The sun is burning
The life outta me
My hopes are turning
Into a dumb fantasy
My tongue is yearning
To set my feelings free
My bones are learning
The ache of maturity

What once was agreeable
Feels as off as it can be
The tragic unforeseeable
Seems more comfortable to me
Dreams once deemed unbeatable
Are dust beneath my feet
As I dig deep for the redeemable
Buried somewhere underneath

Thoughts like whispered voices
Fading into vague memory
Lots of different choices
Looked back on regrettably
A kaleidoscope of faces
Come and go while I’m asleep
My brain always erases
The things my heart loves most dearly

Gobble, Fucking Gobble.

I guess sometimes my nightmares must consist of things that directly tie into my dwindling sense of motherhood; as, there are mornings when I wake up feeling deeply wounded by this element of my irretrievably haunting visits to the realm of dreamland. This experience, when it happens, is enough to have me in full-blown tears of grief and devastation before my bare feet even touch the cold wood of the floor. There are so many sensations and notions attached to these mornings (thank Gods they are few and far between) that it quickly becomes difficult, if not impossible, to process any of them…they just sit there on the stagnant surface of my consciousness, too blurred and ambiguous to get my head or hands around. I guess today, I am thankful that these nights do not catch me slippin’ all too often…because when they do, I pay for it for a few days afterward.

Happy Turkey Day, y’all.


Howling At The Fucking (Super) Moon.

Caro il Lupo;

Do you know?

that you’re still alive?

Your humanity survives,

the time comes and goes,

tears spill from my eyes,

phantom penned poetry,

and unforgotten prose,

trickle from the winter skies,

like snowflakes on my nose;

a wolf-pack nurtured and led,

has slowly scattered and faded,

but when a full moon’s overhead,

we’re never too far separated;

we’re each still too humbled by,

the shine you put in every eye,

the words you spilled across our lives,

Marcus – your kindness thrives;

I know you’ve passed through this place,

your signature sizzles across the skies,

nobody can replace,

no pencil or pen can retrace,

your ink and quill still permeate,

you can still bring tears to my eyes,

Tonight’s “Super Moon”,

has me fucking howling for you,

head thrown back,

me, and the rest of your pack,

just like that, Marcus…you’re still alive.




Master List.

You were smart in that you always kept up with my movements one sanctuary at a time; marking each hideout I’d been to off on a master list of sanctuaries for the lost and forsaken. You later told me that you stayed so close on my heels by looking for pancaked spider corpses on the walls of the places you searched; I don’t know if I would’ve thought to do that. You knew me better than I knew myself, at all times.

You found me on a Thursday morning before the sun came up; you didn’t take any chances, and you treated me like you would treat any other escapee who pissed you off and took you on a wild goose chase, wasting your time. When I regained consciousness, I was already back in your display case, all squeaky clean and dressed in a starch-stiffened outfit with a smile painted over my mouth in bright red ink. And… the game started over from the beginning for the millionth time.

Big Differences.

Growing up, every year on my birthday, my Dad would make a point to become overwhelmed by sentiment, and then force his recollections upon me of the day that I was born. I typically spent the following few moments listening to him describe what life had been like prior to my birth (a dramatically dismal and rainy scene in which he, my Papa, and my older brothers spent their days feeling incomplete and longing for the missing piece to the puzzle of Life that only I could provide). My father never held back from parenthood, and he did everything with gusto when it came to his kids – his only daughter, especially – so the birthday strokes came on thick and lasted pretty much throughout the day until I went to bed.

Anyway, I think about this often (at least once a year); and can’t help but to compare these types of memories with those that surround me as the parent and Boo as the birthday girl (her 19TH birthday is tomorrow). It makes me dwell heavily in the land of self-inventory…and I can’t help but to wind up feeling guilty and shitty because I honestly don’t have such sweet sentiments in regard to my Life as a mother to Boo. I always used to eat myself that way because I would secretly feel quite different about Life before and after Boo (in comparison to those annual mountains of sugar that my Dad always fed me, at least).

