‘Aside from trifling witchcraft of country sorcerers, there

‘Aside from trifling witchcraft of country sorcerers, there are tricks of global hoodoo in which all alerted consciousnesses participate periodically… That is how strange forces are aroused and transported to the astral vault, to that dark dome which is composed above all of… the poisonous aggressiveness of the evil minds of most people… the formidable tentacular oppression of a kind of civic magic which will soon appear undisguised.’

Antonin Artaud, architect of the theory of the “Theater of Cruelty”

Long Lines of a Southern Draw

L.A. was safe, because I already knew people here.

It was a strange place, yet in very different parts of the city; which I still can’t quite think of as a city, but rather an immensely sprawling urban county; I had familiar hearts already beating. Hearts distant in not only space but also time. So safe… so far away from home… and far away from the past three years. (No one saw them all but me.) I’m rather another part of some trans-costal migration. Classic, huh.

The fight or flight reaction was failing me under my birth skies, under the crossing of my Chiron and Saturn. I fought. I truced. I broke. I healed. Startled in the aftermath, even in the afterglow of recovery, startled as a fawn, I skipped off. Here I am, some sort of refugee, a lover and partner in tow. My Venus line runs past here, but whatever. All the same, I’m not in it for no money. Do I need more than love?

L.A. was safe, because there’s so many people here.

And they are, but a handful, strangers.

I can be lost for a while. This time it’s the limbs of people instead of trees. I miss my forests deeper than they even stretched, but I’m comforted in this other sort of insignificance here and now. I certainly haven’t come to “make it”. And I ain’t going to fake it. We began musing about how to leave this place even as we first drove into it.

People, sporadically for months before our departing, constantly during our 5 days of travel, asked again and again, “Well why would you wanna go there?” and “Good luck” you know, with the “oo” in “good” streeetched ooout a little. You know the inflection, usually accompanied by raised eyebrows immediately preceding the only momentary sideways gaze.

So many want the pompous bitch who abandoned her home for Los Angeles to become the classic Hollywood reject, and they already have it, because I didn’t come to be a “star” in the first place. I am only interested in activating the same stardust in my blood, my bones, as is in yours… and yours, too!

What fame is there to be offered to me, a poor painter, here? Not the sort some may seem to believe I seek, it’s plain to see. Not in my field. It can’t be ambition resented; I haven’t ever a sense of competition, essential to capitalism, essential to ambition, essential to the success others don’t want for me, that I don’t even want myself. So some may think,”Well I won’t give her attention, not one half-second click of my energy. She has enough of her own.” Or, “Don’t encourage her.” I can’t be as talentless as others convey, can I? Or is it that ego they can’t stand… the desire to be loved… that they abhor. How dare I only want love. I am not yet disenchanted, but it may seem I am perhaps no longer enchanting.

I guess I might have had unrealized fantasies about stretching out and tuning transcontinental heartstrings to master in the playing thereof, but the wires keep snapping and whipping back into my skin.

I’ve not actively hidden that this outwardly perceived “glamourous” L.A. life, one of flat interviews, empty-handed gallery sharking, and naked-around-the-apartment-with-cats chilling, has been overall and amongst other things, a three-months’-solid sausage fest. I had always resented being considered one of those girls who aren’t “like other girls” and hangs with the guys, perhaps mainly for existential reasons, but also because I had always been blessed with female friends- only spiked with instances of their abandon through no fault of any, really. I’ve always cherished my fellow female companions! But now, though I may be the one who moved so far, I feel like it’s more my girls who’ve moved on, not me. I must give patience, understanding, reverence for the fact that the majority of this handful are mothers- that I am either 2 or 3 hours “behind”. Behind, see. Perhaps 2,000 miles of separation really is ten times more than 200 miles in other places than the Earth’s surface.

The lines I draw- whether on the page, in the sand, across the map- are not to confine or define, but to connect and guide- the usual misunderstood artist’s cliche of the misdirected intent. Without banners and trumpets, my second soul smiling beneath my shoulder, with apprehension and no permission, I’ll push my line as far as she goes, so many faces detailing some huge and obscured self portrait.


My own twenty-three,

rather personal pi,

is a sun worshipping butterfly,

but as appropriately marked,

predestined or not,

I became a moon lit moth.

I cannot define what i imply-

sick vanity beneath the one great eye?

Or another perfect defect from

the machine mirrored on every rung

of every class, to every race-

electroshocks behind each face?

