Friday, October 20, 2017

sex as power (#MeToo)

Rape is a political statement.  It says: "I am everything.  You are nothing."
God of Sky and Rain
Women hold up half the sky?
In His world
women hold up the sky.
Men sit around, masturbate, watch football,
go out and rape
that small part
of the sky.
Rose Red
I am prickly, admittedly.
I come by it rightly.
Organically evolved defensive weapon
(note, no offensive weapon attached).
You must approach me with care.
Feel the velvet of my vibrant leaves, gently.
My flower, radiant in grace and wonder.
Musical poetry wafting, my enchanted perfume
calling for the discerning touch.
But grasp too hard, too clumsily,
without reflection, a thousand tiny cuts
push you far away.
In no time, you will heal,
leaving me to bleed forever,
attempting to clear from my system
your poisonous residue.
Bitter Dregs
You don't get it.
You don't want to.
It would be too much to bear
if you let your thought go there.
Briefly unconscious, awakened to
hard concrete ground surrounded
by heels and toes, amazing
they don't crush me, but no,
like clockstep they walk around
though occasionally a(n unmeaning?)
shove -- I'm not a someone,
just a minor obstacle
unnoted in their busy day.
No worries.
Not like shoved down under
hard muscle, jutting  bone,
stinking of beer and rage;
or waking from too brief oblivion,
broken pain, bleeding
tears, torn, bruised, a
colorful toy
made for pleasure.
Then the voices, echoes.
Harpies and Sirens, Furies
and sad old women.  Fingers
shake in disapprobation.
Shrill voices call me beautiful,
in the way that ugly things are.
So bad, so pitiful, cardinal
status among the neverweres.
Struggling shadows, whispering
curses demurely lest anyone
notice and throw them further
down, below duration.
Never easy, confessing degradation.
The sin adheres.  No one wants to know.
logic of rape culture
I don't know. 
Would it be morally acceptable to destroy a person's mind
while they sleep, because they'll never know they had one? 
Would it be morally just fine to cruelly use people's lives
while keeping them unconscious without consent or prior knowledge,
because unexplained pain won’t rise to legal proof? 
Is there value placed on personal integrity?
Must boundaries that make individual beings
complete with self-control,
define a zone of self to be respected?
Do conscious beings own a right to privacy,
a zone of personal integrity,
sacred space for self-discovery:
“This is mine.  This is me.”
When we choose to agree for common utility,
what inner prize do we remember to defend?
Or do we prefer to behave as a bunch of random beasts,
subject to convenient moral rules, precepts to defend
hierarchy of self-proclaimed reasonable men?
I am beginning to think that this whole anti-abortion, anti-contraception idea is about rapists who want to impregnate their victims and then have access to torture them for life.  Mighty big hate on.
Dazzling glitter of star light
is doing its job:
distract and divide while
they rape, kill and rob.
Ascending spiraled steps in hope of eventually reaching a solid surface, more a chore than a mission as we continue inexorably day by day.  Or is that eternity by eternity?  There's not much choice, as these stairs, though solid and seemingly endless, do not provide enough solidity, enough surface, for other sustained activity.  There is not even room to climb by twos, thus enabling the solace of close companionship.  Certainly there is no room to make love between, stair to stair, to find what respite or pleasure such loving might provide.  Perhaps for some of the more daring an occasional rearguard rape may be accomplished, coming from behind as it were, never seeing the face of the victim, so that's alright.  A temporary digression from the rote work, hand over hand, leg up and leg up, monotonous unfulfilling dance.
The land, when we found her was warm and inviting.
We felt safe, supported, encouraged to grow.
We ate of her fruit, fish, herds.
We built with her trees, stone and clay.
We drank from her beautiful streams
which we soiled with our waste.
Gaea was saviour and womb.
We repaid her with rape.
We didn't understand,
thought her merely land,
thought ourselves masters from afar.
Perhaps it is not so much a war on women as another front in the war on people with lesser means. I mean, how dare a woman be raped if she can't afford her own treatment?
