Loud seagulls
Descend upon the city
Like awkward tourists
I brush Maroon Velvet hair
From her sweet eyes
And welcome sin, because I told the witch a lie
How much art must I create,
How much beauty must I gather
In a wicker basket
How many mewing kittens
How many chocolate eclairs to
Sanctify this existance
There is sun flitting through layers of canopy
Dead vines in large arcs, dirt packed
Tight with old glass, with orange needles and wild flowers.
It is the first day of Spring and the Mississippi river creeps on by
To the drumming of a wild mare’s trot
Serenaded by some angelic choir,
somewhere
dripping in gold and mercy
Somehow here is sadness
& the heavy soot of shame
This feels contagious
Here is some goodness
So much energy to be happy
The river, releases ships to navigate her curves
On Path
Somewhere there is ending
Somewhere she lets them fall into her great mouth and
Her fat tongue carries them gently to a quiet tombstone
With Lillies and dasies tossed here and there
For she does not ask
SHE TAKES
Holy selfishness
Sacred Masculinity
Yea, I would let her hold my wrists down and make me hers
I’d let her run rivers through my body
I’d ask for more
I’d kiss her till my mouth was bloody
I’d ask for more
I’d let her make me come
I’d ask for more
Category: Uncategorized
Little Blazes: We Have Faith the Sun Will Return
You were born a raging fire
With a sacred violence in your eyes
How long will you smother rage within
Some, storybook creature in a beautiful cage
You are not a hoax
It’s almost like there is a neighborhood of tiny fires
Little blazes we all keep secret
It’s almost like they saw our flame as sin
Oh holy decadence
Oh Bashful sun
Little fires in our pockets in the cavities of blinded eyes nestled into old rancid wounds, tucked into vulvas and in the arches of blistered feet. Little fires in the poison of our jaws.
Let us gather our children
While they are still breathing
While they still carry Camelias and Junebugs in their hands
All our smallest secrets
For desire was wrapped into sickness
Our fires are more than sacred violence
Our fires destroy to create room for life, for beauty.
And don’t let anyone ever fucking tell you that’s not Holy.
There is a prophet amongst us
Frozen in a sarcophagus
Underground Junebug
I heard a rumor there is milk and honey
There were whispers of song and poetry
I heard the frozen daffodils are turning green
Tiny beacons to hold on to a promise of warmer days
Faint stirrings, of a god somewhere
In which drawer you hide your pet fire?
Carefully measuring pills to keep it quiet.
We must have faith, the sun will return
We must continue our weaving before the hearth
For you were born in an iron forge a liquid muse
With limitless ability to mesmirize with song, with dance
and you want nothing more than to set the world ablaze
To Trance with Skeleton Man Pt 2
A trance is
supposed to feel
like something special
Abandon the miracle
Which colors suit your
Coffin the flowers in the
pocket of your date to Sadie
Hawkins, the freckles
On her thumbs
I wore the story of a
Mythical creature until I realized
A fantasy is unattainable
I killed myself to trade flesh with the devil
To don black diamonds in the eyes
Of twin serpents, a spine’s
Forked tongue spits incantations from
a young nun’s feverish lips.
There exists, in some version of some hell,
A water moccasin with my dead eyes
Young Witch, are you sure you are in a trance,
Or are you just running from your aching body?
Who brings Sunflowers to a Moonlit Mass?
Mary,
My beating Heart
It was never me who was broken
Magdalena you saw I was wounded but
I saw the wounds as who I
Was told it was part of my brain
Mary I was never sick
Mag I am not sick
Maggie such normalcy,
not drama, I
told them I loved the drama
dress in black
Adorn with creatures of the night
Wearing sunflowers does not
Kill the freak in me, this part
loves pale flowers that
Only bloom
Under full moons
I am the favorite nectar of bats
Weaving serpents to slumber in my braids
Mary my brokenness is not empty
We tell ourselves what we need to hear
We tell others what we really need to hear
We dance with werewolves at the moonlight mass
2019 (Spring or Summer)
Sunflower Harvest
We Have Faith
The harvest will come
Gather in early nights with
Faith in Children
Faith in Sunflowers.
