•April 27, 2019 • 1 Comment



Mixed media / April 2019



•April 23, 2019 • 2 Comments


Mixed media/ April 2019

The Deer-hunter’s Lament

•April 20, 2019 • 12 Comments


*image found HERE

The Deer-hunter’s Lament

I had a dream;
my pale hands
were in a nest
twirling for stealing

My other hand,
my right hand
is mispelling social constructs.

My soul thinks
that it is at a
spelling bee.

Where are we?
It’s neither purgatory
nor a circle of hell
or golden gates in heavenly
it’s not in Shambala.
And nothing is ever enough.

My left wing got stripped
so a sailor
could get a tattoo
of a crescent Moon.
It always felt like I will leave you soon

so I had to say everything,
like a music box
about to
run out of batteries;
analogue flesh.

I was teaching a garden
how to speak binary,
I was whispering to roses
in Morse code,
I was translating tea
to kilometers.

I had a flock of birds
and I stabbed them all with a fork
and then set them free.

I wounded,
and it was not innocent,
the grape was all mine,
I was the vintners daughter,
the sky soared into me.

I dreamed I learned how to count
to ten,
one number by each,
like ballet
in the dream,
my hands,
so pale,
in the nest
twirling for stealing

I never learned to wait.

Hustler in the Spirit

•April 19, 2019 • 11 Comments

happy sparrow painting

*image found HERE

Hustler in the Spirit

Amateur sparrow
basting in the breeze
cackling and coercing
doom into wings.
Essence tremolo
Fruits of calligraphy,
gastronomy of light
hanging low.
Imagine his marrow
jousting from the sieve
kingfishers cannot pronounce;
lore of none and lords of everything.
Maybe will storm, mayhaps will follow
Nimbus like poison, like litany,
obituary of flights,
pornography on the prow;
question the other sparrows,
relinquish their misdeeds,
seeping and romancing,
translucent like a marigold
under the burn of a love;
verily, meet me eye to eye,
whistle of bright ages in
xylography of forsaken sages
yield as though I do, before
zeal of morning stars.

*For NaPoWriMo day 19, an abecedarian poem.

Hallucinating Love

•April 14, 2019 • 2 Comments

hallucinating love

Hallucinating love“, Mixed media / April 2019

*Not finding the NaPo awakening my creativity, so thought I’d post an artwork instead.

The 10 best things about being a Shaman

•April 9, 2019 • 11 Comments


*the photograph is my own


The 10 best things about being a shaman



The dead are sometimes quiet

Like a gently swinging silver

Little bell

Of a distant mountain monastery.

The dead sometimes dance.

The dead sometimes touch.

The dead sometimes tell you secrets.



You are like a river,

A juvenile gypsy goddess,

The sludge heavy like a noon burn;

Lethargic cheeks marked with dirt,

Your lips are always war,

You instigate, you flow;


The rest are nothing but a seventh stone

Inside the pocket of a drowning man.



Your lover is a stretched string of quintessence and he quakes when you graze him with your finger like a southern wind pinches the witch’s swamp hut, a crown of feathers for a nomad of sand; and you see the exalted souls walk into the water; you kneel on the land.



Whatever you beckon.

Want safe passage, lustrous travels?

Grave grovel? Have it harder?

Always satisfy your lover?

Your mother’s truths, fortunes of all tides of moon?

Strength, power, vigor; cleanse, control, posses?


There’s a totem for that!



You are the wolf,

You are the bear,

Claw and tooth.

You are the silence,you are the hoot,

You are the owl, you are the hare,

You are the wolf.

You are puma, you are calf,

You are donkey, you are mare,

Claw and tooth.

You are hawk and you, behemoth,

The deer and pelican, a fitting pair,

You are the wolf.

The maggot of grass, the seagull of gulf,

You bocachico fish’s stare,

Claw and tooth.

The butterfly’s daze, the juniper’s ruth,

The fox’s warm and darkened lair.

You are the wolf.

Claw and tooth.

You’re not yourself.



The trees have the best gossip;

The trees are the plot of the soap opera between the world.



Bring me your greatest ache.

Give me your shackled hand.

Gift me your finest horse.


Past and future,

Blur and shadow;

There is only present,

Our wounds have no remorse.



Sometimes a sunset over the desolate prairie makes me wanting, makes me envious in the whiteness of the smoke where i place the spinning desires of my silhouette and i want to dip my hands into flowery potions and i want to personally inquire your soul about some things mouth on naked mouth and I whistle and hum in ancient tongues under the skirt of a venerous Moon and I shake like a coyote on a dark night and I burn like the sky does when it’s the solstice; and when it makes your heart unlearn its human things and scream, I kneel on the cobs, I kneel on the cobs, for 3000 days, in the fields, in the sunflower fields.



When we love you, we will gravedig,

We will spit in raingod’s face

And make the bones of your chest our sacred space

And bargain with it against all misfortune


And when I lay my body down enwrapped in trinkets,

Sour like a grape but I taste sweet as a fig

And you anger a grumpy witch-doctor;

When we love you, we will grave dig

As the lightning strikes a thousand times

Into the field of nettle.



I have been dead dead

Soaring on the wings of a wren

Over and over again

And the sights always take my breath away

And I weaved it all into a dream-cacther that I’m waiting

To hang above your bed.


*for NaPo day 9, I have no clue if it’s on the prompt or not to be honest, but I had a lot of fun with it, which you can clearly see since I managed to sneak a villanelle in there. Hope you enjoy reading and do tell me what you think.



•April 8, 2019 • 8 Comments


*image found HERE


The legions of their white hands
twist into trumpets,
the promiscuous little sun
pumps like speckled
the beheaded dandelion
can rest between two fingers
as though a crown of waking
plagues the city boys
and the metro
sews his own hunger shut
by connecting the dots
of where we lay the body;
your vomited light
against the blood-borne Spring.


From every opened window
you breathe into me
as though you are peeling a mandarin;
The hummingbirds hail
for my rite of passage
and the clouds are drooling.
My death is a poster cutout
of sci – fi communism;
I am death, in a pink, knit sweater
and hair in a bun,
The wheat lashes the back of a cricket,
the hands of a seamstress
train the epicenter;
the sea of you
blows a hymn out of me.

In the aftermath of the soire
the vastness is derobed
into seeping pearls,
the song elopes
to the forest
and my sorrow, entertained
in the church of your unrest;
the rush of your plummet
dilutes the angelic hunger
into the humming of a gramophone
and violets
and the day slapped on your cheekbones
is guilty of innocence,
of sandalwood and wild roses;
of my name.

*For NaPo day 8. Was not really finding the prompts from previous day to be tickling my inspirational fancy, but figured it should not stop me from writing.

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