Women are raped by husbands, strangers, dates, bosses, family members, often seriously injured or killed in the process. Implying we have nothing more serious to protest about than "glass ceilings" is a macabre insult.
Small girlchild, rags and dust – follow
her morning of traverse, this tiny world allowed.
Each tent flap reveals fester of wounds deep
and shallow, ravage disease.
Senses, thought, subsumed to beat of breath
outside rational context.
Stuck in the dirt, her worth a hole where
she bottoms out, tributary blood expelled.
It could be rape; it could be terrifying violence. But you got it wrong. You blamed yourself. And the reasons you got it wrong go back to that world, not to you.
Cross Purpose
At time's crossroads, Reason drowns
in rage, pain,
radiated rain, treasonous air.
Weary of care, of punishing,
bottomless anger, of sobbing men
robbed of their right to give birth.
Taken from Mama's warmth, from
the cave, to play brave.
And it's ladies' choice as you squirm
in fool's corner.
Such a chore -- kissing at this
and that for a chance to score
the shame, the blame from stuck-out
tongues, the bloody laughter
"I could bite off that little thing -- make
you squat to pee."
Wired to fight, at any cost,
because, of course, the Cross proclaims
"We're right.  They are inherently wrong."
"Those below must be taught to obey
our superior tools, to be broken,
that we may ride."
Against our better fate, our race divided
along strict lines, by difference
nature instilled to make us strong
Our Gang
Depression facing outward
Taking power to give it away.
This entrained impulse
See them crackling, jangling
puppets at puppy play,
bite, bark, entangle,
grab and tussle,
growl, muscle in for the kill.
Bloodlust arousal.
Natural as puke, as death,
violation as violent orgy
violation as ecstatic
initiation to the brotherhood.
Life elevated to dreams, goals,
careful weighing of coin and hours,
dependable plans, actions that honor can favor,
love, duty, allegiance to the rules of sanity
and kind regard
have no purpose here.
Men of blood and battle fluid
need no fine speeches, no valor --
only food and receptacles
for their waste.
Capital Crime
Sweet old daddy
Doing his will in the night
Keeping the mamas afright
for the plight of each
beloved child, so tender
so young
He really oughta be hung!
so say the neighbors, clicking
their tongues
Take him to the magistrate
Fill his ears with the voice of hate
while he's tied, defanged, prostrate
Let our will be done!
Tie him down in a prison cell
Make him feel the wrath of Hell
'til we all are bloody well
exhausted of our fun.
No need to delete old daddy
sweeping shit and burning bones
any toil we deem atones
to repay society's loans
of wicked sowing days
assuring he damn well pays
for the pain and loss his wicked ways
marred our happy homes.
It was said, everyone knew, some whispered in my presence,
that I was born a bastard of rape.
My mother, a pious maiden, in penance gave me
into servitude to the Brotherhood.
Thus she was allowed to return to her Sisterhood’s
life of humble ministration.
I never knew her, or have no memory
of such an early time in my life.
I knew nothing of the treasured childhood that comes with family.
I was a low thing, circumscribed by duty.
I was educated, taught to read, write, do sums,
memorize long passages of scripture, sing in the Holy Choir,
take my part in ceremonies, taught for useful service.
I was taught to please my masters as my only worth.
Any modification to please their plans was my sacred duty to undergo.
Any master. Any metamorphosis. Any mutilation. Accept.
When he bit me, as the fast-acting soporific emitted from his fangs
entered my artery, I hoped this was my end.
It wasn’t.  He did not drain me, but woke me to force his blood
into my sagging mouth to remake me in his image:
immortal, powerful, supernatural, outside of the laws of man.
I learn to create my own sacred place, free of duty, free of the yoke of belief.
I am my own silent sanctuary beyond the touch, the reach of their world.
What good am I, have I, what good does it do me to have a conscious me
apart from my puppet role, plaything of powerful forces and men?
Perhaps after all the trials of my journey, it is enough to have a
consciousness that knows me so well and feels a kind of comforting love.
Perhaps the kind of love a mother feels for a child she never wanted,
