Which is it? Not.

Are you in?

Are you out?


a definitive


of other

must be


I am not,

if I cannot

identify with

some facet of

you, so is that

why we

need to be



tactic, or

you are like

me or



What does it mean to be lunar-bodied?

The weight of the world, pushed pulled by

the force of the moon. Women embody

this force, a physiological connection

with the celestial realm. Her spirit

is the voice of the tides, her belly the

container of the ocean.

What is true is the poetry of force,

the creation refining vision, which seeks

to give form to material, to focus and

manifest, her material is the energy

of the universe, called in variation fire,

water, earth and air. She~ the creatrix

weaving dreams with her

left hand and intention with the wand

on her right. She finds herself

trapped in the cage of

this or that.

She has not

breathed in

thousands of years,

she had grown used to the food,

used to the grief,

used to the death and

emptiness, used

to the desecration of her body,

she sleeps. But the cries of her

daughters are too loud.

The cries of her daughter

wakes her up.

Women of the free world

stand up for the women

who are killed

for doing so. We have a voice,

and as our voices gain

momentum, with clarity,

sexual empowerment, education,


vocal chords fill with the me

the Goddess Inanna seduced

out the clutches of the god of wisdom,

Enki’s, arms. She found the power

of force to be used responsibly

only in her arms, the arms

spun with silk to move like

a rushing river. Men are waiting

to be told what to do. Men who

defer to the wisdom of a woman,

who know that strength is

not represented by the bulk of a

muscle and the force of a command

and army, but the strength of vulnerability,

which loosens her , because

she is in constant communication

with the universe around her.

Hers is the consciousness that

seeks to elevate to divine,

the spinning vortex of creation,

the natural alchemy

of turning pain into pleasure,

of death into birth,

of masculine into feminine,

and feminine into masculine.

She is the paradox that everything

comes from and where it returns.

Without a deep, embodied

knowing of her,

we have disaster,

the belief that

we can do

anything at all

on our own.

Disrespecting women is the original sin.

Connection is why we’re here.

Vulnerability is how to connect.


Taking No Shit

Because I am in the business

of being nice,

when I can’t muster up the energy to care,

it feels glorious.

I received a text message,

“when are you coming to see me?”

it read.

“I have no plans in the foreseeable future to ever see you again.”

Beyond nice, there is truth.

Truth is better than an orgasm sometimes.

The sting of a woman’s love was shunned by COCKiness.


The Power of Psychedelics

Closing my eyelids in the sunlight,

I remember why

it is a blessing for blurry lines.

When objects fade into objects

so that there is only one,

I feel saved from having to be someone.

The regular, steep delineations from person

to person, from one life to the next,

compartmentalizes the world into

boxes and boxes within which we need

craftier tools to escape.

There are no straight lines in nature.

Change was demonized along with women.


Be Positive


loneliness creeps in at the edges of spoken words.

One by one they fall away to answer another call.

You begin to fall

into that hole that is so big

from a lifetime of digging.

At first, you claw at the edges, your

hands where your feet were

from what seemed like just a moment before.

And then your hands hurt, and your voice is

raw from screaming for help and

you realize

nobody is coming to save you.  

And so you let go.

And then you begin to occupy more of yourself,

from the momentum of loss,

filled to the edges instead of

a conglomerate mess.

And suddenly a knife appears,

clenched in your fist,

tattooed on the skin

between your shoulder blades.

A warrior is born.

And you know that

you have been here before.

And each time you have, you forgot to

fill that gaping hole with dirt.

That those seeds you threw in

when you were sitting pretty

indoors, are pretty much useless

without fertile soil.

We forget that we do not always need

a spiritual practice, but when we do need it,

we will have wished we had been practicing.

A warrior does not fear another,

she does not fear death.

She is fearless.

And when she knows,

she walks upright and

she knows

I don’t need anybody. 

And a smile and compliment from

an angelic being, or a pretty young girl

who says

I like your hair

might be the best thing that she has ever heard.

We are all of us starstuff that orbit a

gaping black hole,

a vortex of destruction,

waiting to rip us to pieces.

Only we are microcosms,

unto our selves~ destructive.

And seduced

by the femme fatale,

the cosmic maiden

demanding our demise,

catalyzing destruction,

throwing ourselves into the cauldron of creation,

to be ripped apart and

put together again.

Humpty Dumpty could not do it.

Is it still possible for me?

Can I ride her magic fires?

And we hope…

maybe this will be the last time,

maybe we will remember that we are warriors,

maybe the hole can be filled in,

maybe something can grow there.