Monthly Archives: January 2014

Sacred Fire

I am a keeper of sacred fire, passion concentrate
It burns,  EVEN me, until it burns itself out.
And then,  there is darkness, cold, devastating winds piercing delicate pink flesh,
naked before the coming storm and there is no one to huddle to close to.

The wolves of night begin to howl for me, for my blood slowly curdling.

And It is fucking terrifying.

Empty and desolate, I wander a barren landscape without provision upon clay legs,
They fail me as I sink, under the weight of my own weather.

I have been taught to medicate this burden.
Put out the flames . Warm not the coals.
Assume a more neutral temperature.

Swallow your pills and Become tepid.
Walk among the masses. Join the automatic existence.

On days when you are hollowed out by darkness, rise from your bed a shadow,
Pull on the skin of a woman,an artiface, to blend with the crowd.

And I begin to question. If I throw out these pills to control my unruly nature
will I begin to grow wild and free, or simply lose my grip on reality?

Paxil You replaced Orgasms with Ordinary
Effexor  I stopped hearing the song of creation
Wellbutrin I wrote poems without power
On Prozac I wrote nothing at all
Celexa My lovers body ceased to make me weep with  its perfection.
Zoloft Tasting the honey between a womans legs no longer felt like receiveing a blessed sacrament.

Fury has done me more good than psychiatric medications every could.
I am more healed by crimson fucking nail polish than by dr’s and pills,
convinced I need to cured of these ills.

Don’t call me disordered.
I will take my torture,  and bring forth life.

Dance with the shadow, make love to the madwoman.
Call the ravens.  Gather the bones.

Howling, crying,screaming, drowning,
This is the cost of your truth.
PAY IT.

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Cliterature 2014 – 10th Anniversary

I am absolutely thrilled to be performing for the second year at KW’s premiere Womyn’s event: CLITERATURE 2014

Cliterature is a 2 day transformational and artful celebration of women’s sexuality featuring erotic readings, poetry, film, photography, music, dance and more.

Do yourself a favor and pick up a weekend pass to this amazing event!!!
Information about the event, as well as the event page on fb provided below 😉

Cliterature Facebook Event Page

Cliterature 2014 Event Line-up from Secrett Events

librarian

Butch Girl, Beautiful

butch femme

It can be arms canvassed in tattoos, eyes that flash with daring, an incorrigible smile or something as understated as a steady gaze

In any case,  her eyes declare

I want inside your wilderness

From across the room, from down the hall, haunting eyes that buck authority and promise all sorts of dirty things

The language of her body reads “I perfected the art of fucking girls up against walls in the safe haven of these strong arms.  And I want you.

The swagger of her approach promises to pin me up against a wall, hold my arms above my head, kissing me like it is the end of the world and worshiping at the altar of my breasts,  if it truly is the end, you goddess, are the only one I want rapture from.

Tasting her name in my mouth, I roll it around my tongue and suck deeply, licking the cologne that clings to her curves, treasuring a kind of woman-ness that isn’t taught in school or photographed for magazines.  There is nothing in conflict or transition about your butch woman’s body.

Carressing her undressed form and applying a warm, wet mouth to her natural grace.  This dance lays both of us bare and exposed, scarred beauties.

I can see where you have been wounded by eyes like nails, where your beauty has gone unrecognized in a world that defines woman, so narrowly.

You can see, where I have been accosted by intrusive hands, claimed  and seized by those who perceive my feminine state as nothing more than plunder.

And so we wrap each other up a tangle of arms and legs, while the intensity between us burns like the oceans between our thighs.

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Not a Love Poem

heartbroken

Moonfaced girl, with eyes full of stars, asks me to write her a poem.
How can it be that she don’t know that  I WRITE HER  EVERY POEM
When I write  grief, pain, and fear, I am writing about you
About the places where you live in my body, just under my skin.

But you don’t want to hear that do you?
No, your face wants a love poem

You want to hear that MY LOVE, is like a heat wave.
So intensive and expansive, the way it transforms the very air, that you have to learn to breathe all over again.

You want me to romance you with the tongue of Sappho and the arms of Neruda,  wrapping you in constellations of awe

You don’t want to hear that my love broods in dark corners, skulks in alley ways, hides itself in bed, where the absence of your round fleshy form, no longer warms like a hearth beneath the covers

You don’t want to see the tears that collect more often than occasionally as I go about my daily chores, remembering the way you smelt of wildflowers, honey and summertime.

You don’t want to know that my love is wounded and guilty and damaged.  You don’t want to prick your gentle fingers on the sharp corners that have formed along its edges, jagged and barbed in anticipation of being touched

My love WAS like a heat wave, it scorched the grass, and starved the birds.

Let’s pray for rain now.

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Thicker Skin

She tells me, to make this work, you need a thicker skin.
But my skin is thin like paper, pages of an unfinished manuscript, scraps of poetry hastily scribbled on cocktails napkins and forgotten receipts crumpled in the depths of pockets.

Fragments of meaning. Pure nonsense, pure wisdom.

Stumbling along I am mostly metaphor, interpreted differently by each new set of eyes, wandering the streets like a ghost, untouched, unseen.

Would that I could coat my skin with scales, impenetrable to the sharpest of words, encase my eyes, so that I may dive deeply into the fray, able to see past and future.  Transmuted by alchemical fire, I am Immune to the burning of tears. Make of my skin a leathery battleground, because I am strong, but I am not tough.

Not tough like stony faces with cool eyed stares owning their burdens silently.

I am the antithesis of silence.

My pain reads across my face like a neon sign, promising live nude girls, obvious to anyone regardless of their literacy; attracting those that would fetishize my vulnerability.

Jacket ripped, spine cracked from overuse, ink trailing.

And so I augment my words

And I complicate my stanzas

And I become a tome of such weight and complexity

that knowledge of me becomes unreadable without mastery

So forgive my thin skin, my ripped pages, my velum transparency

All I have to cover myself is the illusion of artistry

skin

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Meredith, in a Lime Green Parka

Meredith in a lime green parka
waiting for her lover
in -33 weather
in front of the unwed mothers house, around the corner
asked to meet my dog.

The dog barked furiously
shaking her collar, barring her  teeth

And you let her.

She sniffed at you|
distrustful  of your hooded form
and you smiled patiently,
content to let her suspect you.

Until at last, accepting the safety of your genuine tenderness
She pushed her cold wet nose under your wool soaked fingers

Through the bundled layers of our winter wear, on a starkly cold January night,
your undemanding strength betrays you.

Femme to butch, I catch a glimpse of your suave heart
Steady and true.

No need to ask how you identify or what pronoun you prefer

Just me.

Just you.

winternight

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