who is yet of her, a companion to her trials.
They arrive, enter a door next to a large glass window decorated in bright colored paint. It is a portrayal of a man on a cross. Bloody red holes mar his hands and feet. A thorny green crown sits on his head.
Inside are cakes and hot black drinks on a short table. A few others are also eating and drinking. On the floor, next to a large, tattered chair, a woman sits, rocks, dirty and worn looking. Her shaking hands make attempts to feed coffee to her lips, but more is spilled on her worn and spattered dress. She has been mumbling incoherently. She is getting louder. Renata starts to make out words.
"They fill yer belly with their babies. No more babies. They hurt and make me so sick. The men, they fill me with their nasty liquid babies. They make them grow in me, take over my body, make me sick, and cut so hard to get out. I won't take them, horrid demons. So they throw me back in the street for the men to fill me again, hurt me again. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. No more babies. No more pumping out their nasty babies. I won't. I won't go there. You can't make me leave." She burbles, gasps, cries, mumbles, and repeats her litany. She rocks her body, suckles on her fingers and strands of long, lank hair. She seems in a trance, perhaps poisoned, perhaps cursed.
From further back in the room, a man dressed in black, prominently carrying a black book, approaches the group around the table.
"Don't mind Betty. She's a hard case. We can't find anywhere that will take her." He seems perturbed by this inconvenience, embarrassed by this woman's plaint.
Thoughts of keeping still while learning how to blend in have flown from Renata's mind. She goes quickly, yet with gentle motion, to sit beside this Betty. Close up, she is surprised to see this woman is young, certainly no longer a child, but not the old used up hag she had appeared to be. Her burbling snot and tears mixed with spilled coffee and older stains make her an unappetizing sight. Yet, there is something so fragile, so sad and affecting in her defiantly defeated form, Renata can not help but reach out her arms to comfort.
Nobody likes to talk about Betty; but you can bet we cream over her (secretly, all cozy in our beds, in our heads and groins).
Nobody likes to admit what casual cruelty we are capable of. Gang-raping children because we can doesn't appeal to our desired self-image. Her mother allowed it in exchange for food, a place to sleep, the blessed drugs to keep away the pain of knowing the endless, hopeless misery life had become. Or, she was alone on that dark street, lost and frightened, with nowhere safe to go, no one protecting her just then. Her sexuality tempted me, in all that frenzy of bonding blood cries, heightened primal energies, hot insistent bodies falling under ritual spell. She is but a sacrifice, a holding cell for sin. There is no freedom for will to grow within her, only unwanted, tainted seed, thrust outward from the nauseous collective psyche to poison her potential. Does she need to be defined by what has been done against her nascent will? Is there salvation in finding a slim, hiding, healthy cutting from her core, carefully planted and watered in hallow grounding? And what of all those other sacrificial lambs? What cosmically sympathetic vibration can be turned to healing, calling forth a will to grow whole, to become one's own desired destiny? 
Mothers' Night
cascading shards
echoes falling
"It's our calling."
Rape of Earth,
hot spurts of words
savage knives
Abiding Mothers,
sacred and mundane
twist into harridan
cold stars
wail, hurtling waves
Sad, old, crust of ages
sliced, screwed, carved up for profit
"It's not the color of the skin,
the culture of the smile"
the scent of danger,
the inborn stranger --
all excuses for Us (superior)
and Them (inferior)
"They are not like we;
but lower curs."
we may harm with unfettered glee
Cursed to be cut to our requirement.
Borders clear
"Here, fear fences in
our livelihood and wives."
Leave THEM to putrid pits
cunning jabs,
our pleasure.
Thus, all treasure that might regale,
heal, reveal true worth,
of man and Earth
sold for pittance of potash
to dance a weary jig
A child of my own
rape, it shaped me, made me
less and more
Memories stored, to
when I can't go on implore:
"You'll feel better