Just been stuck in Plebian Mode all day over this stupid comparison, I thought I’d dump it out into the Universe and see if that helps it go away.


As I drove home late last night from the mountains, I saw you shining up there, almost full again…my heart became sore; and, I was in tears before long.

There’s nothing as awe-inspiring to the others on the road as the notice of a blubbering fellow driver, by the way. People become acutely interested in you suddenly when they fear that you are unable to see the freeway lanes through your tears.

I thought of Lionheart then, naturally…and his good fortune in love; I remember how you almost seemed to be “hooking him and me up” in the beginning of our friendships together, from so far away. Needless to say, that wasn’t the destiny laid out for us; but we have nurtured something special in terms of true friendship, instead.

I then recalled several conversations you and I had in the very short time that I was blessed by your presence in Life, as I have become blessed by its permanence in Death these days. I remember how much I admired your spirit and heart; you just seemed to ooze the very essence of all that is good and honorable in the world, and all that is true. I remember how you comforted me during a very, very low point in my Life’s painful pendulum – on a day when I was feeling especially alone and abandoned and hopeless. It was a holiday, a big one that you were celebrating with your lovely wife and family somewhere far from your place “high in the woods”. You made time to comfort me that day despite a bad weather day of traveling…you didn’t make a big out of it though; I hadn’t even known you were on the road because you had been so “present”. You always amazed me and left me with my mouth hanging open through your untouchable humanity, Il Lupo.

You were an amazing human being; I haven’t forgotten that, either; haven’t forgotten you for a single day. I think of Felicia often too, and wish I were in a position to drop in on her and just hug her once in a while. I do wonder how she gets on these days, without you. It hurts to know how robbed of so many things she was when you were killed. It hurts to know that she has suffered such a tragic loss in so many ways and must go on. I guess I hurt for her, mostly. I try not to think about your actual death and what it must have been like for you and your dog when you were hit and killed. I hope your suffering was short-lived.

Just know you live on in the hearts of so many of us, and always will, especially on a full moon.


Howling At The Fucking Moon, Marcus.



I, indeed,
vividly recall,
the magic
of it all
the tragic
end result
the headlong
and fatal fall
the sad songs
the postered walls
the easiness
that came with it all
I carry
of many things
the days you
let me “be”
the way you
behaved so
how you tried
so hard to
show to me
the rule-card
the cue cards
of being free
the things we said
the times we had
the first time
the last time
the good
and the bad
the night you
decided to
move on alone
I will never
forget to
the dead.


I can still surely say,

I won’t let you fade,

I still tearfully celebrate,

the anniversary,

your former birthday;

bless that day you came,

and changed everything,

a little, blue bundle,

so similar to me;

barely junior to me,

by just thirteen months,

arriving epically,

to button our family up,

you were technically,

the reason, meaningfully,

each day that I’d wake up,

and everybody noticed,

the natural bond between us;

years and experience,

were hardest on you,

your mind was too fragile,

your heart was too huge,

and, regretfully

I failed to see,

the toll it took on you,

and when I blinked my eyes,

you were bigger than I,

and just as intelligent, too;

there remains,

in my heart – a pang,

words still lingering,

from our childhood days,

we used to complain,

and each would convey,

how we hated sharing,

a birthday party;

as so very few,

between 25 and 22,

they always killed both birdies,

through ONE party that they threw;

I know you never meant it,

I continue to pray,

that you knew the same,

if I could have you back again,

I’d give up my birthdays,

without the slightest hesitation,

to see your face again,

to bring you medicine,

whatever situation,

I might have you in;

we were so, considered,

just like a set of twins,

we had something special,

something better,

born in Forever,

part of who I am;

I know you’d,

surely understand,

why I’ve become,

this thing that I am,

and these days,

a “birthday”,

only stands to represent,

another wound,

another loss,

another failure,

another painful regret.

today would be that party,

that you and me,

always hated to share,

and let me tell you,

I would sit happily,

without a word,

Gods willing,


you were here.






It’s An Ice Cream Cake.

Go back about 30 years to when I got my first pair of bike shorts;

…yup, bike shorts; remember those?

