little girls in kitten ears
and painted whiskers tumble down
my block   in rows   rehearsed
in leotards and black lace gloves.
precocious     that high pitched
y o w l  floats through open porches.
TV taught them how to meow
for Kit Kats   Snickers bars,
male applause.

bend over to tie their shoe
and seduce the nearest father;
he eyes the crevice cut through their
black tights and she notices.
she wants attention from her own father:
a photograph or upward twirl,
a burning torch,
purr in his lap while he strokes her hair
without fetish
or just acknowledgment that she is the prettiest
girl dressed up as space cat,
those others are unoriginal, just regular
cats, he says I love yours best
and pats her on her head
and there is no offense taken.

she will grow up  to be even smaller
than  she supposed,
silent    enduring   still,
not awake in her own power,
her own body
like a stillborn tiger:
expelled with a tear
coated in the blood of her mother’s
screams as no one prepared her for the ecstasy
that followed expelling:
something parasitic and omniscient
and a future rival.
she lands on the floor
in a sealed protective pod,
fetal for always and
wrapped in excretion:
the things no one wanted,
like sewage water
without even
a lotus to symbolize completion.

we aren’t worthy of those feline endowments
thrust upon us when we are playing
mole     carcass on the doormat
aborted from our burrowed holes
for something more vociferous
to grab onto and finish,
our kinship: the lions.
we are nothing like our ancestors:
our virile mothers
who know nothing of preening,
who care nothing for tail feathers,
they take what they want.
they don’t grovel at their fathers’ feet.
they honor the slaughter,
the one they started,
before the
harvest and pay homage
to the sky for the water provided
before they stuff themselves
with vision.

we lack vision.
we just paint our nails black,
and dress 
like witches,
talk shit;
start shit for derision.
and we keep turning to our men
for forgiveness when we are wayward
or won’t marry them

when we should be
stuffing our faces with the meat they provided and
then burying them.



I am feeling a strong urge to confess. I am feeling all the truth pour out of me. There is something to be said for mystery. There is something, though, to be said for completion.

How many guys have I slaughtered? Isn’t that really what I am writing about? I am the hunter, murderer, the slavedriver, the malefic queen, the hypnotist. I am the antagonist of every story. I am the predator. Isn’t the truth I was afraid of my own success and power so I poured it all onto men to prove to me that I was a magician? Powerful? Where is my money; my career; my book? Where is it? Where is my power? Where are my rewards? I gave it to men and blamed them.  I didn’t make anything for myself. I played games with men my whole life. It is easy and I couldn’t stop. Now, I am taking it back. No more games. I am going to write. I am going to write about all the guys reading this, that still check on me, that still want to talk to me. There will be no names, but you will know when it’s you.

I was in love once a long time ago with a man I moved to Colorado with, and I don’t mean him any harm; my writing is harsh and acerbic to reflect the deep torment I feel in myself over these passages; over the time I have spent rejecting in order to save face; resentful of my choices in life and how I chose to love. I am not in anger, I am in a deep state of reflection and healing and I am a writer. This is what I have chosen to do. Make no mistake, if you choose to choose me, you will have to harbor your anger around what I might say in ire. But there will be no names. It’s like the way musicians write songs. You forgive them for who they use to get there. You enjoy singing along and tattooing lyrics on your arm.


I am in love with someone I can’t have. And for that, I was angry. I was sad. But I have moved past anger. I am in love with someone. That is a miracle in itself. I am in love generally. I hope this person is happy. I hope this person is successful. I hope this person is brave and  makes decisions based on what they need, not what others expect. I hope they make tons of money and travel and eat good food and fall in love with someone who loves them at the same exact time and they express it openly. I hope they  heal. I hope they forgive me for the mess I created that I will now use for art. It was not intentional. I hope they wish the same for me.

I am going to write and publish these books.  I have a plan, an outline, and a timeline. There is not a force or person who can stop me. I am not stupid or naive. I know that some men that are interested in me, and maybe some women, are reading this to check me out. I am easily found in any Google search. I implore you to either not take it personally or stop reading the site now.  They will be hard to read at times,  I will reveal who I am in love with quickly, it will be obvious and frustrating for them and everyone who chooses to read this, but I hope the world is proud of my ferocity and capacity to love despite rejection.

I once was told that writing about my personal life on social media was a form of harassment to the people involved. That person was wrong.  This is how art gets made. You take a feeling, you stretch it, you drag the trawling net across the sky and catch all that falls in and you change the names.  I’ve changed the names.

“The most difficult thing is the decision to act, the rest is merely tenacity. The fears are paper tigers. You can do anything you decide to do. You can act to change and control your life; and the procedure, the process is its own reward.” Amelia Earhart



I am giant:
strong legs, flexed tonsils,
taut back from climbing your forearms
to get to your mouth,
scratching at your chest on the way there
to let your home
know what I own.
I compromise but I am
never quiet.

I’m full of bargains:
one dollar books and yesterday’s makeup,
hair knotted with century old lesions and
previous engagements so I
shave it every chance I get.
Try to forgive myself for
such large displays of arrogance.
You want me to comfort you in
cadence and I obey it
deriving satisfaction with the way my voice
sounds as I practice inflection
ending my prose in pointed questions,
the pleasure of seeing my  mask unfold
on screen        paralyzed in heat
so she freezes
but in between,
sweet, murmured ellipses…

But know
I’m a noose so tight you try wearing me
like a loose fitting garment,
or just one hard day’s night,
and I might hang you.


“Jupiter in Scorpio”

you’re something else.

something that can’t
hang around
but also
can’t spell

I’m panting,
an exiled Arabian
falling in love with every mirage
that promises water
mouth as cup
swift recompense.