I wear Inuit clothing.
Wrapped in Paleolithic reindeer
I hunt mammoths and lions:
ivory a source to make art
and males with no manes to warm their heads.

I’m huntress, nothing more.
Men howl to paint me in caves
to represent the woman I am:
a bull for my head
and the edge of the rock my womanhood.

I’d rather **** with men.
I have humanly adventures with them
rather than pick berries:
I’m hungry not for fruit
but for ****** creatures to gain power.

A man gave me a flute.
It had three holes to make music
with my mouth and fingers, an instrument:
So I blew hard to call him
our spiritual connection one, him and I.

I'm a huntress, nothing more.

He said my cocoa butter chapstick lingered
in his taste buds.
We shared only a kiss,
mouth to mouth
lips on lips
tongue with tongue.
As if two strangers,
we had no draw until
we kissed
like a universal pull
of gemstone energy.
He told me he craved
my cocoa butter chapstick
for it had a hint of peppermint
that made his head spin.

Chocolate mint
breath cool like gelato
on a wintery spring.

Fly high, Elizabeth!
Blizzard snow like crystals
in caves in earth's core.

Burr, Elizabeth!
Wear a sweater
cotton blue, red, brown.

Shiver underneath
while Jonathon's hands are ice cubes
melting like glaciers as he takes you.

Antarctica!
Don't weep from the frost
that turns your youth to water.

Elizabeth,
sail
as the woman you are.

His body was taint
craved desire yet lethal
mercy lost, tasteless.

****** lustful
he kissed my tender moist lips
and caressed my waist.

I was a ******
though I thought of *** often
and prayed for my prince.

The boy touched the girl
smooth and inappropriate
her tummy tickling.

I arrived home late
cannabis calming my thoughts
liquor my lover.

I smoked cigarettes
and thought about his soft touch
him an addiction.

He would say my name
murmur low “Evangeline”
and control my youth.

Wanna-be poet
eighteen and always failing
haikus a joy.

I write in my mind
the 5-7-5 a puzzle
sleepless nights my friend.

All artists are poor
embracing weirdness, difference
rebellious baby cubs.

I am a panda
elephant or an ant queen
maybe a mermaid.

Not so little now
but exploring earth and sea
born in the 90s.

The Holy Spirit,
it resides in my body,
my body its own.

God said, “Let us make”
stating he was not alone,
that God is of three.

He is the Father,
The Creator of mankind
and all creeping things.

Jesus is the Son,
born to humanly connect
and die for our sins.

The Holy Spirit,
it is our heavenly soul
and image of God.

And Lucifer fell
God saying to go away
his beauty erased.

Daddy told me “pray,
and beauty will not leave you
and love will remain”.

Mommy is gone, dead
her voice and whispers a corpse
her skull remaining.

A pencil took love
American love too good
and of much horror.

Not ****** and cruel
but psychological pain
of regret and doubt.

My love was fire
illicit and illegal,
robbery of trust.

As if in prison
I was a caged animal
howling to escape.

His tongue, it danced slow
waltzing a tango flapper
in the loud 2os.

He approves of tears,
mine an arousal of sight
and he enters me.

He is my neighbor
about thirty or forty
who likes to smoke ****.

He would lure me in,
asked if I liked poetry,
a warm, young poet.

He read me sonnets
while I decoded couplets
his breath on my face.

Like strong peppermint
or cinnamon or maple
I was like a treat.

Milk chocolate delight,
a chai tea latte invite,
vanilla frosting.

I could have said no,
pushed him away and ran home,
but I liked his house.

Wanna-be poet
wasting time on a high man
Europe to explore.

He was not Britain
Nor was he Italy or
Switzerland or France.

He could not be Greece
nor Ireland or Norway
or Sweden or Spain.

He was Nevada
or Wyoming or Kansas
even Nebraska.

California sun
Washington and Oregon rain,
west coast was he not.

He himself was taint
saying “my love, my dear love,
my Evangeline.”

“My Evangeline,
my poet, my lover…young,
oh Evangeline”.

I think of Jesus,
the Holy Spirit and God,
fallen Lucifer.

An angel so bright
He could not let go of pride
And I’m falling, too.

Asleep I fall to
a song behind his split tongue
agony inflamed.

So I write of this,
an affair of poetry
spectacular, no.

She wishes for death
haikus of religion
and of sweet taint love.

Oh Evangeline,
The Holy Spirit weeps, too
your tears its own tears.

Inches of sparkling snow
that glisten you used to know
is now shining like a star
and childhood adventures seem far.

It is buried past your knees
like ice and frozen peppermint coffee
spending seconds just to numb your toes
and frost a silly old foe.

Snowman weather was like a cup of Artic tea
chilling your bones until you felt non-free
the mountains and storms a cough in the throat
yet now your heart is melted and sailing like a boat.