Yeah, those – with the neon stripe down either outer leg, that’s right. At the time, my brothers gave me Hell, beginning a life-long joke that has something to do with my thighs and the word “drumsticks”. It was due to this very instance that I was too self-conscious to wear anything even remotely tight on my legs until maybe…like, 5 or 6 years ago; it was due to the drumsticks that I never wore shorts growing up. I never wore a bathing suit in the absence of shorts, either; I dropped out of cheer-leading (which was probably a blessing in disguise anyway; imagine me as a cheerleader, wow…).


It was that singularly potent time; that half-hour of being taunted and laughed at in my new bike shorts by my older brothers that turned my legs into “Turkey Sticks” for decades to come. I honestly spent many years of my Life with the warped image of two big ol’ turkey drumsticks in the mirror where my legs should’ve been.

And, so…in the spirit of keeping me on my toes and looking alive for my REAL BIRTHDAY, my roommate Dice got me this amazingly sweet reminder of the good old days at home with my brothers.

NOTE: Dice is so very much like any one of my brothers in a given moment, that this totally acceptable and fitting, coming from him.



“Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

I shouted into the pitched darkness, somehow expectant of an answer from its emptied core. The lack of response was killing me; I had been having this one-sided yelling match for the entire night long, to no avail. The low rumbling of thunder began then, and my heart-rate quickened at the sound of its tumbling crashes getting louder – the ground beneath me rumbling ever-so-slightly from its force.
It’s then that my thoughts begin to pirate my mind in rapid succession:
Systematically, I think about the last time that this happened, about the brain-blindingly loud thunder and the chaotically destructive lightning; about the unworldly things that my body was forced to endure during the last storm like this one; I think about the endless possibilities of damages that the impending storm might bring with its wrath; I think about death…I wish for death, a quicker one than the one I am currently playing out.
My mind regains its control over the rest of me just then; and I sit up and wipe my face to regain some composure. I am jolted awake with realization. I scream again with the dwindling wind left in my stinging lungs, affecting a strip of sandpaper ripping itself upwards from my belly’s darkest depths.

“I don’t need to stay here!”

I become infused by adrenaline throughout my bloodstream and serotonin pumping through my glands as I holler the defiant statement into the blackness beyond me – surrounding me – enveloping me;

“I don’t have to do this again…I won’t let you do this anymore!”

I spring to my broken feet in spite of the searing pain shooting up each ankle through my shin bones, lower jaw jutting out in sheer bullheadedness; I have chosen. I am so high off of my own rebellion that I fail to notice the momentum growing in the rumbling and cracking of thunderous bolts around me in the darkened space. At that instant, I can feel the warfare in my esophagus, its bile-like foam rising in my tightened throat; its taste instantly sets off an alarm in my brain and my mind gets weakened by the surprise – I fall.
The cracks of forceful, thunderous power bite at my face and body like wet sheets twisted into vines to whip me to a miserable death. The bellowing rolls of strength and control wash over the entirety of the scene with noise so deafening, that I am no longer able to tell up from down – dark from light; the pain brought about through these forces is felt through and through…standing every nerve on its end, leaving a pain-infused retinal image singed into the insides of my eyelids. I do not want to open my eyes ever again after that point, as I know that HE has returned to hurt me. I wait like a wounded hunter’s prize in the silent darkness, straining to hear it. It’s a voice that is so terrifying to my betrayed, blood-filled ears, that its dripping teeth are nearly tangible to me through the void around me, it says:

“Do you not by now realize, fragile one, that you hold no power here?”

My heart sinks lowly at the sound of HIS voice; its affected terror on me perseveres blindly past my strongest points. I crumble, too weakened by shame and defeat to cry, even. A huge hand, large enough to scoop up my entire body, picks me up into its bloodied palm and begins to squeeze me so tightly that I watch my own eyeballs turn red from the inside.



