I speak of what I've learned,
but I tell no one of the journey,
the mistakes
to be where I am now.
I tell no one.
but I will tell you, this paper.
When I was a child
I repetitively watched my father
beat what looked as future me.
who I wanted to be.
my mother.
but as I grew older,
I realized that is the opposite of who I would become.
I watched my dad get drunk.
he put this label on himself
that my family couldn't bare.
something I couldn't understand.
achohlic.
But seeing myself now, not even an adult yet.
and still, I have before been consumed
by alcohol, and chosen toxicity over purity.
let someone lay hands on me
knowing that all my father has done
is teach me that I am no less than,
a princess.
yet he also taught me
that laying hands on someone you love is okay.
my mom taught me that staying silent is what
we're good at, told me that someday
shed be my hero. she never was.
she taught me that how to cope is to
move from 10 different guys in 10 days.
I have watched myself turn into the people I told myself
I'd never be.
but now this is me.
my dad is no longer addicted, nor is he abusive.
but the scars are still there.
and my mom is finally in a good relationship,
but because of all that I went through,
I will never let someone raise their tone with her.
and when people like to state "if you weren't hit, its okay."
but in reality, it will leave more bruises on you than those who were hit.
because still, my dad is somehow,
my hero.
and for that, I will never forgive myself.
I will never be the same.

The tipping point for Gaia
  Stares us boldly in our faces.
   And yet we try to look the other way,
    Seeing only what they want us to see,
     Believing all the lies they tell us daily.
      How deep into destruction must we fall
       Before we realize we’re doomed and
        It’s too late to pass the blame
         And far too late to fix things
              ljm

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               c         u   n        h
              h        t       h       w
               w      u      n        i
                 i         t   h        t
                   t         u       c
                        c        h

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                                **
                          o   t  h    o
                        t      o t        t
                      h       h o        h
                     o          t            o
                     t        h   o          t
                      h      t     h        h
                       o      o   t        o
                         t       h        t  
                            h   o    h
                                 O

They see me wearing skirts and stilettos
living my life in falsetto
which they claim a false meadow
and all call out hell no.

They call me godless
when I crossdress
in this frost mess
of lost guests.

They call me a queen
just to be mean
I am what they deem
what they instantly gleam.

Some don’t like what’s different
so the townspeople pick up their pitchforks
they want to diminish my imprint
I guess that’s what they call me a ***** for.

They despise the flamboyant game
coming from my derelict frame
they ask if I feel no shame
I ask them the same.

Every time I’m on the verge
of a dirge
they swerve
from my verve.

While I walk on the air
they watch and they stare
envy ensnared
jealousy scared.

I see myself as ethereal
and try to be pure
they see a disease venereal
in need of a cure.

They say men mustn’t be feminine
even if it is genuine
and there’s a place they’ll send you in
to die with the men who sin.

They order me to mask my grin
and act masculine
but I never asked to win
so I bask in sin.

I search for connection
turning in the direction
of those interested in my *******
not my introspection.

They’re so ******
they’re so catty
they’re just wishing
for a daddy.

The lo-fi
don’t know why
I go cry
and don’t pry.

Excruciating wonders
tear me asunder
until all of my plunder
is a magnanimous blunder.

My throat gets a mite coarse
from the blight force
of their high horse
on my white porch.

My tonsil gets scratchy sore
once they freeze my core
and I sing no more
exiting the door.

I can’t speak
let alone sing
my body is weak
and so are my wings.

They want me in their baritone
narrow home
where sparrows go
to carol no.

I see the slinking bass
ruining this stinking place
engendering a sinking face
whenever I get a thinking taste.

There’s a sharp staccato
in the places I will not go
where the race of evil taught notes
lower than my shipwrecked boat.

I go underwater like the Maldives
silently we all scream
living in our small dreams
rooting for our ball teams.

Once they see I’ve drowned
they hand me back my crown
and tell me not to look so down
after I’ve been gagged and bound.

I respond to their monotony
noddingly
plotting the
same odyssey.

I adopt the stature
of Margaret Thatcher
I’m the student’s master
like a brimstone pastor.

Now I sing as low as I can go
and my flow is extra slow
because I could never grow
living my life in falsetto.

O mistress, your gentle eyes were a warm angel’s song.
Your glazed almond skin was soft like a ******'s touch.
Bound me in chains of desire and sin in your love dungeon.
Your euphonic voice calls out to me like a raven’s tweet.

I licked my lips and pleasured my *******.
My face flushed like a thorny rose.
I reached out to caress her tendril twine of hair.
She whispered sweet nothings that filled the air.

O mistress! Our love is wrong.
In the heat of this forbidden love
we embrace the eternal night,
sharing a kiss in the moonless delight.

My body’s a canvas, craving her touch
I yearn for her sweet *******.
Pain and pleasure whips me to shape.
My love for her will always creep.

O mistress, come close to me.
Print your skin on my pale flesh.
Prepare me for my best nightmare.
Where you invite worship for this time.