when you're gone."

Friday, October 13, 2017


Acts of Desolation#13
Our struggle is becoming immortalized in mainstream discussions of what history will find salient in the late 21st Century, Common Era, along with advancing space mining and explorations and our developing global/local system of self-governance.  We have opened eyes to a greater need for vigilance in securing our common goals of liberty.
The mercs are defeated.  Those who survived are rounded up and put into rehabilitation camps much different from those they had envisioned for their prisoners.  Torture and acts of cruelty against prisoners are strictly prohibited.  Heavy physical labor and psychiatric rehabilitation techniques, including mind-altering drugs and public confessions, are now their just reward.  They are secured for the rest of their lives in maximum confinement, without possibility of escape.
The rebels are honored as heroes everywhere.  We are given full citizenship as quickly as the workings of bureaucracy can manage it.   Even Reag, proudly, admits we are far from abominations.  Having at last arrived on the other side, welcomed into our diverse human family, we are proud to be part of these exciting times.  We are discovering uses for our hard won strengths in the greater human community.  Still, most of us find we prefer to settle in low-density population areas, where the incidence of psychic impressions is easier to manage.
Several of us are building a kind of mini-compound out here in a fairly secluded mountainous area.  We are very happy to be free, living a relatively quiet life.  We even forgive Calinda and Reag for being insufferably proud expectant parents.  Little Freedom, as we are already calling her, will be the first freeborn of our people.  We can’t wait to tell her her story. 

Thirteen Wizards Shall Guide You, rotating in 7s,
to be chosen from a wizard test administered at regular intervals
to any who wish to apply.
Each wizard shall serve at his/her pleasure -- until they decide to move on.
Any wizard may return by retesting and getting the highest score amongst
those currently in line at the time of a vacancy, like any other candidate.
The test to be devised by a wise pre-council to ascertain qualities of
wisdom, compassion, responsibility, integrity and clarity of communication.
The test may be reviewed and revised at any time that the full council agrees
to do so, based on evidence of better result to be gained.
The wizards do not make the laws.
Laws are made by direct democracy, after a sufficient period of debate when
an overwhelming majority of consensus seems likely.
Wizards do have veto power.
Wizards do not control the economy.  That is the province of the market.
The wizards do oversee the use and conservation of common resources.
They do oversee a social infrastructure that assures everyone a comfortable, secure
livelihood.  They do oversee disputes to assure that everyone is treated fairly
in the course of commerce, and in the course of community life.
They are not paid an outright salary.
They are given comfortable living conditions that their minds may be free
of personal want.
slap the beat Friday the 13
There's always steel-eyed suspicion. Especially when yer poor, automatically suspect, haven't got the fashion or manners expected. Though there's plenty of blame to go around, it gets stuck right here.
Stuff happens everywhere. Those involved get special prayers, funds raised in school fairs, helping hands clapped across their back. Unless they live across the sacred track, have papers that don't quite pass inspection.
Of course, we get what we deserve. If we live beyond the pale, whatever be our tale, it's up to us to serve in silent awe. Our cross to bear, because we're born impure. It's lovely that your source can be so sure. Insurrection
can't be condoned, nor endured. Suffer in contrition for the condition of failed dreams, unseemly scraping by. 'Tis not I who makes these rules. Thus it's ever been, will be, until we choose to honor freedom,
admit reality into negotiations for solutions, until we can agree on this experiment's conclusion. The power of fusion surpasses the power of dissolution.