There is something wholly satisfying in a moment of childhood nostalgia shared between siblings through the recollected eyes of adulthood;
There is an ancient mentally embedded sensation woven into such an instance akin to the finishing of a most gluttonous seven-course feast of the most filling foods and drink;
It is the momentary revival of our most purely experienced joys in Life, our most simply created smiles attached to memories that science has hinted will be vividly with us until we expire in old age;
It is the reminder of band-aids and muddy knee scrubs, bedtime stories and a belief in the impossible;
There are truths revealed through the adult moments spent together in casual and comfortable silences in which words are not necessary to just BE;
These truths bear features of each sibling, dead or alive, as they did in early life when hardships weren’t yet upon the heart;
These truths are the tie that binds.


me n woodshop 2012

Me and Woodshop Thanksgiving Day, 2012

I want to share a story with anyone who cares to read it; it is one of the most vivid and lasting memories that I carry from my former life as a “battered woman”; and it’s point in case has NEVER left me; not since I was able to escape with my life and get away to eventually reflect on everything that happened back then. It is a story that drives home the emphasis placed on the psychological aspects of being a domestic hostage to an abusive mate; and for me, it sends chills down my spine to touch upon in memory for that very reason…it basically epitomizes the way that someone can become TOO FUCKING HOPELESS AND AFRAID TO SURVIVE OUTSIDE OF THE ABUSE.
Before I met my ex-husband, I had another boyfriend, whom I loved fiercely and fostered deep a spiritual connection with from the gate; they call him ‘Woodshop’. He and I spent almost a year living together prior to my meeting the Ripper. I was actually still sharing a house with Woodshop when I first was introduced to my ex-husband. Things happened, as they always do – and Woodshop was removed abruptly from my life by being arrested and sentenced to 28 months in jail for (unrelated to me) criminal activities. And just like that – he was GONE. During his time in jail, I got married to, and had my daughter with the Ripper. Due to the circumstances surrounding the unhealthy jealousy and dominance that I quickly learned about the man I had settled down with, I eventually stopped writing to Woodshop altogether and we lost touch. Time passed in its cruel way.
I remember it was Christmas Eve day when I opened my front door with double raccoon eyes and a smeared nose to see Woodshop on my porch, mouth hanging open as wide as possible – speechless, and he was obviously disappointed by how he found me. I was home alone and I remember saying,

“What are you doing here? You’re gonna get me killed!”

After all that time and the heavy bonds between us, that was ALL I HAD TO SAY TO HIM and the hurt stung in his face. He got me to sit down on the stoop with him and talk a while; I somewhat caught him up on the Living Hell I was existing within; and he said,

“Go inside and pack some things, get ready to leave…I’ll take care of the rest…I’ll take care of him when he finds out…don’t worry; just get some clothes and let’s go.”

I recall thinking about his words and blurting out,

“What about my baby? He has my daughter, I can’t leave without her!”

Boo was a new element to Woodshop; one that he had not considered into the equation yet; and he thought for a while before saying something like,

“We will come back for her, I swear…I’ll come back for her tonight after we get you to my mom’s house, somewhere safe…”

It was an absurd suggestion in my mind, and I discounted the notion immediately. Woodshop wouldn’t leave though; he refused to leave without me…and, as the time passed, I became more uneasy about his being there when my husband got home. Eventually, that was exactly what happened…my psychopathic and abusive husband came home and found us sitting together (me with a broken face, mind you) on the front porch. I knew it was bad; and it was only going to escalate quickly. In short, they ended up exchanging venomous words and the pissing contest began. After I got hold of Boo (who was under about 6 months old), I went inside the house for some reason. I wasn’t packing clothes like I should have been doing, I wasn’t sneaking around out the back door to Woodshop’s car to escape with him while I had the chance…I was just stuck stupidly in the front window – watching the fight of a lifetime. It was absolutely dreadful, in spite of the valiant intention attached to the trigger that shot everything to Hell in the blink of an eye – I recall thinking to myself how either way it ended – I was in for some dark times ahead; because if Woodshop lost then he’d likely be badly wounded or even killed by my ex-husband – and if Woodshop didn’t lose, my ex-husband would be on the war-path for his revenge – I knew.
They must’ve gone twelve long and drawn-out rounds out there; an all-out, drop-kick, spit-out teeth, and slung blood; I watched in anxious, petrifying fear from the window – the most terrifying and slow-motioned fist stand-off between my horribly violent and physically monstrous ex-husband and THE ONLY PERSON WHO EVER TRIED TO SAVE ME FROM HIM. Woodshop inarguably “won” the fight, too; though it is not in his nature to gloat. He left my ex-husband on his back, semi-conscious, gurgling up pieces of lung and choking on mouthfuls of his own blood; he stumbled back up the stoop and through the threshold to find me standing there in sheer shocked stupidity – unable to move my feet or fully comprehend what had just happened.

