Category Archives: Poem

The Visit

I visit my old apartment, which is like a museum, a memorial shrine to the love we shared. The walls breathe in and out, a pleural exhalation and inhalation. The ceiling holds the shadow of your pupils, once dilated under the light of the moon. On the floor, there are petals from the orchids I gave you during our summer sanctuary, they wilt and carry the memory of two souls into one body, transcending time. Here is where we danced, we held eachother as a palpable sentiment of desire burned between us. There is where we lay naked chest to chest, an urgent throb palpitating between us. This is where you sat on my lap and wrapped your small body around me, kissing me so deeply, the lines of self and other merged. That is where we laughed from our stomachs and cried from our souls, it’s where we gave as much as possible in a limited lifespan, knowing it would never be enough, feeling as the days drew us closer, the hours slowly tore us apart, your hand from my hand, your thigh from my side, your lips from mine, the one into two again. I hold my ticket, it’s time to depart, I want to stay and live in those moments as in a deathless dream, but I must awaken and face these solitary hours alone. I must leave behind what is written so immortally in this temporary space.

October 7, 2016

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Smudging the Heart (Zaagidwin)

Anishinaabe elder, Spotted White Horse, spoke to us of the seven traditional teachings today.

When he began with the teaching of the eagle, a symbol for love,
he asked us to define it.
Each person described it differently.
” Giving without expectations,” was my answer.
” Ah yes, that’s the unconditional love. ”
While this is only one sort,
for myself it seems the most altruistic one, the type I most aspire to.
The Anishinaabe teach that to know peace is to know love. ”View your inner-self from the perspective of all teachings. This is to know love and to love yourself truly. Then you will be at peace with yourself, the balance of life, all things and also with the creator.”

Spotted White Horse then asked if any of us had experienced love.
Nearly all of us in the circle answered yes,
but one lady answered ‘no.’
White horse leaned into her and said ” I love you” The lady had a bitter look on her face as she rejected his offering.
”I am giving love he spoke simply, if you choose to accept it or not it’s your free will.” The bitterness never left her face.

As white horse laid out his medicines, her disdain for this was evident, he passed these sacred medicines around the circle so we could each smell them touch them, and experience them with all of our senses. The lady quickly passed them on carelessly from her hands without acknowledgement as though the medicines were a poison.

An epiphany occurred to me.. a sort of vision…
The night before I was speaking to the creator when I stated aloud ” Freedom is within.”
To hear the elder speak of the importance of our own personal paths and individual journeys within, struck a synchronistic chord in me.

When I made that statement, I was alone at night in the darkness of my apartment. I was praying to the creator to help me heal from a broken heart and a dreadful sense of loneliness.

Having White Horse appear on my path was like hearing the voice of the creator speaking back to me. It’s as though the great spirit said ”yes my child, you are on the right path, the source of peace is within you.”

I thought of the bitter woman. It almost hurt me to look at her. I fought back tears as the vision slowly came through to me.

” You did not do wrong. You only gave love as best as you knew how. The source of your suffering may seem to be within, but if you focus your vision to be sharp as the eagle, sharp enough to polish a stone, you will see the path to freedom from your suffering, the path to peace is also within you .”

I envisioned myself caught in a web of ego, throwing stones into a pond, watching them ripple out and return their karmic echoes back to me.

“We are either in a place of love or a place of fear, spoke Spotted Horse, we act on either one of these and this is what determines our fate. We come from love, love is spirit. We learn fear, fear is a human construct of the material world. Those who come from a place of fear are vibrating on a low frequency, one of selfishness.”

The elder invited us to join him in a smudging ceremony. He burned sage and fanned the eagle feather gently over the shell, creating a white cloud of healing energy.” you will smudge your head to have pure thoughts, smudge your eyes to have clear vision, your ears to hear with clarity, your mouth to taste and speak pure, your heart, the place of spirit… if you come to a point where you feel you need healing, touch this place, and if you want me to pray for you I will send a prayer to the creator, when you are done with the cleansing, say Miigwetch.

I looked around for Bitter Lady…she wasn’t in the circle.

I smudged my heart and held my hand there.
“Miigwetch White Horse…”

and the eagle feather flew on to the next person in the circle.

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Filed under Aboriginal, Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Love, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Memory

You dress your naked body in leaves

to cover your vulnerability.

The cold season approaches,

stripping the trees,

replacing their vivid colour

with a cold white palor.

Early in the morning you arrive

at my door shivering.

I take you in my lonely arms.

I am not angry,

all these temporary

moods have scattered with

the gusts of Autumn.

One night when the city

lay covered in ice,

I dreamt you to life,

you stayed by my side

for four seasons,

invisible to me,

existing only

as a memory

each day I awaken

the sun fades further

the nights grow longer

and the days shorter

I have no recollection

when I awake,

it seems it was all just

a dream

One day all my memories

will fade before the light of day,

before the great awakening

brings you back to me.

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Trying to Fly

Life is a detestable mess, where you are forced to dress, show up and give what’s left of your best, what the world has not yet taken, what has not yet been forsaken in the name of all this false freedom, and they fuck you for trying to fly.

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The Cracked Canoe

Your bird heart beat
with rapidity and depth
against my solemn chest,
your swan’s farewell,
rang like a bell
at the swell
of the sea,
inside of me,
that broke irrevocably.

I set you free,
while my soul’s entirety
wept for what
was not to be.

I became like a cracked canoe,
incapable of holding you.

“and thou too…

and the heart that beat against mine like a bird
That is fluttering, wounded sore,
With it’s nest all broken, deserted, torn,
Will beat there forevermore.”

