Baby Blue Oh baby blue, dream catchers catch your most violent nightmares. They catch them by the wrist, by the ankle, by the hair, teeth bared, ghosts in snares. Your mind is wild, it never sleeps, you don't need rest, you don't need sanity. Dreams come at the lunatics peak, thrashing, seizuring, distilling, drowning. Baby blue, strangers are not strangers, you've seen them all before, the strangers, these ghosts, you've seen all of their faces, burned, rotten, orgasming, beaten and crushed skulls. A baby, born in blood and shit, screaming, vomiting, biting, an Omen. No dream escapes the Alcatraz in your brain. Angry men, angry ghosts, among spiders and cobwebs, bats and the bombastic snakes that well earned their place of being chopped, gutted, set on fire, acid burns and piss fire. The night you were walking alone, the night a snake snuck inside of you and your screams, forest fires, sirens, deafening pitches of molestation, and they were wrong, your attacker was only a stranger, traumatized by his mothers cold bloody body dragged across his kitchen floor, the unknown caused all the fucked anger. The night you were drugged, held prisoner in a car, windows fogged, your body, useless, worthless, disobedient to your screams, your voltage, your electric slumber. Your brothers best friend, he dreams and daydreams, fantasizes your lovely bones, your warmth, your soft lips, your sweet lips. The night that you found your wife dead, naked, a pool of red but her body blue. You said "baby blue, if only you knew, this is my dream, your existence is not what it seems." The night your child was kidnapped, through the window, through the floors, only a ghost would know. Through the river, through her young body, through a knife, through her veins. The night your child was found ten years later, chopped up, a grave of mud and leaves, flowers growing in her eyes, vines taking her veins, birds caging themselves in her ribs. The night, the night, the night you fell asleep to never wake up. Always the night, always the moon, whiter than your skull, a Litch, the demons, broken dream catchers, emporiums of dead. Seas of salt. Frozen bodies where you fell under but you didn't remember how. No temperatures but pain is all in the head, all in the empty bones. Poe's words, haunting you, his drunken words, his drunken craziness, no bodies beyond this point. Baby blue, if only you knew, this is my dream, your existence is not what it seems. No strangers here, no strangers there, alone, stars, galaxies, magic, strangers. Baby blue, you are a stranger. You are a child, a poet, I see flowers in your eyes, I hear the coo-coo-cooing in your lungs. Baby blue, your dream catcher was broken by your fingers, your lovely, lovely bones. Oh baby blue, you'd never seen so many snakes, so much blood, so much pain but your body is always so blue. Oh baby blue, don't be so blue. Baby blue, you are only a stranger. Baby blue, you are only in my dreams. Oh baby blue, if only you knew how to not be so blue.

Sweeter Somethings Barbaric extremes of rape, insinuating deaths, electrocutions on vertical cuts, bruised blood of heroic concubines, hippy and anatomical wastes, delusions of crack and a world over dosed on murder. Flying pedophiles and creeping holy men, homeless and battered with their god of no god in a world of screams and fire,where everyone dies like Jesus but there are no crosses, there are no rebirths, there is no resting. Bludgeoned and bitten, risen on the moons of the witches sabbath, a coven for the Devil because the devil never fell. Lungs breathing in blood and stomachs adapting to the angels arsenic. The muscles of the heart betraying the drum, closing off your oxygen, the brains passage to darkness and flashing neurons of the far off bombs, falling, falling, fading and only the dead cities embers and for what it's worth, burning flesh does not smell like meat. The putrefying smell of burning sweat and the hatred within, our demons, our words of wisdom were only blasphemy and we cried to this God after which we claimed sacrilege. The natural song of earth a battle ground for the fucked and the damned, where drugs are sold to children who have blackened their lungs, addicted their bodies, drugs addicted to them, and guns addicted to the hands of all who wish to live longer than the rest, power addicted to strength and this strength addicted to fear and hatred. The bells toll but they no longer ring, only a crack, a suicide of glory itself. No place for true shelter, all planes became the enemy, running is only a suggestion but it becomes the common instinct, the flight because we're already fighting, outrageous, decrepit, defensive, fatigued, drunken bastards- they never left one field green. There are no flowers or growing trees, the animals are not brave and we are animals. We are cowards, we are the stink of the earth. All stones of happiness left unturned, and God gave up this world of fucked, bruised, shit, he left and pissed on our fire. No flowers are left to grow and there is no Joy of Nothing. Bruises can be healed and forgotten about. New and beautiful flesh takes the place, our hearts, our health, our honey, or sugar, the baby hair on our heads. World was a sweeter something A paralipomena for happiness but still intoxicating. The wine and vodka are two separate things but they've all been abused, guzzled, bleeding out on broken glass. Sliced knuckles but for the bastard who gains his freedom. His semen staying with his wife but his wife gathering nectar from all around to fill the emptiness in her bones. Children who luckily all look like their mother and a dog so hungry he can't even eat. The miscarriage in the back yard and the wife wishing she has gone too, for her sins, they were a cave, venom, metal and shards in a crushed heart. The husbands eyes, stained with kerosine, blinded by the vast grey fog of gunfire and the maid who takes her children and her bleeding uterus and leaves the bastard and his damned #depression and blind, beer gut. He cannot see but he cannot feel for his heart is hallow with pressure and dead with fuel in his veins. The static of our TVs and no rainbows except for spilled gas, broken guns, carcasses of cars and houses with no past left inside. Bleeding walls, machinery of night, balsamic night shade, drink me, eat me, fall down the rabbit hole all the way to hell and Jack the Ripper. Kill Alice, Kill Mary, kill earth and leave it to burn in the sun, follow your fate, do not hide from death. Earth was never meant to be a sweeter something.

