beauty, her lust for another breath, her closeness to the earth and the heaven and hell that walk this ground place, this holy hallowed precipice. It is like we have closed our window blinds eye to the world, shutting out the lightning that makes our world bright, even if for a second.


All we need is a moment. A moment to keep us going.

I wanted to aid the haunted and the tormented...

I wanted to aid the haunted and the tormented and it seemed to me that this was a valid desire in a world such as this one. I felt bruised in my struggle to connect. Inspire fires in the underworld, my want to help is so strong. I don’t mind sifting through the bullshit that you put in front. I don’t mind waiting while you watch

and listen and sometimes laugh. I will wait, ever so distantly and patiently, until you get your shit together and want to talk about things that are real, that are happening to you every day. I don’t mind. I am very patient (at lease I try to be).

You sit down in your misery and confusion and refuse to budge from that stained and static plane. I want to (not fix it) open up in you a want to discuss and reflect and experience and grow. I want you to be able to feel the deep misery of

despair and ruin. I don’t mind if you express that. You own those bad things in your life, I applaud you for your honesty and character. It sink down into that deep feeling of ugly is something that I think is important. It is part of the process and I embrace it.

We can come back to this place whenever you need to. But I think we need to be learning and doing positive things in there too. We can’t just mingle in the mud. I want to be able to talk about serious shit about the world too. There are other things going on in the world that affect you too but we need to talk about those things too.

The meta-physical world seems to be screaming to me and I think we need to band together in community and work some stuff out. We need a plan, not just about you or me but about how we can start to change the world we live in.

Not every conversation can be about you honey, sometimes you need to grow up a little bit and think about the world. But I am patient. I will wait for you to get there, somewhere behind you.

The world is a crazy place. With all the racism, sexism, homophobia, (and the list goes on forever) how are we going to get anywhere? We need a plan to start to move and shake our communities. I mean, even small actions can be triumphs and shake the earth a bit (in ways we don’t even realize) and these things can change.

Writing, for example, I think is one of my best ways to open up discussions. I want to know what you think about anything that I am saying. Let’s start a conversation. I’m saying some pretty wild stuff or maybe you have heard this all before? I don’t know. Because no one is speaking up. I would love for you to tell me your thoughts (if they are long).

Start talking about it to everyone and let’s start some revolting (I don’t mean angry violent revolting.... no violence for me thanks) but talking is a step in the right direction. Writing and talking. And really, when I say writing (this is just my way of trying to change things) you can be doing all kinds of other things to change things, revolt,

if you will (in a non-violent way... I keep saying this because I am not gonna be responsible for some idiot getting so riled up reading this that he/she goes and gets violent on anything)...

You can start a dance troop, write your own blog about what you think about all this stuff, respond to me, talk to your friends, write to your senators and governors about things you feel strongly about, read the issues that are out there

(learn information about things you are passionate enough about to write it down (send it to your friends, do a blog, make music in protest, make art, any kind of art at all, humanities are art kinds of people too, this is a very broad and big group of people) or express it in some artistic way.

I am personally writing this blog to spark even one person to read it, talk about it to someone, email it to a friend, discuss it with pastors, teachers, mentors, thinkers, philosopher, spiritual people, any thing of this nature. I am just so desperate to change something in a few people. I love my family and I am supporting them in any way that I can but I also really believe that the world can change and that there is hope.

There is film that is changing the way things are as well: documentary film, honest film (even of a personal nature I think is still so beautiful and brings me closer to spiritual enlightenment) films that make you think and talk.

I do not mean to advocate really violent films however, I do not like blood like honesty (lets see how many guts and blood we can smash into a film) or torture movies of any kind... or really even scenes of torture. I hate this stuff. I am not advocating films such as:

The Antichrist (the Dogville’s director film not the other one), I don’t know really anything with torture in it is really just not acceptable to me. This movie business is supposed to be entertainment not trauma inducing centers. Movies like The Happening (oh hell no.... I actually walked out of this movie- it was just that awful- sad, and not entertainment) are not good for my psyche (I swear to God it is true).