C. Barthelette, et de Cleyre

 

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Things More Grand Than Money

When they think they can just say sorry and make up for centuries of red hands then someone has to take a stand so sorry man,, sorry for the ones who are not here today to have their say, it is we who remain who must be the voice for their pain and triumph, fuck Trump and Mein Kampf, and all the years of human oppression, fuck the recession and the epidemic levels of depression leading to no other way out. When you tie your tie and button your collar higher, don’t forget there’s still a raging fire, a towering inferno too high to survive the jump from. You take pride in your flags because it shows another conquered nation defeated, but don’t get too conceited and forget the air on which your own blood relies, it comes from the trees and skies, H20 is more royal than any CEO or sovereignty and don’t forget spirituality and having the responsibility that comes with all that power, or the right to silence when those who are met with violence have no choice but to raise their voices in protest, and hail the civil disobedience, and civil unrest of the slaves of your great nation of corporations, but don’t doubt we won’t take a stand as a people against your plan, because there are things more grand than money on this land worth dying for.

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Filed under Earth, Enslaved, Environment, Freedom, Human Rights, Idle No More, Indigenous, Modern Slavery, Poem, poetry, Society, travel, writing

Where Can We Go To Mend?

When the fireworks sound like bombs dropping on this land and the shouts are like the screaming of our red skinned brethren being torn away from home, when 13,000 years get swept under the red and white carpet, we are banging on drums and linking up arms to say don’t forget we were here and we still exist. You can’t bandage these ancestral wounds. What you are doing to the others that came here from afar, we still carry that scar. They all have a place to seek refuge in our home and Native land, but where can we go to mend?

Who will protect us from our government? It’s a true testament of the Aboriginal spirit that this heart knows it’s own truth no matter how deep you try to bury it.

 

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Filed under Aboriginal, Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Canada, Canadian, Cree, First Nations, Freedom, Genocide, Human Rights, Hypocrisy, Identity, Idle No More, Indigenous, inspirational, Ojibwe, Pipe Lines, Poem, poetry, Political, Rape, Spirit, Suicide, Traditions, Tragedy, Trauma, writing

Obsidian

The light of the moon is a reflection of the sun. Though we perceive phases, she is never in truth illuminated, partial or full, she is always completely whole. The sun goes on burning, while she compliments him. We respect them for the light they lend, but why do we not laud the darkness? Why don’t we dance for the shadows? Here on our self-centered planet, we think we own the world, when truly we are at the mercy of our vision. Without cones or rods, how could we perceive light? The planets don’t rely on our sight. Mercury is still mercury without our feeble map of the stars. Navigate the self, and one discovers therin a fine ash as black as obsidian.

I sat at the foot of mount Vesuvius and heard a conversation between the sun and moon:

Sun: you are my mirror.
Moon: what do you see?
Sun: me.

Just then the earth shot up in flames of jealousy, whose aftermath resulted in a sea of hard black stones, which shone like silver, but you’d never know, if it weren’t for the darkness.

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Filed under Moon, Poem, poetry, Sun, travel, writing

The Girl Without A Tongue

If I could go back and bite my tongue for every word I ever said to hurt you, I’d be the girl without a tongue
Love would lose its voice, become mute.
If I could revisit each moment I longed to be closer and fell a thousand miles down, I’d be caught by that one perfect shot, aimed towards the sky.
If I could rewind time I’d erase all truth, and live with the bliss of lies. Watching you leave the first time, I’d have buried my life in a box made of velvet, where a thousand screams lie silenced.

Come back! Don’t leave…go away, don’t stay!
(the things that I don’t say.)

You wanted me to be still.
You wanted that I was water under a bridge in a Zen garden, instead I was a random wave in a sea swell.

My heart is the sea swell.
You hold the seashell
close to your ear,
can’t you hear..

the things that I don’t say?

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The Unknown

If there was a self to return to in this ever-shifting existence, a familiar center, like a bonfire that I could create in the wilderness, I’d gather sticks from the forest and set them aflame, then I’d chant my own name as I walked in a semi-circle clockwise, opening the channels to that realm of altruism that I romanticized as a growing girl. I’d remove the glasses from my failing eyes and focus my gaze upon the center of the flames, where they burn most intensely blue, and I’d cleanse myself of you, I’d travel in reverse to in -utero realms before my virgin skin was ever touched. I wouldn’t yet belong to anyone, and my lungs would breathe in liquid. At this moment I’d emerge in ethereal form, and float upwards to a different planet, one that I could consciously inhabit without any knowledge of anything on earth, I’d experience a rebirth more profound than any human mystic could fathom. I’d have no reason to be heard or seen, it would be serene and cosmic, the stars would be beacons leading me to my real home, a place where the word “alone” was not part of the language, where there was only thought without words, because communication didn’t require a vocabulary to be understood. I’d meet the true soul at the center of this raging fire, then I’d cease searching for comfort to eradicate the agony of my ego which burned through this mortal being with a death desire. I would not have to worry about hurting anyone by leaving, because there is no such thing as grieving the unknown.

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Goodbye

White are the untruths-like the clouds I touch
when I fall through the sky as I get rejected from heaven.

Hades is too full to accept new arrivals,
so I stand at the departure gate
and kiss the cold lips of an unknown fate,
goodbye.

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Equator of Empty-Rien part I

At least I held onto the dream,
held carbon poison
in my tar-filled lungs,
held like a fish in the gills,
hungry for steel hooks
held lonely eyes
gaze of possibility
before the decades
danced up behind
my back and shouted surrender!

Nobody can hold you.
They never tell you,
But they should.
The doctor should
whisper it in the ear of your
mother when she
enters the Luteal Phase,

Say “hey, this one is
going to be defective,
an endless series of
impossible starts & stops,
that never come to anything
meaningful.
I advise
you to let it go.”
At least then
You’d know.