blood poems for an October 13 evening

Small girlchild, rags and dust – follow
her morning of traverse, this tiny world allowed.
Each tent flap reveals fester of wounds deep
and shallow, ravage disease.
Senses, thought, subsumed to beat of breath
outside rational context.
Stuck in the dirt, her worth a hole where
she bottoms out, tributary blood expelled.
Government happens
Power differentials are natural
Makes sense to attend to these matters
Hot heads, coarse tongues, flail of arm,
crush of foot, outthrust chest, rancorous
lively show and tell;
Yes, such forceful yell might get bells
ringing, choirs singing, merry pageantry.
After roaring Sun’s descended, crowds
disbanded to bars and beds
to dream lusty victories or private
histories, nobody charged to watch
for this twinkling of time.
Without law, there is no crime.
Without rules, no crown ascends
by common call – but only by
all against all
in squall of terrors,
contests of survival, games
scored in blood.
Muses dance,
explore motion.
Segue to and fro
two steps back; a flurry forward.
Satin cats, tails a’fling
pirouette, scurry choreography.
No tomorrow.  No scheduled glee for
public appearances.
Time’s a’clanging, impatient clamors
for unknown seasons.
Rainstorm howls,
sends tidings, murky repentance and
beard for tears.
Savage rain tip-tapping
rhythms and blues.
Barrels for dipping, for ritual
washing, for tribal hydration, replenishment.
hunger, health, hygiene.  Sordid rain,
ashen water, terror, pain, diluted
Storm warnings advise caution.
Cover yer windows and blinds.
Hide in cellars and pray.
Find salvation in fearsome company.
Oh, Hell – give in!  Cave into slippery ground;
swallow and be swallowed.
The rains came, carried fortune to further shores
and supplicants.
Long into unspoken tomorrows.
Dread – crusty needles eject embalming poison
Stiff, rusted shut, ooze tarnished prison door.
Electrified to molten waste.
Lost wastrel, chased into rough wood.
How could good ever tough through?
Seethe tooth and fang.
Anger will tighten screws, coils.
No mercy to win when cardinal sin is innocence.
Don’t chatter of cruelty,
turn red in shame.
Remember the wise one winked “No blame.”
while wheeling outside reach of stage.
There are no great secrets,
barbed network of lies.
There is this blood bludgeon
of power wielded by minions and slaves
with too little to win.
If a moonlit beach at midnight called siren songs,
embracing melody, calming waves --
if urgent desire brokered change.
O’ evil Man
It is not your gods who make you so.
They laugh at their celestial balls,
silly little mood slaves
primed to vomit sour wine,
feast after bloody binge.
Who is the moral gatekeeper,
the celebrated purveyor of righteousness?
Who the masked scoundrel,
cross-dressed wolves and lambs
in demonic jig?
A lively game to wile away some
vague eternity.
Our children obscured in armament.
So many souls to devour.
Tonight’s Impression
Dig, deep into unlikely crevices.
Unsightly blemishes
covered in mud, old crusted blood,
more suffering than shame.
If none know my name,
can they curse me?
Always rehearsing for
untended curtains, productionless
Sally, won't you go
Pick up some teabag party
We'll teach 'em tricks of trade
from streets walled in by
Ain't this nation grand
for glad hands raised in celebration
of shames we dare not name.
Hallelujah  Hallelucinations
Hallowed ground baptized
in blood
Saved from the cleansing Flood
by sticking to our kind
however we're defining us today
If we were meant to live
a different way
wouldn't He have told us?
(Hollow) Theme Party
Bleeding across the page
Not pretty
Naked self-pity
a turn off
better passed by
Rather, let us speak of
solitude, the advantages
of wealth
kept to oneself
No beasts lessen my load
No supplicants beg to share
Luxuriously wrapped in my lair
laughing and dancing on gold
acutely aware of thin cold urchins
out on a distant plain
They are no kin to me;
out there for atmosphere
I am Deity within this domain
blood you see splattered
on this page
fell from other veins
some poor unfortunate
released from pain
How pretty!  Let's party!
A gala affair, enraptured
alone in my lair
Our Gang
Depression facing outward
Taking power to give it away.
This entrained impulse
See them crackling, jangling
puppets at puppy play,
bite, bark, entangle,
grab and tussle,
growl, muscle in for the kill.
Bloodlust arousal.
Natural as puke, as death,
violation as violent orgy
violation as ecstatic
initiation to the brotherhood.
Life elevated to dreams, goals,
carefu weighing of coin and hours,
dependable plans, actions that honor can favor,
love, duty, allegiance to the rules of sanity
and kind regard
have no purpose here.
Men of blood and battle fluid
need no fine speeches, no valor --
only food and receptacles
for their waste.
13. What face do you put on to face your fears?

Saturday, October 7, 2017


Isn’t that what we all want?
A good beat we can dance to?
Adrenalin rush-release
a solid shake
a chance that’s true
a chance to do, to let go,
flow with volcanic force?
Not broken brains
or bad genes
but understandable though inadequate response
to insane environments
the gods got bored
and changed up the game

Saturday, September 30, 2017


You’ve got to honor yourself
Everyone says:  be humble
Humbug!  Trying to keep down the
If you expect to be valued, you have to
value you, your worth, out there and first.
Organically find the story in conversation.
Team-Project oriented education
Basic Income keeps us housed, fed,
basic floor to stand on.
People with leadership skills to promote,
develop useful public projects, advertise online
and gathering place for desired skills/materials.
Beyond contractual arrangements,
Noone owes anyone anything
we each owe ourselves to do everything
we can to be the person we want to be.


