Letting Go

took me seven years
letting go of three I loved
another three years healing
my forties were fortunate
many moments of sorrow and silence
many nights drowned in fado
fado the river of music from tears
grief and wails pushing my raft downstream
without numbing myself or hiding
and by hiding i mean the usual suspects
we are told are helpful
but not even close
go find some fuckables to dick and dump
go find a husband or wife and breed
i chose to marry my very toxic love
my work
silent third suspect it is
until i finally learned
work is not warm enough to love you back
work is work
work is not love
work is what you do for others
but not your lover or spouse
and so i am free and unbonded
gave myself time to grow
seeking and finding meaning in me
letting go let me listen and wait
for the right one to share fate.

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Ancestors talk to us in dreams

i think i had a debate with a couple of folk
who were probably family not too happy
with some decisions i made in my earlier life
which i find to be ironic considering
how i got to be here
how i was labeled as odd or outsider
how my bookish nature
how my questioning of the norm
how my large strange eyes
frightened
frustrated
folk who were blood to me
family who loved me but feared me
family who assumed me to not be believable
family who taught me to survive in these
days of woe and uncertainty unwittingly
ancestors
who debate me but
who understand me better
because they are now
ancestors.

thinking of your cock right now

Sunday rain
coffee and buns
reading news
waiting for Sun.

the healing came last night

sage on fire
smoking
swirling
washing my rooms
lingering
chasing out demons
welcoming love
healing all spaces
i was tipsy with spirit

Who is the “you” and “I” in my poetry?

So, if you happen to know me, you may be wondering if I’m talking about you, or someone close to me or you. The answer is no. Yes. Maybe. Maybe not. Who gives a fuck? I’m writing about human experience and what we endure while living on this planet. I do include my twisted imagination and twisted reality and twisted feelings. I’m pretty strange in my flesh n blood world, so if my writing makes you feel a bit uncomfortable, welcome to my world. I might write about you one day. Let the world beware, said Catherine Tramell.

The Month is almost up. Not sure I feel like doing this in June. Holla at me and tell me.

Oh, and I’ve been holding back a bit. Look for me to just get straight up weird these last days.

what erotic subjectivity looks like part 1

female sexuality
female subjectivity
erotic subjectivity
woman
unbound
untied
to childbirth
to marriage
not owned
not controlled
no fear
no shame
no mask
speaking
consenting
deciding
being.

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fast forward to the good parts

you’d get it all
if you said it
plain and clear
clarity on what
this is between us
way i see it
intimacy begins
with synergy
brain and spirit
even if you thought
Lynch’s rabbits
went too far
we could still
Romance like Breillat
or look for
that indy movie
with no rating
like Cronenberg’s Crash
but gets you
hard enough
to bend me
over a table
lights still on
you could
get to know me better
like sharing poetry
while we watch
collapse of the West
under the weight
of our collective desires
unrequited
or long walks
in the park
discussing the absurdity
of human existence
in the 21st century
as well as looking
for any reason to lick
your lips before
kissing you.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.