Wouldn’t have wasted 39
years attempting the impossible.
would have been successful
on the first go,
as much as you’d always been,
Yes, It came to this,
now release these dead
parts of me.
I tried to tell you
when I was very
small,
I never meant to
be here.

It was a dream,
now let me wake up.
I don’t want to keep
walking into
walls.
hitting my head,
gnashing
my teeth
to be seen.
Laugh at me.
Laugh at me.
I can’t walk
straight..
I never could.
this world is dizzy.
I don’t want to
spin…
Don’t want
applause for success,
want instead a way
to step off the edge
of the equator.

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Dark Matter

Sulphur butterflies
let go,
be sulphuric,
trust in the elements,
in the minerals:
let lithium in
to dissolve your inertia.
Embrace your own dark matter.
Black powder beauties,
fly free.

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Rien

Nothing can hold you.
They never tell you,
But they should.
The doctor should
whisper it in the ear of your
mother when she
enters the Luteal Phase.
Just before
the big bang
of nothing.

“let go…”

Nothing can hold.

This should come
as a warning label
On a box of
contraceptives.

“Nothing can hold you.”

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Smile When I’m Gone

Tonight you send a bird
you send a dead bird
it falls from your hands
your mouth
those dusty edges of fettered
time,
and I smile at it,
because it is nothing.
Tonight I consider ways
to be that bird.
I know they will wonder why I
say sorry to those who cared,
because
I was not one of them.
I couldn’t be any,
but this featherless
joy,
decimated.

the-bird-may-die.jpg

 

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How To Love A Flower

Many a manner of flowers, bewildering in their beauty were passed through your hands, encoding zeros.
At such time, I was the one.
perfect beauty
no other flower could emulate.
A stunning blossom, grown from your desire.
The moment you reached for me, the darkness ceased.

You picked me from the womb of earth, and
I was given this new birth.
In that fatal moment your eye flickered,
and the sun screamed for me.

narcissi….

Your appreciation
is the weight of the rock
Sisyphus knows…
constantly pushed uphill,
until it rolls down
too heavy to bear
Itself.

Your eyes were immortal orbs of power, which melted molten into ash…

Tell me we can have them back…
!!!
Take the obsidian,
make it shine again..
make you mine again.

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Filed under Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Dancing on Line 2

“Your version of happiness makes me sad.”
sad the ballerina
as she pirouetted
through the gap
of the metro,
into the oncoming train.

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A House in My Arm

They built a basement in my olecranon fossa,
took out a mortgage on my elbow..
these osteocytes are working overtime
for the corporations,
blasting bones to keep the banks full.
This needle is where my entire
foundation was built.
I got engaged that day you wrapped your
warm soft body around mine,
couldn’t imagine a better feeling than this.
I bought you a ring made of pure gold and shimmering
with diamonds, grown
in a dark cave,
which a slave picked
in your name.
I became so big,
watched the neon skyline
fade,
while my name
lit every billboard in the city.
This all came
from a 30 gauge
shooting straight
into my arm,
it all went into my arm.
I carry my house, my wife,
all my dreams in this syringe,
it shoots freely through
the blue network
of misfired circuits,
and abandoned
commitments.
I would have sold my only child.
I never held her,
she lives in my bicep,
the only untouched
wilderness on my body,
which I left clean for her.

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Filed under Addiction, Heroin, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Graduation Day

Maybe in your world, to graduate meant that you would obtain a degree, this means you succeeded at mastering something.
Maybe in my cosmic twist, graduating looked something like this;

9 years old and drunk on tequila we stole, watching the world spin…
Waking up in in a hospital, a mix of faces, both stern & concerned. Later, my mom said she would not nurse us back to health, if we were thirsty, we had to get our own glass of water, take them beats hard, take them spirits heavy.

11 years old, 2 joints of marijuana, they left out on the table.
I left for school and smoked them both on my way there.
Later my mom defended me to the death when the principal told her I was high. The obvious signs were there, the missing drugs, the red eyes, the way I suddenly became so social when I was always the loner in class, the outsider, the one they spoke of in hushed tones.

That feeling of alone which cut like glass through my soul.
Later I would do lines on the strip..We called it the strip,                                                                   it was seedy, dark and defeated.
I succeeded in learning the ways of being enslaved to the white crystal,                                       the powdered kick, the fast morning hit….                                                                                               my own fists against my own unrecognizable face,                                                                          the hatred which wanted me to be wasted.

I tasted the seas of strangers as they entered me, incapable of erasing my need.
Suns were enemies which burned our morning faces.
We danced like we meant it, but then we’d lose balance, forget who we were holding, watching the shape-shift of lovers enclose us, eyes flickering in multicolored brilliance, only to fade to silence and blank stares, or inexplicable rage.

They could not love you, when you were a stranger, but you always felt the hero was somewhere out there on the next big trip, you kept taking it, and he never came, or he always came, but he never arrived, maybe he was too high, somewhere in an alley on Hastings, maybe he was wasting away, the black tar laughter in your DNA, waiting for that proud day you graduated.

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Out of Their Minds

Yesterday you told me you graduated from pink pills to purple pills, they upped your dose of antidepressants. You chase after men like some hormone crazed teenager and I wonder is it a side effect or just loneliness? How much of what people do is done out of loneliness? A mother having a child, a couple getting married, a new friendship blossoming, and how much of this skin is really worth the abrasion? The scrape of crowds or the disinfectant of this silence, is a choice that comes down to how comfortable you truly are in your own naked flesh, and how long you can go on tolerating the insult brought on by the energy spent from your own blood spilled out for others, indifferent to your type; A negative, AB positive , type O, some rare genetic defect where the minerals we smell in the air draw us to eachother. This one is deficient, this one lacks the calcium to allow for a solid spine, she will define herself by the power she gains from your calcified spirit. That one is toxic, avoid her at all costs, she is not authentic, she is a chemical spill on the roadside, where your car breaks down at night and you find yourself alone. Be careful who you hand the syringe to, not all want to heal you, most are just looking for a way out of their own bodies, a way out of their minds.