So I am just trying to ignite something, maybe. I feel as if I am not getting through and people are not paying attention and so apathy and indifference to social change. I can’t stand to watch more intelligent arty people get traumatized by bad shit (this can be defined in the broadest of terms) and then give up and die in a spiritual way (artistic way) or they actually die.

Hey, and we all have our problems... I know I do. I’m a mess half the time. So I know it isn’t easy. I just hide it sometimes cause I don't want you to worry about me. I am writing, I am doing what I have to do to make it through.

This Chesire Cat is being Silent

Give me a left hand to write with and I will write,
always and forever,
as long as I can.
Till the dungeons sink me,
or rise above me.
To the heavens with you,
I will remain and fight,
here,
to stamp out the darkness against the light,
the brethren together come,
totem and testimony,
I call you forth to unite,
gender perspectives all among you,
live as you are,
you prophets and beasts alike.

I can see the pentagon from here,
this astral view of Washington and London.
An interesting view from here,
so much to tell,
not time yet though.
Until our ladies and gentle gents
can smile in the sunshine,
This Cheshire Cat is being silent.
I hear that the Knights Templar
are business men now, hmmmm...
interesting choice of occupation.

This patriarchy castle is plastic beauty,
but I think it is time to burn it down.
There was no one inside of this floppy building,
you are doing no harm
to shake and shatter,
tear down these systems of oppression.

I take the pen to my fist and wrench
it out
of you,
of me,
of whomever is around,
I hope the weight then feels less,
on our tired shoulders.

Clairvoyance (An Alice in Wonderland Tale)

I stepped into the mirror
and found a man on the other side
and I was still waiting for the other horse
to come into view as
I tossed and turned, faking ambivalence,
heads will roll to center stage.

I felt the liquor and
serpentine ooze through my veins,
getting stuck at the twists and turns,

I dripped clairvoyance and arithmetic.
Take the coins to the collector,  

tithe for a reason

I cant quite figure out.

I do not know what to do with the powerhouse.

They always turn the martyr into a collectible,
another porcelain mask to hang on the wall
next to the family vacation pictures.
It was more than that
and my shadow
could’ve told you
but she has gone,
pretending to care about the next
big scandal, 

the printing press,
taboos and the designer
rockstar tattoos
crystal ball, fuck it.

Stream of Consciousness- Fishhooks and Frostbite

This stream of consciousness was written by Megan K. Coleman. This was inspired by Helene Cixous’s call to write.