My love had black wings.
At first,
eye connection was a scar.
He had blonde hair and dark eyes
while my Italian heredity drew him near.

My arms were marked with cuts.
First kiss,
and our lips met like magnets.
My cigarettes burned in daylight
and he didn't disapprove of my bad habit.

I began to lie for him.
Virginity lost,
we were married in nature.
We had a spiritual atmosphere
and breaking this game would be destructive.

We were darkness and light colliding.
His denial,
of psychopath tendencies drive me to suicide.
As if he murdered mercy
I had to let him go:
him a ghost
and now so was I,
the ultimate divorce.

My love
isn't truly my love.
He sends
regards from Hell
as he walks
with a limp
of deadly posture.
How he returned,
I'll never know.

It is
like summer snow.
Seven inches
he was buried
and he drove
me insanely crazy.
Tortured phobic anxiety,
it is his call.

He mumbles
with a rotting tongue.
Corpse solitude
his grave burns
with demonic chants
and edible brains.
I'm not Aphrodite,
and he needs an alibi.

Insomnia terror
return to Hades.
Alkalis heel
twisted flesh bone
snap in slumber
nightmares of war
haunt his dreams.
Return to sleep
in the valley of dolls.

Living dead
he has worms.
In eyes
and his ears
they crawl soil
a ****** home.
Earthly creatures survive
on his stench.

He kisses
me with his rotted tongue.
Vessel of
a mouth of
pork and flies
Lord of oinks and buzzing.
Go away, I pray,
He disgusts life.

Bad blood stains my hands
as you chant bad news.
Your eyes are hazel--
or blue--
and they write a hymn
that is a metaphorical
sleepsong that
haunts skulls
that remain fossilized
in the earth
like a personalized genre--
either mythological or Biblical--
and no one sleeps
in fear of immortality
as if religiosity
is an axe to the ribs
mixed with psychology.

My heart is electric.
Whenever you're near,
it explodes with electricity
somewhat radioactivity
and you perish
as if you stick your head
in the oven
and my toxins
are too much
for your ****** functions
to handle a girl named Ariel.

The moon has a glistening glow
but sometimes it croaks like a crow
not a raven but
as if it is a frog.
Animalism?
A planet,
absurd.
Yet it breathes like a salmon
not with gills
but of lungs
the being of a human
somewhat less than the sun.
The moon can have traits
of anything living, I believe.
But I think everyone
would claim me as insane
so I shut my mouth
and eat some pig,
unclean,
while my eye sights the moon
in dance
as we spin
on earth.

My eyes were bloodshot
though sleep was a shadow
hovering over me
but not overcoming me.

How so?
I never really know:
I guess my mind never shuts up
and my bipolar trigger awakens.

She spat in language
saying "go away, my love"
her tears sorrowful.

Abandoned he screamed,
performance cracking his speech
alienated.

They both felt hollow,
the show a play yet heartfelt
acting beautiful.

You believe that
my body is the night
yet you don't know that
I'm a woman of the light
and you are not a piece of art,
not remotely modern enough
to know me
and the ancient clay
of the *******
stitched to my chest.

I was two when he stood in my way;
shy and frozen at his feet.
(I thought he was an artist with clay.)

My adoring grew every passing day,
like he was the calming sea
though they told me he'd be gay.

He held me firmly in our teen sway;
begged to see my femininity.
(I thought he was an artist with clay.)

Just friends and nothing more than play,
I was Juliet and he my Romeo
though they told me he'd be gay.

Every kiss drew him closer to stay;
every touch pure sensuality.
(I thought he was an artist with clay.)

Him and I moved to Oregon in May,
for art and Shakespeare.
(I thought he was an artist with clay)
though they told me he'd be gay.

I think I'm going mad.
This past Sunday
my papa preached
and looked me in the eye
as if my morals had
sprinted in a flee.
He yelled,
"'Surely oppression
maketh a wise man mad.'"

I may possibly be mad.
Cuckoo in the ways
the world has gone
and questioning
****** revolution
as if they have a point.
I think,
"I desire the touch of a man
yet divinity holds my heart."

I'm somewhat mad.
Like psychiatry is useless
and just a way to express questions
I trial myself
between sanity
and lively doubts.
Just remember,
"The darkness doesn't have me;
it has my thoughts."

I remember lying on the bed
**** and beside you.
You reached for a cigarette
tobacco and yearning addiction.
I watched as you roamed the sheets
back bare and smoke floating.
The smell made me dizzy
my hips a pillow to your head.
You kept inhaling for an exhale
high and relaxing vibes.
I remember lying on that bed
only a body while you adored that cigarette.

In death--
possibly suicide--
I wish to
fall into your arms.
Nothing simpler--
no other request--
only closer to
divinity in your grasp.