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Genocide in the Forecast

You quit smoking, but not the SSRIs,
and now you’re taking sleeping pills & Xanax,
you went into hibernation mode,
and I did the same,
we are mirror souls,
without the chemicals,

Since that first day
you struck up a
conversation,
a match was
lit within me.

and now the long
frost finally
shows
signs
of thawing.

So, here’s my friendship
here’s my honour,
go on keep these,
you might want
something
to look back on during
our next deep freeze.

This means yes,
I anticipate
a holocaust
of white ash.
This means
a genocide is
in the forecast.

…no socializing
while winter lasts

(For D)

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Stars

I was not created in the image of any God. If I could create myself in anyone’s image, it would not be a Western deity, nor Eastern divinity, nor any entity from Greek mythology, it would be carnal and perfectly imperfect. It is said that we reflect our desires, and that each person is like a mirror manifested by our psyches. If I could, I would create myself in your image, because in you the most merciful Goddess exists, and also the cruelest devil. I could have salvation and damnation in the same breath. My deepest erotic longings  are realized and contained in this one divine being. Your body knows no flaws, even in your scars there is a profound grandeur to surpass any sense of heaven or hell. I want to attend a funeral everyday for the entirety of my existence, just to mourn your mortality. It is the most wicked lie I ever heard, that you will die. I want to go back to the day my first ancestor was born, and drown them in the river, eradicate my entire bloodline, just to erase the moment I learned you were made of decomposing stars.
.

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Dyade

Peering in the mirror, I see your reflection in me. It’s always the one who is closest who leaves her imprint on my soul. The name that was given to me at birth was apropos, clarity and light, reflecting through dark, the image of that which is cast upon her. Deep under earth where thirsty roots, like small beings , conscious of their need for the tree, hold deep this vein which replenishes jugular affection. I want your black hair with blue undertones, want the blue haze surrounding you in me, like a cloud of vapor, inhaled and exhaled. When you say I should be things, like the orgasmic thrust you feel in your ilium, this is what I embody. I want your skin as it deteriorates from lack of nutrients, to be my own canvas splotched red, and for my pulse to be your pulse as it leaves your wrists where the indents of my sharpest desire are worn as a bracelet, swollen on the surface, where the ancient ache escapes, to become rain for the desert between your thighs.

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Annihilation’s Bird

Each bird in its place, caged.
One is set free daily.
Extended arm like a runway for aviators.
The broken one sits there envious of the sky,
It will never abide by suicide.
Buddhist principles of non-violence
forbid it forgiveness.
Instead it commits a thousand
silent murders within,
homicide,
genocide,
any form of annihilation
afforded by the imagination,
to spurn the body.

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The Reaper

​You were beautiful when you took my hand in your hand, when you held that black cape open, enticing me. You were 6 drinks in 60. You were a pile of white powder that I inhaled, in the hopes of feeling, the tissue soaked red from my efforts. You were lonely bridges at 2 am, bent over rivers, deep as whores. You were strange men who drove by and offered young girls a ride out on the wide open highway. You were razor blades stolen from hardware stores, when I was let out from the ward on a smoke break. You were sutures, charcoal, and the threat of stomach pumps. You were 20 meter jumps into nothing in the hopes of hitting something hard. You were there in infancy laughing, you were there on my first day of school, when I learned what it meant to be different. You are that look in my supervisor’s eyes as she gives me the once over, questioning whether it was really the right thing to hire me, then excusing my weirdness in place of the quality of my work and the level of my seeming dedication. You were the mark on a card indicating my identity, where the line was left blank. You are that thin tipped syringe that hits the vein perfect every time, the one I sometimes romanticize. You are the failed attempts I made, and all my partners who live/d too far, who are incapable of intimacy. You are that mystery man who comes cloaked in high fashion ready to take me on a date, but you never tell me the time. I will never know until I meet you, and then what if we are incompatible? You are always there, waiting in the shadows. You are there when I catch my reflection in a mirror. You were there today when I failed to be perfect, you will be there tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow. I can’t starve you out, love you out, buy you out, or drink you out. I can’t write you away or procreate you away. You’re here to stay, ever the immortal victor to my corporeal existence.

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Rebel Rhetoric

Living is radical
when they prefer what is
predictable;
carefully calculated
algorithms adhere
to interpolated
parameters.
To live is to
extrapolate,
expel yourself
from the radar
refuse
rules,
rebel in
response
to
repulsion,
revolt,
rise up,
redefine yourself,
reawaken
the
revolution
register
as an earth refugee
apply to go
to heaven
apply for hell,
anything
is possible
outside the
realm
of this
robotic
reality.

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Battle Scars

America never belonged to their forefathers
It belonged to your fathers
and your father’s fathers.
Never forget that.
They drove a strong, proud, red nation
up into Canada,
where they cut off our tongues
and surgically removed our souls.
Red, white & blue
are part of you.
The blood which rushes
through your heart,
which they buried at wounded knee
could not be
without France, without Britain,
without the great red nation.
The enemy is in you,
and the warrior too.
Smearing paint over her cheeks,
she walks free
into the wild country,
bearing their battle
scars within her.

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Candidate 45

The day that Clinton bitch lost
and that idiot won,
my friend in all things strong and femme
held up her arm in a “we can do it” pose.
Tears soaked her cheeks,
while around her bicep
black fabric tied
like a tourniquet
hung
loose
over a tragi-comic,
self-grandiose
nation.