Neighbors gather
Passing rough seeds warmed in the August sun
We watch distant clouds rolling
hands peeling, sloughing death away
Food for darker days
Something thrives here in dead sunflowers
In the damp earth
Our thumbprint on humanity
Our eyes are full of radiant gold,
Swamp Witch
Let’s play in the muck and grime, cloudy waters have always been safer than the clear. There’s comfort in the grit, the embrace of the wildness the confidence in the chaos something is always decaying. The swamp does not desire to appear as anything but a place where death and birth thrive. Oh what great magic brews below stained feet. I will be a swamp witch until the day I die.
Pray in Solitude
Lie me down sweet secrets I’ll keep yours a sweet candy in my palm a sad thing a chiming song how could I long for the mountain top when I wander deep swamp how could I run along the beach when I can pray in solitude .
Urban Jungle
Urban jungle lull me to sleep in cars padding over concrete fresh rain September soon the warmth will dismiss himself I want to feel this emerald against my pruned fingertips for one more weekend one more escape into the esoteric wildness of what is down the road what lies unnoticed what I witness that truly witnesses me too.
I Don’t Recommend Creating an Entire World
I can make a cage beautiful.
Childhood disorientation in Cajun Country, Louisiana late 90s isolated Family Trauma I struggled to understand what was happening around me so I created imaginary worlds: paracosms, something I could understand, somewhere beautiful and just for me to organize and create rules and guidelines which brought other children to me through creating myself as strange and shocking in the conservative Southeast.
Ability to turn inward from the external chaos, a choice to live in stories live in imagination so the dive into storytelling was natural. I created imaginary worlds with these complex narratives and characters and creatures and whole generations of royalty and history that went back hundreds of years. Saturday nights were for staying up late drawing maps of the kingdom and creating poetry of their hero’s tale. There were wars to mediate and rally my classmates to join. I created special devices that were handheld and carried creatures from class to class tucked under my arm and more and more to create and expanding this world of endless possibility. Other children were drawn in by the bizarre and the ones that were repelled, I never liked them anyway. There was a rush, a power in the polarization I manifested.
As an adult I thought, well, who do want to be? I want to be a witch. I want to be a poet. I want to be this weird, ethereal thing that lives in this strange, fantasy aquarium, a fairy terrarium. Almost a thing of myth, a semi secret character who is shut off from everything and you can look in this regular, inconspicuous home and see this strange little world that just takes your breath away that is decorated with moss and lavender, ivy and animal skulls adorned with black roses it’s like a secret discovery I’m always looking into a weird little world of sorts, usually hidden in plain sight if you just know where to look in the palm of my hand and not only am I gazing into and feeling pulled in deeper especially to care for this world and these creatures, their pure survival dependent on me.
But the truth is I have placed myself into that world so not only am I looking into it, holding it in my hands but I am physically trapped in that world too which was created to understand something, anything in the chaos to feel a shard of agency it is Mine created in beauty and wonder, created in a last ditch effort for salvation. This I can choose to share or define there is a clear idea of my role and my expectations, I am needed and important. And yet it is simple that as I stare as a zombie into this small treasure, eyes in a mirror stare blankly back into me. For I created myself in my perfect image, in my perfect imagination. For I am trapped here as well, trapped into my own perfect creation.
I can make a cage beautiful.
Fall 2019
I Need to Quit Regurgitating Goddesses
Last night something was emerging
From the belly from the depths
Fear was a stabbing pain
Between brows it was Time
Sweaty and retching
There was nothing I could do
Out emerged a sack a pod
Slick with green bile or algae
Hot from the deep shine like a
Clear water balloon
And then she took my breath away
& My eyes full of radiant gold
& She began to glow and shine
Fins wave rhythmically illuminating
Gold and Hot her atmosphere
Holds countless microscopic shrimp
Surround her in formation- orbit as stars
Satsuma scales cast shadows in the curves of
Her delicate marine body
She chooses to part the rich green leaves around her
Chooses to appear just as she is a scintillating hue
Her world lit in the confidence of simple existence
Her eyes never left mine through the
Dark internal waters and in her
Tiny perfect world from my
Belly dark you slithered up the
Tunnel of my throat I never could have stopped you
You are ever powerful, my little goddess
Her gaze both holds me in perfect comfort
& sees me in off putting clarity for
I am not used to being seen as I am
Oh what magic have I stumbled upon?
Oh what magic has been waiting to ascend from my darkness?
At last, in finality: the truth that
Despite all her majesty despite
Her endless manifestation of peace,
She needs help
I must fiercely protect her
Fall 2019
Lucid Dreams 