Drunk and Amused/ Invocation of Elegua

The spirits passed down to me through my ancestry,

imbibe and intoxication.

The silence is there as a constant audience.


I shattered the glass, I peed in the street,

I said the most imperfect thing,

and watched them in periphery.

I held my glass,

by the sharp, broken stem

and laughed at myself.

I am a witch,

happy in the company of me,

the Mistress of Misrule.

I get the last laugh,

through patiently waiting.

My eyes are here,

penetrate them.

We can fuck in the bushes.

Not too many see me,

and that is the way it should be.

Laughing in the corner,

we are all alone.

Might as well have some fun.

The addicts and comediennes have something in common.




And this is my surrender, my white flag and my olive branch.

You can meet me where the weak don’t play,

where a lady in red stands out amongst a sea of whiteness,

where the sparkler is a dud,

where the only choice is laughter.


I Am a Moon

I am a moon,

orbiting a planet.

That planet is happiness and the search for meaning.

I am a moon, and I get glimpses and promises,

the fantasy of Life Well Lived.

There is a well of emptiness.

Another name for it is potential.

And there are composers,

gathering up the energy for a symphony.

I am a moon,

and there are meteors flying by,

calling out my name.

“Come back! You are too dark to be seen.”

And I shift in place and leave because I do not know,

how to use attention.

The composer is magnificent,

in her ability to create a circus out of suits and ties,

in her ability to create a chandelier out of bent copper,

in her ability to find love in empty stares and slow recognition.

I am a moon,

orbiting this ability to create.

To know it is there but to shy away

is to constantly fail for no attempt

is made.

Oh, how I love those meteors!

Oh, how I hate those meteors!

The angels in biblical lore,

guiding us back to the moment,

telling us we are always seen.


Each creation can only be

transcendent in the moment.

This moment,

not the realities that are

outlined in a fear of the future.

This moment, not the lines

of belief patterns that force us to

create, create, create the same

over and over again.


The moon rises 4 minutes later each day.

Planetary bodies are subject to time.

My body is subject to time.


I am a moon, that orbits the same planet

every day.

That planet is possibility.

Dreaming of Mars and Pluto,

what can I wear?

How do I get there?

That is where I am meant to be.

Not here!

I am not a moon orbiting the planet of possibility!

I have not received the proper adventure!

This. is. not. my. life.


We are scared to be as slow as a snail, for in our blood is the

DNA of conquest.

Planetary bodies make the same trip day after day, with limited variation.

And we do not blame them for their lack of imagination!

For their limited experience!

We thank the heavens for consistency in the void.

How can we conquer the unseen?

The only part that’s up to me.


I am a moon,

orbiting the planet of possibility,

admiring the skills of the composers.

It is difficult to wish to be somebody else,

for it might not be possible.

It is odd to consider a moon’s transformation into a composer.

How can we marry the odds?

Will I ever learn?

I am a moon. I am a moon. I am a moon.

But this is my prayer to come through.



It’s like, I want to hold your hand while we walk to my class.

It’s like trusting you to be there after.

It’s like getting used to you being there, waiting for me.

When did I outsource my anchor in you?

Was I ever not scared of being alone?

It’s like,if you love me enough to stay, I’ll see you.

Because you wouldn’t be anywhere besides where you wanted to be.

It’s like, let’s hold hands for a little while.

It’s like, I want to feel safe in you.

Anchors are the awakened ones, but they have feet.

They go about their lives and catch the fallen.

Love is inclusive and unconditional.

Do you need a hand to hold?

Because I can’t get enough of the stuff.

And my marriage bed has a starfish pattern from sleeping alone,

but it’s okay because designating one other person as my love

while one eye constantly scans the horizon for

fear of missing out, and then punishing myself for it,

has never been good.

I want to hold your hand, until it doesn’t feel right anymore.

One hour.

A month.

Two weeks.

Twelve years.

I don’t ever want to be alone, except momentarily,

but I don’t have it all figured out.

Are you a person who anchors me?

Are you drifting this direction as well?

We can drift together, and when you see your turn off,

make the decision. Is it important to leave?

Would you rather stay?

My path seems rather narrow, and

I don’t expect it to make sense. But if you want

to drift with me, I’d love your company

while we figure out this life thing.

Our time here seems short, seems long.

Please keep good company.



Air is the Trickiest of Elementals

Inside this aching skull, and I did so much work for it not to be aching anymore. But inside of this aching skull, this town reflects the down and out, those who aren’t fully alive, or maybe they are but they are filled with desert ghosts of a different hue, darker than most care to venture to.

Why are you here? Do you go to school? I live here to haunt the children, to show them how not to be. Children of the nineties, we’re haunted by suburban daydreams and half-acid trips where we see that none of this matters yet all of this matters because we made our lives dedicated to it mattering.

I’ve built myself up to a level I’m proud of and of which I tell nobody about. I am haunted by my perceptions, and of this I know. Who dips their toes into the schizophrenic ocean for fun? Huxley requested a dose of psychedelics while he explored death. Can you exercise too much? Is surfing a casual hobby to undertake?