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Feline to a Fault

The pitter patter of morning kittens running down the hall,
enter your bed where you lay in lioness sprawl.
Each eats a secret from your mouth
in the cemetery of animal thoughts.
Their razor tongues
attempt to wash your conscience clean
I am naked and 16,
A lithe leopard enters me.
Her dark ennui
transfigures my feminine soul.

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Bullet Time

Everyone walks around like they’re in real time.

I walk in the bullet induced haze of a rabbit maze.

My mind is projected on the wall of a cave.

And nothing stays. Nothing penetrates.

I hear the grinding crack of bones when I hit the outside world,

light burns my eyes until I’m blind.

I think I broke something substantial, but I can’t feel the pain.

Others stand encircling me with their mouths agape.

I don’t know if I am supposed to react a certain way.

I have a complete absence of feeling,

even numb pales in comparison to this snuffed out candle of an anesthetized body.

Your smile is a shadow on the wall. Clap your hands and applaud.

I see the wings of an absurd albatross bird.

I think this is meant to be a signal of some kind.

I don’t know why, but people seem to think this all means something.

Maybe I missed mythology class, maybe I should be reading symbols & codes beyond my comprehension.

I turn to Jung again, maybe he can provide a clue as to what this nonsense means.

At least the deaf & blind have Braille and interpreters.

What about those who can’t feel?

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Failed Attempt

If I’d have succeeded
in meeting my heart’s desire
there would be no fire,
no spark of excitement
at the laughing, living,
breathing failure contained
within me.

Then you say I would never see
my mother past forty,
never see the grey
in otherwise sunny
skies.

Never have to sign my life away.
I would have made it
to that legal age
where too young gives way
to knowing better,
and simple as that the curtain
would have been drawn shut
for good on these dark,
floater strewn debris,
cataclysmic, catatonic
soul gazing pupils.

I would have had the soul sick
sense of dread at living
and the fearless contempt
that welcomes death.

I would be the same then as now
and now as then,
save the perils of
depleted oxygen.

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Dead Dream

So I dreamt I woke up
I had died and woken up
on the Golden Gate bridge
In San Francisco
And you carried a doll
to a shore
And shot it
in the heart.
It had cotton
guts,
they exploded
In a fury of feathers.
I wasn’t sure then
if I saw a bird
die
or fly,
though I know for certain
that doll kept her smile.

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Seeing Through the Dark

Your eyes; two crystal balls bright as stars
burning through the dark.
How could you see where others blindly dance?
Opium in place of lithium.
Decimal points on a chart,
indicating deficient blood.
What he did in the dark,
you could see in the dawn of
a new existence.
Segments of double helix strands
bent on self-destructing,
whilst the bang of moonlight,
shot white fluid
replicating self-perpetuation.
Years later, she would liken
this to being mangled.
Others would call it birth.
Hum drum of planets,
ringing euphoric,
while I wake up mute
to this strange discord
they call music.

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Filed under Bipolar, Borderline, Depression, Illusion, Memory, Pain, Poem, poetry, Suicide, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Vertical Over Apical

Memories travel in reverse, like spilled fluid up the cup before it was broken. Irony is I am awake at 2am reviewing chapters on the subject of sleep. REM decreases. As we progress closer to our death we spend less time dreaming, is this because we are closer to finally waking up? She sits in a white chair with a red glare projecting from her eyes. I envision her scalpel as she slices each neck, void of any emotion, this is purely professional, harvest the brain to study the cycles causing disease, be present at the hour of decay, sit at a temporary table and drink something permanent. Drink in sunsets, red dots on white flags, dotted lines: vertical over apical, swim out among a metaphoric sea of trees, hang myself there, like an ornament out of season.

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Filed under Poem, poetry, Suicide, travel, writing

Superficial Images of Harmony

In line for photo day, mother smothers

Covergirl and others to conceal what is real.

On each face there is a veil of joy, disguising true emotion.

A family of 5, but only 4 legitimates in the picture,

the other is the ghost of a girl, appearing as a halo of light,

which gives the finished image, a burned appearance,

where truth singes.

 

In front of others, this feigned affection & attention

is heaped like toxic sugar into the cups of company.

When the guests depart, the smile turns to tight lips

and searing eyes, “you are the reason we fight,

you are the cause of our misery, your very

existence was an accident.”

 

I think of how beautiful an accident can be,

crushed bones on concrete, from a 10 story fall,

but I decide instead on living and smiling just to spite them.

Smile, no one cares how you feel, smile to conceal what is real.

Keeping up appearances is what garners true admiration,

look at her, so together, meanwhile the thread on her sweater

tied to truth, is so easily unraveled, like a wound,

they hoped to keep hidden by a tattoo symbolizing

harmony.

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Filed under Abuse, Past, Poem, poetry, Suicide, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Confession

I got the results of my x-ray back today,

there are roses growing in me,

and it seems they can never die,

they found butterflies on the thorns

where they made cocoons,

only our lovemaking can heal these wounds.

[~C]

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There are roses growing in you;

I will always remember that August morning when you told me that there were roses growing in you.

Since that day, when they need light, I give them the sparkle of my eyes transformed into sunlight.

When they are thirsty, I empty my body of blood and I become their dew.

When they feel lonely, I serenade them under the full moon

When they are hungry, I offer them my tenderness,

and I cut my arms so they can keep my caresses.

Today, I have a secret to reveal to you; there are roses growing in me too.

Only my roses can live in your garden and yours are always welcome in mine,

but never offer roses to a stranger and never accept roses from someone else’s garden,

because the pain in my soul will provoke thorns to tear my skin off

and a rain of petals will cover my empty & naked body

that lies lost on a pyramid of thorns amid a sea of blood.