“Let’s go…NOW!”

He was bleeding and sweating, adrenaline spun-up to the skies, his eyes constantly darting in to the direction of my ex-husband’s figure, rolling around and muttering incomprehensibly by the gate to the street and sidewalk. I didn’t budge, I didn’t look at his face when he came right up in mine and stood very still and said:

“We need to get going now, right now. Get the stuff the baby needs and let me get you away from here, please…”

I remember feeling so terrified of the aftermath in that moment; I remember thinking again of the “lose-lose” situation I was facing: if I left with Woodshop, I would on the run and so then, would he become too…and if I stayed…well, we all know what I had to look forward to if I stayed. I didn’t leave with Woodshop that day – the day that he moved mountains to guide me (and my baby daughter) out of a very dangerous and unsafe situation. I spent that evening nursing my ex-husband’s wounds and preparing myself for the wrath I would receive for the fight and Woodshop’s actions in trying to protect me from him.
To end this story on a lighter note, Woodshop and I are still very close somehow, and this story comes up as a result of our spending the day together yesterday. After everything was said and done, he didn’t seem to think twice in finding some understanding and forgiveness for me when I was recovering in the hospital; he doesn’t like to talk about that day, even now – all this time later; he doesn’t like to talk about anything that is associated with my ex-husband (outside of Boo, of course – he has always had a soft spot for Boo) – and he never lets me give him the credit and acknowledgement I feel he should have for that act of heroism; for that one, single day out of my history when he stuck up for me against “the untouchable” (in my former self’s mind, at least) – and won. In that moment however, I was so deeply impaired by domestic violence and terrorism in my marriage that I denied him the “prize” he was fighting for to begin with; and as a result of the fight, he opened a can of worms for himself with my ex that lasted until the Ripper went on the run, after trying to kill me. Anyway, I have NEVER forgotten or discounted that incident on that day; nor the heart that shone through like a beacon when it came time for Woodshop to either look the other way (like EVERYONE else did), or bust a grape on the principles and standards that he’d always claimed to harbor – the love that he carried for me from before he and I parted ways and I got married – the moment of pure radiant shine that he gave to me, handed to me in my own living Hell of perpetual darkness. This one’s for you, Woodshop – one of my truest and most kindred friends on this Earth.

You are a hero.


Strike me down…
make my skin bleed,
my mouth plead;
bring redemption,
about in me;
from the depths of these,
poorly received,
horror movies;
force my eyes to see,
command the finality,
break the bread,
pull up the weeds,
in every rumination,
you’ve haunted me,
her muse is ME;
swaying beliefs,
of mistakes by me,
just strike me down,
end it already,
or, just wipe out,
my memories,
leave no trace left of,
so many bad things,
take the good stuff, too,
if that’s what’s necessary.


I just as well could’ve,
taken to refuge in the den,
of a hungry Bengal or Kodiak…
or a long-starved African Lion;

I might as well have,
been tied to a chair,
in the very front row…
for the world premiere;

I maybe should’ve,
found my way free,
in order to avoid the show…
that was in store for me;

which easily could’ve,
been awarded ‘Best Tragedy’,
if it hadn’t been, after all…
my own sad, true story;

They may as well have,
tarred and feathered my skin,
upon forcing on me re-visiting…
such torturous memories again;

the scene could just as easily,
been paused in the darkness,
stilled by the sense of damnation…
the clock hands stuck in molasses.