Do broken-home-viewed fairy tale cartoons

do what the most illumed know to?

Blood revelation spilt down the line

pools in cracked reflections

sold as mine.

Instant overloaded “information”

brewed with suspicion

sure sways my mission,

and so a mystic’s coincidence

is each survivor’s evidence.

The lines are drawn far,

but still too near:

again and again the Eastern Star appears!

A new world truth I can’t unsee;

why do I feel it so personally?

Reduced to a cliche:

How much am I in it?

How far does it go?

Or rather it reach?

Would I rather not know?

Now that the comfort

of the possibility

has shrank

of the voices

being my own,

I am left

alarmingly wanton

for something

with which to cope.

And my illusions of magic

crushed underhoof-

magnificent mineral orbs-

are but the welcomely feasted

sperm of Leviathon

all this time?


c’est moi

L.A. is a Safe Distance

The most optimistic black moon of my time

and still your recollection reflects in the shadow

so that through my rosy palm-fringed gaze,

I remember and doubt and reaffirm

some terrible past star prophecy-

O I did have to make a decision!

And business is still unfinished!

There’s a ghost in me yet compelled to haunt you-

O… our love remains unfinished…

No regrets for the skulls or the strikes or the leaving;

more than my body has moved on these miles.

Glitter galaxies sprawl the streets before me:

my life is blessedly unfinished!

Who could complete sweet-demon-you?

My refused kintsugi may have not

save our cracked treasure after all,

but an artist’s work is never finished,

so I may never be over you…

…what a piece of work.



Like warmest oceans’ waters

under clearest, smoothest skies,

sometimes blue with a green iridescence,

other times more green possessing

the ghost of blue beneath,

are twin pools caught within shores of flesh-

a sweetly salty water which seems

forbidden, as to drown my heart

should I draw too near

or dream too deeply.

Still, I wonder the beaches,

farther from shore so that

I’ve been burnt, becoming desert

beneath the bleached bones

victimized by the denied lure

of this little god’s curious puddles-

spherical seas virgin to baptism.

Should I be blessed to

venture beneath and

emerge to be reborn-

“able to be loved again”-

and be “broken” yet another time?

No, call me too feeble

to now be so emersed,

too weak as to draw breath

and drown in the infinity

of another boy’s eye.


Screen shot 2013-03-31 at 7.24.56 PM


…written early in the summer of 2004, I had only recently turned seventeen, and was rejecting the advances of some guy moving in on a recent break up.

Paradox on the Liberation’s Front

Forget the hooks, the bait… hell, forget the corny fishing metaphor… I’ll be blunt and go ahead and admit, all fancy lead-ins and intros aside, that I’m here to woe and bitch about the paradoxical nature of today’s feminist movement … Continue reading

Misunderstood Artist Complex

“My [this] is like [that]”

is making me sick.

It is a whoever-

inserts-it-best kinda game.

I’ve metamorphized

beyond similyric metaphor

and making up words

really isn’t so avant garde.

So when the quilled muse

would seduce these fingers,

and the pen-itch is too

deep to ignore,

I fall prey to even

lamer tricks and

abandon this prose

to the subject of

mere existence –

“this is writing”

– in avoidance of any

subjective passion


scrawled in symbols

in dead tree flesh


only to be ignored.

For most of us

our creations are stillborn,

and I birth the dead

every damned day

– some perpetual

rotten pregnancy

of the imagination-

and the pain of the loss

rather than never having

is all more turturous

when one names the child

that will never see

never cry but never smile

never feel

let alone be loved

by anyone else but me.


In this day,

in this land,

when the dead and the famous,

the long-gone and untouchable austere,

serve our inspirations,

motivate our struggles,

to individuals on a mass scale;

and although I, too, may

look up to the reliquaried

and the pedestaled,

the blossom beneath my nose

piques my passion

as much as the impressive

mountain upon which it blooms.

She is the flower who

permitted me to pluck her-

worn fresh in my hair,

lived in a jar,

pressed between pages.

She wilts only to curl into a star,

lifted to her rightfully high place

by the roll of one glittered eye.

The perseverance, the metamorphosis,

of one, of she,

who literally held my hand

and still can touch my heart

is beyond inspiration,

greater than dreams.

Her petals ever falling

now from rhinestone skies

drift me onward

to a triumph of my own.


 …for Mai