[~M]

Written by Crystal Kinistino & Mada Rose

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Filed under Beauty, Bleed, Bondage, Confessional, Dark Romanticism, Dedication, Love, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Hemlock (Truth#1)

I found in you, ephemeral but indelible, this bruise
purple as a twilight sky before the thunder,
where black around the eyes, as charcoal,
accompanying a crimson smear,
your cheek was stained by the memory of my presence.

Each day I arrived to see you sleeping,
bandaged, scarred, and profane, the words
never came, the sentences were anesthetized.

Your disdain grew like a tumour.
Inside needless cells,
carrying comets towards
hell.

The first truth was as bitter
as hemlock in the trial of Socrates.

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Filed under Poem, poetry, travel, Truth, Uncategorized, writing

Brave

​Brave we are:

when the father is a ghost

when the head of a beloved doll rolls 

across the wooden floor 

of a vacant house

when the mother cuts her finger 

across her swollen lip,

when teeth fall

before their time is up.

Brave are the children

of the aging woman

whose reality forehadows the

dream.

When the child, so worshipped

falls sick, 

when there is a blackness 

darker than when they

put out the forest fires

in his head.

When bringing your child to the doctor

for mental malaise is as healing

as bringing him to the undertaker

on the street corner,

of an overpopulated city,

which gets glorified by how high

its towers rise,

and how far its people fall.

When I told my hero

of her braveness

she cried

and said she was nothing.

She was nothing,

dressed in denim on a hot

summer day,

to stop the U.V rays,

from making thymine dimers 

in her RNA.

Sodium channels

flood her face, submerging 

the pain in her smile.

A fist full of forgiveness

for the man who did this,

her hero of nothing,

paternal wolf, 

whose eyes eat the children,

whose lust burns the forests

into clay, which the rain,

makes maleable again-

shaping out this brave image

where we fit into nothing.

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Filed under Abuse, Addiction, Death, Depression, Disenchantment, Displacement, dreams, Loss, Medical, Overdose, Pain, Poem, poetry, Sex, Silence, Sobriety, Society, Sorrow, Soul, Suicide, Tragedy, Trauma, travel, writing

Uprooted

​Moth breath over Phalaenopsis,

the sway & swell of city sounds,

In the clay pot, broken, 

but never penetrated;

fastidious flowers, 

desiring winter on a bed of cedar,

stay this way, in virginal foreboding.

8 Seasons pass..

nothing lasts.

that which I called home,

that which I called love.

Fertilizes 

New hope

New eyes,

New bed.

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The Stone Light

In the dark depths of your irises, and deeper still the pupiled pathways of your soul, I am carried as on a vessel, bound for unknown worlds of great exploration & discovery, out of the microcosm and into the macrocosm of an infinite
universe, all in the span of a moment, only long enough for a kiss, but how
long is a kiss; when time ceases to exist?
Hold me this way, in dark whispers, say my name, with a tremble of
ecstasy, as you tell me “my body is your body,” therefore your tongue which
orchestrates such song, must have been composed from my own longing,
therefore “your body is my body.” I am as much that flicker of fire in the
stone that burns for us, whose amber light releases her soft musk into
the passionate night air. A soft rain falls, tomorrow you will fly back to Paris,
but in this moment I want to engrave you in my mind, the outline of you,
of us, together, in this sensuous season without end, until the wind,
which birds do follow, and the cold, so inevitable, leads us close again.

 

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Filed under Longing, Love, Memory, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Perpetual

When I say I don’t know how I could have made it through this without you,

its not a declaration of incompetence or weakness,  it’s a feeling of gratitude.

Of course I am capable, a woman can choose to stand alone.

Its not dependency, need, or loneliness.

I don’t require a manual on how to be strong enough to do this on my own.

What this is, is a wolf in woman’s skin, tearing at her throat to let you in.

If you prefer winter,

go on and forsake

the summer.

The sun that rises also drowns,

in grey horizon.

This warmth of breath,

might just as well smother.

Elements in our bodies,

deplete desire,

for fire.

You with blade,

chip away at ice,

to make something

recognizable,

so that others may say,

It bears striking resemblance

to something real,

attend a festival of ice,

In a bid to feel;

The morning arms that reached for you,

The morning smile that greeted you,

The morning lips which sought in you,

something perpetual.

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Filed under Emotions, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

L’enfant des orchidées

The stars go out before the dawn

and spur on a new light,

how sad it is, the time between,

awaking and a dream.

I held my lover’s gentle body near my own,

we danced until the feeling of alone,

passed like a ship, empty of cargo,

that knows not what it misses,

a bare vessel bound for the Pleiades,

those seven sisters arm in arm,

those middle-aged stars, who long

for time eternal.

In the aching of a sea whose depths

know not for reaching,

worlds of beseeching tenderness,

melt the ennui

of empty hours

between one mate

and her soul,

such it is

her body

is

my

own,

blood

rushing,

in streams

over mountains

& continents

past carnage,

and wreckage

of war,

skin,

scarred as mica

on black shore,

drops the basket,

cracks the casket,

open more;

you are the only one

who can

have this

rare bloom

inside me.