I was post-lingual and pre- historic. Tainted by the underdog and seraphim I gave in to the way and the light and the message of community and communal. I wanted to forget the slain horses the inside of the women’s bodies burning and the cascade of the river as it drifts the sun into a new beginning. We all know that something is coming a serpent phoenix tiger eyed pig with satan eyes and drinking out of a bottle of dirty vermouth. It concerned me that I felt “my people” are dying quickly and without explanation.
Dissociative paradimes of condensation I want I desire I need something new that does not stick me in some hole that I did not dig for myself. coffins are for the dead and not for the undead you fucking idiot the jester, the fool the magus grins and smirks to the left of his face and the right side of the road. you cornered us in the parenthetical and sang about human trafficking like it was eating cake and drinking tea with the queens of England. It was a maze of most certainly uncertainty and I spoke upward in shouts and waves and heard nothing in return but felt a fish hook in my mouth without warning. red lights flash in between the memories that I remember and the ones that I could not remember though I did not want to in the first place.
ghosts seemed strange to me like root canals and cyanide mixed with hand gestures and profanity. the darkness covers the earth for a time when the prophets start to say what needed to be said in the third world in the new order of the cosmic migration towards the deep caves of the earth a shrinking of visibility and dissonance of the inner crust of molten forgetting. I came with frost bite out of the shadowy shutters and heard the screams of the suicide trees and knew of nothing but the red stripe of paint on the wall and the lamp that was the only thing left standing after the storm and the earthquake mixed with verbal abuse and crystal meth.
pussy and puzzle pieces seemed to go together nicely but no one would look at her in the face aside from me her kin and kind left her standing on the dock next to the goblet that erupted in flames. I could see you in your minds eye and you seemed to lift a finger and the world came down angels falling and giving up on those human kind creatures that take and never give back to anything and not even themselves. what sort of love is this that bleeds the already bleeding and sucks us dry of essence and perfume and sex and liquid energy as the rain tears at the trees flesh until I wake up from its shrill pitch. slow down and move to a beat in the head of the machine was this the best way to go…him and
hmmm and I don’t know the way out of this tunnel. give me grace and serenity to stop short and wrestle the angel again and again and again tumbling to my feet I land back on the earth covered in candle wax and feathers. dusk of the ages was wrapped up around me and light came through the bedroom window. the widow cries and dies in her own space and time stands on its back twisted and forgotten by the clock on the wall and the piano can play itself for all you care. ice streams down the walls of the bathroom and I shiver and I like that feeling of cold to skin and the pain that comes with knowing things that others can not see.
the man in the bathtub was looking at me as if to say huh, I did not just imagine you here and thus you must be here in another way than the way that I am here. and I reply aren’t you dreaming me awake in a reverie when you fell asleep in the bath and floated to the surface of the sky and back. watching the moon uncover its secrets was a graceful and violent repression of feminine beings and light and liberty and the means for commercial enterprise and capitalism was a fucked up thing. right the sky says to the sitting duck that was the man leaving his nine to five and wanting to jump in the lake and swim with the moss and fishes. animals seemed to scare easy and talk back and I was glad to know that someone was listening in moans and sentences and mind
fucks and sex in the bathtub by one’s self and the self excuses us from the divinity that she understands to be inside her. I was always thirsty and could never get my fill and I drank and drank and needed other and to be othered and it was never enough to just fall into the mirror to get sick and cough and spit up the liquids of life and decision and then go home and lie and lie down and sleep as if sleep was not awake and able to be the monsters that we really are when the sun goes down. listeners were symbols of mythology Horus and his fathers scoffed at hegemony and social control did not exist to them then in the era of the butterfly and bread and butter. triangles pop up in daydreams and people always want to know what I am thinking and writing expressing in waves of oceanic refugee. pull me out of the water and I just yearn for the sky that
drips and soaks us to show me that wet is better than dry. horoscopes were mystics way of communicating mathematics and I just felt there was more to people than cells and brains and waves of lifeless energy that helps us paint and create and deepen into the dragon. my mind works in mazes of chess boards and sex dreams whores on the street and stilettos getting stuck in the cracks of the pavement outside my house. and breath and breathing and needing to breathe and wanting someone else’s breath seemed a giant waste of time. and cancer is sweeping the earth of us and the demon under your brain in the space between your spine giggles and knows that the battle is already lost in the young david as he steps up to see the golith in front of him. but he does bash his brains in , david to his golith, the famous story of mind and spirit over matter but
death still comes knocking on the door whistling that tune you can never remember the name of. cats hiss and spit like adults do in church and it would seem to me that listening to the pitch of the organ was more important than the organ itself playing some damn tune we have heard forty times to different words over and over and over in a way chocking me out of my vitality and importance of art. muses came in different colors you know in the spaces between serenity and sleep. insomniacs must have it rough like a face scrubbed on the pavement when you sit in your chair and listen to dirty tunes about the stone age and posters being held up on walls with glue.
lust and angels and kundalini became a jumbled mess inside my head and no one wanted to dive in there and sort it out, not even me. the carpet scratched its head and gave up on telling us the way up the mountain was the dig under it and insight a volcano of activity and mist and heroines coming to the rescue of princes in distress in the tower with their hair long and their skirts down around their ankles. what?
does gender stress you out like pathological liars and re-gifting gifts that your cousin gave you when he was six and you were twenty and it seemed a damn shame to shame the hunted. did we not have enough trouble as it is with the water up to here and the breath staggered and did you know that you are not alone? the sunset will forgive your faults and give you new lifestyles to explore and try on like a new pair of shoes that you steal from your favorite store in the mall. I came up and saw around and shook my head, wagging like a dog on its deathbed and
I found light in a new day and darkness in a new night and that was just fine with me. and the truth is alright with me. this is for no offense and I just like to spit out profane and spiritual and one and the same and different and equal and separate like two trains running in the opposite directions.

Please research Helene Cixous (especially her piece titled Laugh of the Medusa) She is an amazing writer, philosopher, mystic, and feminist activist.