You stab me with love like a swordswoman
and make art out of my darkness.
No demon or god can tear us asunder.
There is still beauty in this immoral hunger.

O mistress, I submit every ounce of my soul to you.
For you have your way with me for eternity.
The bellowing echoes of ****** rumors
will never take my love for you away.

Another ordinary day
A damsel wakes with father fear
Reluctantly pulls blanket back  
As thoughts of resting disappear

From messages left unreturned
A growing feeling to embark
So, to his door set off to seek
Her unresponsive patriarch

Our damsel finds the bolted door
On floating breeze, smoke scent conveyed
The clock ticked quicker, locked without
Prompt call for hasty rescue aid

Blazed into action in a flash
—our scorching young protagonist
His searing skills foundation-forged
To save an injured arsonist

Our hero spots a bold ingress
An aperture at altitude
And meanwhile spies a driver’s card
—appearing strangely barbecued

Attention-torch on task-at-hand
On bended knee to deftly bring
—our damsel up, with strapping arm  
To reach the lofty opening

Our star-struck damsel, hero-held
Enchanted by his smouldering gaze
Wonders on what might have been
If meet-cute happened other-ways

Then slipping lithely window-wise
She drops inside the residence
Let hero in, then victim search
While mental-logging evidence

Sticky hi-***** rest in pairs
—their bottles languish laterally
Permeating smoky trace
Each clue arranged unnaturally

Recalls the messes passed outside
The slumber-tilted char-filled grate
Suggests a rather vigoured dance
With lumbering unsteady mate

And there our wounded, mattress-bound
Though coverlet obscures him still
His body marred in major part
From falling on his lighted grill

That solo night with drinks for two
—set grill for dreamy warmth, and then
Was flame-kissed in his doomed attempt
To bring his lost love back again

The sloshing, dulling, drink-fired trance
All woozy, stumbly, bonfire-played
He scrambled indoors, mattress-jelled
No manner for alerting aid

The damsel-daughter rescue-wrapped
Her father truly bottle-broke
As panic builds, all hero dreams
Well vanished in a puff of smoke

First thoughts occur, ‘If only aid
—had come before to stay this fate’
The thought reply, ‘But even so,
before this fire, was still too late’

Stuck helpless in her helping role
As supine father gurney-glides
Recalls the times and times before
The medically supported rides

The bottle holds a fire-fuel
That firefighters can’t suppress
A complex, clawing, crawling pain
That leaks into a shared distress

Constant, judgeless, shame-free love
The only hope to smother flames
A blanket of persistent souls
To search for joy when none remains

Without these tools for fire fight
The flames repeated encore flare
So, we are left ‘if only’ bound
       Our loved ones to another round
       That crackling roar the only sound
All fire-kissed and blanket bare

Dear Carl,

Can I call you Carl?
Our unconscious is collective and a lake of shared experience.
Is the internet an instance of your theories?
I have some queries.

Are these the facts Carl?
Our reflections are collected in a cloud of pooled intelligence.
Is the aggregate a marker of our species?
I have some theses.

Are these our thoughts Carl?
Our enquiries through our browsers hint a dull and cloudy somnolence.
Is the synthesis the same by demographic?
Is this just traffic?

Is this our worth Carl?
Our reprovals and our sledging smacks of asinine belligerence.
Can we speculate more broadly from this sample?
Trolls, for example…

We all have separate phenotypes,
made up of common archetypes,
that form a unique prototype,
for human contribution.

The flavour of each megabyte,
requires an active acolyte,
that gives objective oversight,
to tally the solution.

But what about the eloquence,
beneficence, benevolence,
the sympathetic sentience,
within this cyber-netting?

And what of interinfluence,
of conscious counterviolence,
considered, caring, congruence,
of giving more than getting?

Are you happy Carl?
Your proposals once ethereal now digitally real
—the collection of our thoughts a cyber-consciousness reveal.
Sure, we focus on crash diets, haircuts, shoes, and plastic surgery.
We are more than just a vessel for the latest celeb pregnancy.

These excuses for connection are a cybernetic basis,
for the comfort and affection found across our networked spaces.
While the electronic camera snaps the shadow and insanity,
it also frames our kindness in the brilliance of humanity.

I think it’s fine, Carl.

Sincerely,
Jill

Her recumbent silhouette
       suggests a resting cello,
Reinforced by two-tone robe
       with maple-cedar sash,
The relaxing redwood deck
       reflects her sleeping shadow,
Resonance in light-dark notes
       —mahogany and ash

Her adorning muted hair
       evokes the Polish horses,
Rosin dusts the frog-tip leash
       from gold and silver tail,
A lamenting solo air
       reverberates with losses,
Transposes down the Saint-Saëns Swan
       into a minor scale

The veranda’s cypress pine
       protects a tiny surface,
Imitates a child-sized shade
       to stay the waves of pain,
The descending water drops
       engulf the resting cello,
The air cries, “They are gone now”
       and so, we let it rain