Friday, September 22, 2017

Libra Ingress

Autumn Calls a Prologue to Fall
Autumn Falls
Ever deeper,
into setting Sun, call of leaves.
Days diminish.
Secret scent sings grail quests, startling mysteries,
dense synchronicities.
In ceremony gathering hunters leap to frenzied victory, pray to
coalesce blessing --
crepuscular forest, deepening tales, shadow deities.
Ritual brings chthonic beauty, fierce death/wild rebirth.
Energy dervishes, drunk from fruits of Earth, swirl
into ecstasy; face becoming.  Sun dies
from Western skies.
Early autumn firelight
reminiscent of witch hunts, ghosts of cavalry,
dire warnings and endless hide and strike.
The game, the funhouse, turns deadly.
Sanctuary calls, demanding sacrifice.
The noble phoenix fed on frankenseed
can not rise.
Skies descend, dark mirroring.
Smell the woodsmoke, intoxicating, soft and sweet,
masks the taste of bitter bile, secret vomiting,
starving despite harvest's gay array of treats.
Faded, nearly blind, falling in and out of
shamanic fever, primeval native dancers beyond sight,
ripple of tribal beat at the periphery
ecstatic vision dark/light/agony and brilliant breaks
starbright constellations.
I am breathing
crisp air of autumn's evening
I am walking
mist obscures my view.
Lost in a vision, in a Van Gogh painting,
hysterical laughter, gut wrenching tears,
a vision of weeping, knees bent and falling
permission I grant me.
Traversing worlds,
seasons, years, moments of clarity.
Fall beyond need, wish, to invent boundaries.
Life, the Universe and Everything
(for Patty)
Let’s talk about life
the one you have and the one you imagined . . .
With all the world of possibilities,
what have you settled for?
Waking up in the cool, cool morning
Autumn crisp — as your lungs reach for air
The sounds, the smells, the awaited adventures
Anticipation . . .
Or merely another day?
Do you long for love in the dark, dusky evening?
Do you count the countless stars,
knowing a miracle is on its way?
Has the chill of eternity captured your imagination?
What anchors you to Earth?
What makes you want to stay?
A journey of a thousand destinies
Written deep within your soul
Traveling daily through all the possibilities
Which are the parts that make you whole?
A Vignette
It was a simple house in a simple town.
The road was long and winding.
Two men sat on the road.
They were playing cards.
One man had a bottle which was occasionally passed.
They were not playing for any stakes,
But as an excuse for companionship.
It was a simple house in a simple town.
Old gnarled, stately tall trees formed a woods
 that lined the roadway.
It was noon, but the day was overcast;
 not dark, but pleasantly muted.
It was autumn.
The trees were proud of their majestic leaves
of gold and magenta which covered their branches
 and sprinkled the earth.
Small furry creatures occasionally could be seen
amidst the trees, leaves and earth.
The two men were aware of all this in the
 backgrounds of their minds.
They were also aware of the pleasantness
 of their peaceful companionship
 as they played cards, passed the bottle
 and made casual conversation about this and that.
It was a simple house in a simple town
 by the side of a long and windy road
 which was surrounded by woods.
A plane passed overhead
and was briefly a part of this scene,
 before moving on to more important places.
In deep field dreams
rustic woodfire comfort
blesses autumn morn
love like breeze through leaves,
song of future longing,
autumn in the wind
The scales of Justice
Yin and Yang
The interchange of love
A world in perfect balance
Twixt summer/winter extremes
The perfect beauty of sun shining
on rainbow puddles
reflecting the brilliant colors
of changing leaves.
Entering into a joy of its own
a love long forgotten, yet never
denied . . .
Deeply felt, deeply buried in
memory's tomb
deeply covered in resplendent autumn leaves.
Empty pockets of longing
temporarily filled by tears which
tumble coins
through torn clothing
hard earned but never spent;
I weep for you.
I feel deeply the worn, spent soul.
Entering into a joy of its own,
not looking back.
The creeping darkness of Autumn
Ancient gray, descending,

Awaiting fulfillment.