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Reflections on Nursing 

 

You are like me, it’s how you’re supposed to be, so smile and be free says the bird in her, to the cage in me, creaking silver rusted memories. Abduct and adduct arms fast like wings, to fly on out of this place. Your mind is without limit, flapping like a fish on earth inside your body, and as such your spirit laughs in the face of this absolute powerlessness, the absurdity of a weakened system, which fails to reflect the stirrings of a child within, who knows eternal strength, uplifting. Infantile and so, deemed useless, without the ability to prove oneself worthy. Yesterday centennial celebrations, in a society who is not keen on decay. “I’m lonely,” lady of Italy, who spits out the soup in distaste as I spoon feed her lies, in an attempt to comfort her, silence her, in the kitchen, where they gather our incompetence’s, small checks in boxes indicating our failure to thrive. She says she is lonely, this is the pathos of the human plight, and I without ability to heal, provide the most basic of human needs, company, and a spoon, where her hand has failed to hold, and her mouth refuses to open save for spitting obscenities, which amuse me. Hot blooded Italian from the old country. Her family come to visit, and her granddaughter gives me the once over, a power dyke, and me in white, all white, as though I were pure.

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Filed under Aging, Alone, Loneliness, Loss, Malady, Medical, Memory, Mortality, Nursing, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Telos

My hands are sad, they speak deep between the lonely crease of love and loss. My eyes are empty, close blankly, refuse to see light and dark, my eyes say these lacrimal glands need to empty out, empty out the countless drops that make up the oceans, leading toward this lonely shore, far from what I’ve come to feel familiar, arms around my body, that say, they love me, arms that say they cannot wait to embrace me, do not speak myths, only articulate truths in sinew, flesh without limit, as though at anytime these arms could learn the way of flight, should I need them, to travel outwards past the clasp of the one who orchestrates a symphony of birdsong, loon cries, geese departing cold Northern shores. Say we are the same in our birdness, that the stars shine with the vigour of burning Gods and Goddesses, for the sole sake of making our dreams essential, or imparting hope that burns eternal. The cup says I am empty, it is mine, I know this because my hand communicates the need to fill it, fill my hand with the glass, fill the glass with water, the water craves my mouth, my mouth craves the water, in this craving, we belong together, are essential elements directed to the common goal of fulfilment. I am a filament, a wick of candlestick, fire is my companion, and the heart a dark organ, that chooses this restless passion to burn. My fingers miss being entwined, I need another hand to fit like a piece of missing puzzle, made of bone that wants to grow, instead I am cramped in my own loneliness. Books line shelves, unread, who say they feel neglected, my eyes visit them, briefly, my mouth utters their contents, sentences fall like strands of hair, in tattered snippets, resembling a person, who wears a braid, and plays a tug of war with words, which never say their true meaning. The clock says follow my hands, I am in circadian alignment, a master of flight. Time says he is angry, a father who died before I knew his eyes were mine, a lover who awaited my touch. This interval in itself resents me when I dress, when I rush out the door, in my hurried frenzy. My legs say stay, my hips pull them back into bed, like reins, my eyes close, and I remember to dream, I see you then, dreaming me, dreaming my veins into rhythm, my nerves into a fevered impulse, butterflies dance down my spine, flickering like candles in the dark, a hot breath of recognition lands on on my neck, from behind. Outside in the garden a rose grows thornless, in consideration of your delicate beauty.

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song of the stars

Veins of earth roots swallow the ache of this buried heart, which never tires of thirsting. Like a small starfish, it rises up, with a thousand different arms, waiting to hold you. If I lose the feeling of your delicate body to the vagaries of time and space, I will erase who I am, and come to you, newly gilded, pick thorns from the places where I wandered without you, name each wound and scar, as the time before I discovered immortality, catch you in my fingers, my mouth, my hair, taste the salt of your loneliness as my own, and when the song of the stars, a magical music made for dreamers, illuminates the earth with the light of a butterfly’s beauty, I will watch her wings form, and ride on the dawn of a night owl, carrying hope like a crystal toward the pupil of your infinite eyes.

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Filed under Music, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

the ticket soulward

Blackbirds line the plexiglass of the perimeter down Attikus, a bounding pulse, riding through my chest, like an untamed mare, striving for ventricular leap; the streets lie empty as a wrist at the end of a long kiss, and leave me like this και πάλι ένα μαύρο πουλί, landing in the black night, among the cypress trees, calling, swooping, downward, toward the slopes of green, leading to Kiffisia, where the splendor of radiant seasons, throbs like a thousand hearts under one temple, ready to open, ready to thrust away the grey of winter, replace with this, your soft hand, virgin of labor, likened to the flush of sunset that covers the sky in a shy smile, forges the earth to be still, while the cataclysm in my body, swallowed by the Aegean, washes up through the years in the water garden, where her gaze, the gaze of heaven, her lips, forming constellations, which surpass the beauty of a thousand stars when she smiles, her eyes, a deep reflection which sees beyond my waking vision, path of petals, sweet and vernal, where she counts in anxious expectation the moment of our merging, merging beyond blood, beyond time, where trains pass like veins, towards the heart of eternity, you did not board, you did not purchase the ticket soulward, and I thank you for this, in a murmured Latin tongue, which you reject like love.

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The burned out house we inhabit

In the vacant house,

charred wainscot

a flash of memory

captured as a photograph,

where I come to greet her in the foyer,

she keeps that smile,

until my hand reaches to caress,

her face as wax melts,

her smile drips

over the windowpane,

forming stalagmites,

blistered fingers, burned out heart,

her hand emerges from the

ashes,

“holding my cindery, non-existent,
radiant flesh. Incandescent.”

in absence of identity,

personal keepsakes,

years of collecting ourselves,

kept in boxes, or

displayed on shelves,

soot where our souls once burned

with the vigor of starlight,

caught between rocks,

we push together,

one breath, hot enough to burn

the braid of us,

the knot tied from

infancy to

senility,

somewhere, on the chart

of our development,

we failed our goals;

trust was replaced with mistrust,

autonomy with doubt,

identity with confusion,

intimacy with isolation,

and productivity with stagnation.

