Sunday, September 23, 2018

see PTSD. (revision no. one zillion)

i'm seeing so many things, see things
coming to a boil, the unnerving nightmare
i've done my damnedest best to exile

is popping up on my face like something offensive
others don't want to see themselves in.

it's popping up on
my dick, and it's popping up on
my woman's pussy lips, these
rolling hills of poppies

come with me everywhere i go, their purpose
being something that don't mean shit
to me. i got
nothing better to do than to lick slurp lick

pick pick pick

and make a wish-

not even the end of the world
holds a candle to this shit.

i go to scratch my head, but notice

it seems i've lost my head- where'd
that son of a fuck go? oh wait, ah yes, look
there's my head, mounted

on the wall of a saloon
which in the other world is

hanging upside down on what is really
a spider's web

that home of my bird-eating stalker
who drains me of my blood while
taking me, her son, in as her daughter

and teaching me
there is no better lover,
there is nothing out there for me

but her,

she's the only one that can get me to come
and she can't wait for me to
eat her alive,

so she feels she can live up to the medicine
of a spider.

don't think for half a second that i don't
see the incest in it all, don't ever question

that i don't know i'm gross
or that my heart is broken beyond


but fuck repair, i'm done
with my search for cures

and pretending i have any patience anymore.
i am an ADD child like the rest of them,
them lab rats.

all the herbs in the world

couldn't break through my agitated world
of resistance, i egg on all the healers

to give up on me. i get paranoid
to send out "back off" vibes

to make sure they know i know what it's like

to almost be killed
and otherwise, to be physically beaten.

my bones that're left carry a song
that can only be heard

by those in the other worlds. and in

this one, i am alone- don't fucking
lie to me about it anymore.

it makes me wonder how my heart is so strong, how i'm

all heart
and nothing else.

i see myself without my shield
and putting down my bow and its arrow
facing off with a bear, nothing but

skin and fur between us-

this ten foot son of a cocksucker slobbering on my face 
doesn't feel things
of course it's gonna hand me my ass on a silver platter-

i see that allowing myself
to be killed in this manner
is the key to liberation,

whatever that's supposed to be these days anyway-
seems there's nothing left but the wasteland.

this death is also
my birth, neither

more prominent than the other

and neither will ever
stop working together. my survival is dependent
on both.

i'll fuck around with them for as long as i want.
just you watch my wildness.

balancing birth and death

is what i do best,

and i'll make sure you don't ever think to fucking forget it.

Saturday, July 28, 2018


in the pharmacy, i met an exhausted woman whose daughter had been hospitalized for a phobia. when a spoon touched her lips, she had the terrible sensation that it was slipping down her throat. her condition worsened. if anything touched her sari, if one of her children brushed against her thigh, she felt a peristaltic reflex. she felt she was swallowing them too.

Saturday, November 18, 2017

" after the recent droughts, there were stories of men who'd lost all their cattle. and unable to accept it, they carried on herding as if their animals were still alive.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

"[...]This made me wonder if my postpartum thyroiditis symptoms of cloudiness and fatigue so many years ago were representative of my feeling suppressed and oppressed by my unexpressed self. Perhaps I developed exactly what it is that I needed to become more myself in this life, and that healing it rather than fighting it was the integration that rendered me one with my very personal process.
Safety looks like ease. Trust. Curiosity. And even surrender. It’s not a fight. It’s not a battle. It’s a cooperative exchange and an exploration. It’s becoming more of our whole selves because we are becoming less fragmented and self-evasive. We stop hiding parts of our personhood from our awareness. We embrace it all in order to heal.
"Perhaps what I am sensing is present in India — this deep fabric of spirituality — is actually in its death throes and I am romanticizing a tragedy. I don’t know. But what I do know is that our struggles as Westerners, particularly those struggling with poverty, are made all the more poignant because we are struggling without this fabric — flesh robots on a dead rock in the middle of nowhere.