Someday We Will Die Oh baby, I'm not too certain if you could tell, But I've been trying too hard not to kill myself. And love, and love, do you remember when we traveled the seas, built special for contras, hippies, and honeybees? The weed and honey was enticing and we, held peace by the cold fire and purple-blue trees. And boy, the shrooms made our love go slow, When we closed our eyes we saw kaleidoscopes. You taught me how to swim, you taught me how to love. My dreadlocks were your pillow though you tried to be tough. My body always left a bed in the grass, But you, there was no proof you were there, at last. You howled at the clouds that covered the stars, I could see your breath of anger, stronger than the smoke that staggers. I remember living by the bars you'd scream the same at home and I always knew. You remind me of a president and a poet and a crazy man too. But the way you smelled the air, love Oh, it also smelled of you. The vanilla and the eucalyptus, the sweat, It was intoxicating enough, the earth so wet. I knew you were a murderer of love it's own, But your writing, darling, how it felt was unknown. When your eyes were a sunrise and the background for stars Oh, love when it's all I could see, I wondered and wondered, bitter as tea. You were meant for me, and I'm not sure if I'm meant for you. But we evolved into a pair, just us two. My stream of the Dead Sea kissed your skin, Two are enough, we don't need any kin. And my love, it frustrates me to know that for so long I felt your face and what I felt was wrong. Your kiss felt impossible And our hearts stumbled and skipped True hazel was enamoring enough What was a breath? It was not from the smoking, love Cancer is not my star or sign For that, I was far too tough. Why did my lungs fall from their nest? It was not from the smoking, love Your eyes were my stars, a sign. You damned me, dazzled and dizzied Collision at a cold heart At light year speed, with no dead end. A mental note to smoke the blue green And dream a little dream Burrowed in your chest Your breathing at most rest Oh baby, you gave me something safe To the heart, the best of a taste I let my relenting mind succumb to being combined. And someday we will die With our coffins side by side. Soon to be ashes But our love still massive. And baby, I'm not too certain if you could tell, But I've been trying hard not to kill myself. But here you are, on my bed of grass You roll over to give permanence to your own lucky ass. As much as I have always, since day one, touched your face, it utterly frustrates me that I didn't really know what your face felt like until we kissed.

Feminism Is Not Just About One Thing -Because I got called a "sex-pot" by my grandfather for wearing a white swimming suit when I was 6 years old. And I was called a whore for wearing a short plaid skirt when I was 10 years old. -and because when Nujood Ali from Yemen was 10 she got divorced. -Because black girls’ names became my classmates’ favorite “joke” when I was 11 years old. -and because when an 11-year-old girl in Texas was raped by 18 men the New York Times wrote of how the girl “dressed older than her age”. -Because I started counting calories when I was 14 years old. -and because when Malala Yousafzai was 14 she was shot in the head for trying to go to school. -Because I heard a boy greet a girl with “hey slut” today at age 17. -and because when a 16-year-old girl in Steubenville, Ohio was filmed being raped by two boys at a party while unconscious, the CNN reporters talked about how tragic it was because the rapists had such bright futures as athletes. -Because I will have to watch my drink at all bars and parties when I am 22. -and because when CeCe McDonald was 22, she was sentenced to 41 months in prison for defending herself against a man who screamed transphobic and racist insults at her and then slashed her face with a bottle. -Because no matter what age I am, the biggest threat to men will still be heart disease, and the biggest threat to women will still be men. -Because it is not just about me, because it is not just about anger, because it is not just a JOKE, because it is not just about “hating men,” because it is not just about girls with vaginas and girls with penises, because it is not just about ending the word “slut”. It is not just about white straight girls in Rookie magazine, because it is not just about writing on backs, because it is not just about the fact that gay men are “fags” but lesbians are “hot.” It is not just about pictures of thin white girls being the only google image results for the search phrase “beautiful women”, because it is not just about writing signs. Because it is not just about what she was wearing or how many times she said yes before she changed her answer to no, because misogyny is not just about one thing and feminism is not just about one thing. It is not just “a trend” and it will not “happen” in just one way or to just certain groups of people. -And because, yes. It is about equality for EVERYONE, but first and foremost it needs to be about equality for Women, not womyn or girls. Because they are NOT treated equally to men, in every single sense. You are not going to take feminism away from me and call me bossy or hostile or aggressive and make this about yourself or make it into a joke, because truth be told, I’m not joking. It has never been a joke. If you want to call yourself a feminist, you have to give me a reason to call you a feminist. Spread feminism, do not turn this into a contest of whose struggle is greater and constantly demand to know what you can get out of feminism personally. Feminism is not just about you, or me, it is about everyone. If you’re male and you’re tired of men being stereotyped as hyper-masculine, soulless, sexist, inherent leader-tyrant creatures, then go out and prove the patriarchy wrong and fight for women the way someone with a soul and the way someone who believes in equality would. Then, yes, feminism will be about everyone. -And because feminism is not a radical notion. It's a notion, alright, a notion of the freedom we promised everyone but made an exception to women when their strength posed as a threat to the men who were always in control. -And because men have ALWAYS defined what is "feminine" and what is acceptable. And women held their tongues. And women still think they have to pack a sleeve and be macho to represent feministic ideals. But all women need to show for what we've been trying to say all along, is that they have a voice to hold their ground and the mind to prove to the bigoted jack off that you make a fire much larger than their flames. -And because women try to be perfect and that is wrong. Because there is such a thing as perfection, and perfection is the disease of a nation. And even though women are classified as certain types of women, there is no type of woman because every woman is a Woman. A woman is not just about being one woman. Feminism is not just about one thing. It's one thing for everything.

I'm Back! I feel nice, like sugar and spice.