We were left with these bodies,

whose faces are as familiar as strangers,

jagged teeth, fading ivory,

loss of skin’s elasticity,

hollowed eyes,

lacking glimmer & glitter,

we decorate our souls,

when we can no longer attend the

celebration of who we are,

but as we fade far,

know that the soul never forgets

it’s purpose,

we came born with a song

and a reason to sing it,

who among us can content herself

with a furled feather,

clutching a long sleep,

if we never care to dream

or awaken?

My wishes blown out,

one final sparkler

lights up the dark room

like a fiery organ,

I multiply each breath,

resuscitating this smothered heart.

Little girls again, we run together,

past rolling brooks, leading to

the water’s edge,

here we walk back,

retracing ashen steps,

I pour lava into the places

where we failed to grow,

forming from ebony pitch,

a shiny onyx tear,

we walk the path of tears,

and reach the ocean

of our separation,

in hope of growth,

tossing these in the salt water

and brine of

rejected kisses,

cold arms,

stern faces,

meter sticks,

belts,

brutality,

and

broken hearts,

we come back none the better,

none the wiser,

the same fleck of

green,

same dark sense of loss,

covers the forest in moss.

 

But I love her,

as I love the

earliest memories

I have,

the ones where hope

thrived in small

corners and

tables were set,

by our imagination,

with no real food,

no real sustenance,

nothing to nourish us,

no hydration,

but the one seed

planted,

was enough to

assuage our thirst,

to restore

the air again,

to allow for flight,

and we rose without thought

or fear of falling.

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Smiles like Sunscreen

So what if we did away with persona?

What if we shed our lambskin for wolfish fur, and a set

of fangs, bearing sharp our desire for blood, deep meaty flesh,

bones, calcium, and enamel?

What if she said “I want you on my mantle,”

a porcelain doll, where you sit collecting dust,

until she decides to brush you off and make you useful?

What if every day she stared in your eyes, and replaced those

sweet lies with a bitter, unpalatable truth?

 

What if she was cold and uncouth and her words caused

you to shatter, but she just stood in laughter,

mocking your eye as it rolled across the parquet floor,

and when she was done breaking you into pieces,

she put you back together again, buttoned you up,

told you to mind you don’t catch a cold,

kissed you warmly on the cheek, and then stopped speaking

to you again.

 

In her you might see the softened blush of redolence,

moments of passion, intermingled with tenderness,

only to end in incomprehensible violence.

But, what if, by meeting we didn’t mind the first impression,

and the pink clouds of infatuation were replaced by grey,

ominous nebula?

What if she said, “I take an enema because I am so

tense and backed up, that my body refuses to expel

it’s own toxic waste?”

What if she said, ‘I can’t let go, I never climax, because

I need to stay in control?”

What if she told you “don’t speak,

don’t move, don’t touch anything, stay very still, like unseen

particles, because I need for you to cease existing at the hour

when my anxiety is most high, which is at night, when

I think I might die?”

 

If she sat with you over coffee and told you of every

thing imperfect about her, of all her shortcomings,

and solidified reasons for being alone,

then what if she took you home,

and you knew that she wouldn’t touch you,

wouldn’t want you near her, couldn’t bear

the sound of your breath beside her in the bed,

what if she told you these things instead of

pretending to be kind, sweet, compassionate,

the one?

 

What if the sun came with a warning label?

“Might cause cancer, but may also cause flowers to bloom.”

Would we still want to wake up to the daylight?

But we would and we do, we slather ourselves

in u.v protecting cream and admire the beams

as they cut across our field of dreams,

because truth is, we’d rather have flowers

than tumours, so we ignore the signs,

failing kidneys, inability to breathe,

inability to grieve, due to the painted on smiles

we wear like sunscreen.

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Filed under Cancer, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Repressed, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Sad light box

Look inside, all the sun is contained in this box.

Open the lid, let it out, the song changes for each season, a musical wind up game, turn the handle, slowly unraveling melodies. When this opens, who determines what flies out? Pandora pandora, a bat, a bird, a rose blossoming, a frost flower, a hurricane? They say the mind creates it’s own world, and in the box of these thoughts, I hold the night sky, out among the stars, one firebird rises, the rest of the galaxies cry molten tears of obsidian. I turn the handle and your image rises above me in holographic beauty, you float down above me, your lips touching my lips, your eyes like small flames from candles that the dark can never extinguish.

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Dissolution

Though the ocean may be beautiful, it’s tumultuous, unpredictable.
When you pull from sand, the shell of me, I sense you hear
my heartbeat on sonar blips, from far away ships tracking dolphins,
but as I follow the cry under darkest depths, surfacing is empty,
empty, as a photograph of a woman’s feet on the shore,
taken by another woman,
a sinking feeling, as she walks a path,
where no trace of me exists, the sun is pointless, a burning orb
of agitation.

Sleep is futile for the sterile woman, holding a novel, whose
characters were invented on star dreams, dreams of death.
A few words spoken between strangers can mean more than
a decade of silence between the beloved.

Each stranger represents a new world,
her face is a new dream envisioned;
I tell her love is my religion,
that our discovery of eachother was like
the birth of us, and our meeting
will be the baptism.

The things I don’t speak, are truths caught on a hook,
by a small child, with the sunset rising in her eyes;
that the poet is a thief and a sailor,
that the one you most want to attract,
is the one you toss back.

Toss me back, full-bodied, and I become the siren.
I master the ability to swim, my legs become fins,
I am the mermaid others swear
they have seen, I swim downstream,
far from your dreams,
and arrive at a rock on an island.

Until the tide returns,
I am nothing.
You are the tide,
always rushing through me.
I was never able to stand still,
my feet next to your feet,
an image burned in the mind,
like tree sap tears,
the crystalized lachrymose
on a fiery spoon,
of black
dissolution.

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