False core beliefs. Back to false core beliefs. You are dirty. You are a whore. You are not real or honest with anybody. Your life is a lie. You are ugly. It’s cruel to have a face people cozy up to, it’s cruel to have a face boys dream about and girls smile at, while underneath you’ve been carrying around the torch for the devil. Nobody could see it. It’s not their fault.

I’ve tried to steal love for too long. I will hurt you, eventually. I will take all of the love you give me and forget about it. But the universe will hand me your karmic regards, so don’t worry your sweet little thang about it. The dark ominous throes of despair come when we realize the gifts we failed to be grateful for. The doom is downward. The doom is self-defeating and ends in death, in your death. How many times is up to you. How many times do you want a go-around on this ride?


Card from the deck de St. Croix


In A Dream

In a dream last night,

words fell from the sky out of raindrops and snowflakes,

falling as deep black ink out of the atmosphere,

into words splash! on a page.

It had one rhyming stanza,

and another not.

Like all true poetry,

it feels like light wind

on your hair

and goosebumps.

The words fell like pure experience

birthed into being, but

eternal like birth

and rebirth.

The words fell in the dream,

and I could not capture them.

For I am a

clumsy poet.

For wind to exist in a form

requires a particularly skilled

poet to get out of the way.

I will have to try again, but not today.



Woke up from a nightmare~

lovers combat obstacles to be with each other,

tattooed names on their chests.

They were hot.

I woke up, alone again, reading articles like, “Remember That You Are Enough”.

My ferry man along for the ride,

my desperation and longing feeding unreconciled daydreams~

here I am, still, on the same roads, in the same town.

Is my lover on the bus, face pressed against the pane,

watching me basking in the glow of a sunrise?

Is my lover another sacrifice away, seeing me out of the periphery,

walking with a big backpack towards freedom?

Will my lover arrive here, where dense barricades of memories and anchors

compose my aura?

Surrounded by my personal comforts, the reminders of the road more travelled?

And it doesn’t matter,

as the sunrise rises and the clouds look just so.

The light appearing beyond the mountain range…

It will all be okay.


Getting Through Shift

I must remind myself that nothing is certain,

and potential is a living thing.

I must think of lists of good things in my life

and wander through the bad with a

cloak of gratitude.

This is not some new age babble,

for me,

it is the momentum between footsteps.

Trust is older than the faint lines around my

mouth, and too much sitting.

Trust is this poetry that nobody ever sees.

Trust is letting go of should and going after can.

Will I look back fondly at these years?

Or hang my head at waste,

my mind fixes itself to a haunted future.

Who will I be?

And the trick is that all I have is this moment to decide.


When I’m Sensitive/ I’ll use contractions in my poems if I want to, Professor.

I can feel the heavy belly of over-eating,

and the light from the screen is troublesome.

So is the repetitive sound, hooking its anchors into me one jingle at a time,

rewarding my center ’til I’m numb,

the great escape of the mind.

Even she does not want to be earth-bound, why?

Immortality versus reproduction.

Since when has nature been denied?

When I’m sensitive, I feel the chill of the air on my

skin and shiver.

When I’m sensitive, my guts relax and I can let go.

My clothes feel tight, unless they slide.

When I’m sensitive, I crawl back into the womb, white

noise and heartbeats are my lullaby.

When I’m sensitive, I want to be naked

in the rain under the stars,


in a cave at nighttime, hands and feet plunged

into the dirt, and when I’m sensitive, I teach

you how to be around me.

When we get good, you know when exactly to kiss me,

and to watch me peripherally.

And I can learn to listen to the Goddess surround me:


let go,

don’t listen to the mind,

she left town long ago.

Plunge your hands in the dirt,

dip your feet into the snow.

Only then will you see,

exactly where you need to go.

It is is not a there or here,

this or that equation.

It’s a little bit of this and a little bit of that.

And then we stand tall, like rooted trees in the earth,

reaching toward the starry dynamo in the machinery of night.

Ground the mind to the earth.


When I’m sensitive, the mantle the world has placed around my shoulders

is lapis lazuli.

It is a great blessing, to be sensitive.



Stability Amidst Chaos

What is important? You say that coming to Now, being seated in your soul, to appreciating air and food, birdsong and love is a valid source of strength~ And we must practice, but you say I cannot be trusted to decide my own medication? There are laws put into place for our safety, of course~ don’t over do it, but each of us is different. The law enforcement standards are the modern commandments, set into motion from a burning bush and the overzealous. Patriarchy teaches how fluidity is chaos, and should be prevented. Now the Earth cries MOVE! as her dancefloor spins like the surface of a moving top. Breaking down, building back up, it’s the only game in town.



It’s really just got to be okay the way it is:

hair that falls at an angle,

or legs that spread wide,

handfuls of flesh

that have no shame built in.

In a world where nobody accepts one another,

we cannot accept ourselves.