Here I am now… a list:

Here I am now… a list:

single mom, middle-aged divorcee…
that kind of woman is dangerous.
she is never destined to be anyone’s wife.

shakti lives on in twenty-year-old memories.
they still long to breathe her in though
they would never bring her home.

her power crosses decades and oceans.
her vision reignites passion for those who believe.
when she is taken, she revisits them all.

remember who you are, shakti.
remember your life of service and devotion:
take only what you need.



let’s just say it’s been a trip down memory lane tonight.

it’s one of those trips that’s made me come back and wonder where the hell i actually am right now. whose messy little cabin scattered with toys is this?

there are those good, wholesome things about life here, for sure: fresh air and mama friends, raising a little girl and channeling my warrior princess, eventually becoming a queen… i am a queen, her queen.

Emerging from the chrysalis, though, and in learning to use my wings, i sometimes forgot where I’d come from, how i’d once writhed my way through life.

that undulating, youthful thing, she was fearless with a strong sense of morals and loyalty and thus, never expected to have to explain herself. facing a blank page was an adventure that looked toward a horizon: to fill one you had to cut the mind loose (and very often hold the bladder). to experience the story writing itself like that was to experience the story multi-dimensionally. what could not be in this one, perhaps was how it went down in another, and there was so much thrill and joy in exploring that, using my mind to answer what ifs.

in my imaginary world, where the catalog of human emotions is encyclopedic, those words would just fly out and land in their appropriate places on the page. i went there without question: i must be trusted to go there because i will always concoct stories. That’s my safe place.

maybe fifteen years ago, i was offered a job at a house of discipline, located in a non-descript building in midtown Manhattan.  I was hired to work the front desk and it was the absolute dream experience for an acute observer with a sense of adventure.

i learned some things. the slight distance from it now is healthy though it feeds me to this day. It still gives me things to think about, things i should probably be spanked for.

what a need it can be sometimes, to feel like you have a place where it’s safe to play in a way that doesn’t involve censorship.

I am a moth-winged queen but that squiggly fat grub, she’s in there, caged and slightly sedated at the moment but oh, she’s in there, trying to remember how it is to writhe and what it boils down to, really, is this:

i wanna dry hump my girlfriend in the corner of a bar where we are all adults and then come home and fuck my wife. and then we can wake up the next morning and be good and really happy parents.


the mud

i’m navigating the ups and downs these days, mirroring the weather. 80 degrees and sunny today. Gray, rainy and cold the next. Ready to sprout and bloom and just hoping there isn’t one last freeze.

some days i can hang it all out on the clothesline and others… i just keep it on a rack inside. i’m only motivated to put it away because it takes up so much space.

i’m not an easy climate to be in right now. there’s some serious turbulence in the air. strong winds foment change.

i see how my process affects the whole. i am putting this time here consciously. i am giving in to a little more selfishness while the opportunity affords itself, while there is full excuse. i need to explore myself this deeply one more time, to savor some last moments with some bits of myself that will need to go find another way to be here soon. it’s taking time and i don’t want to rush it. i need to feel the expansiveness of it and get to know my fear so i can face it eye to eye. i realize that it moves as it should, that it will move as we allow it to, that it is what it is. i contribute to this with my process. i create the space for magic to happen. i offer my belief, i have faith that it will.

please forgive me. i am learning patience and acceptance and truth. this could take a while.




It’s a chemical deficiency.

we were there to work. For a minute we were sleeping in the kids’s playroom, until one morning when the wife opened the door without knocking. We weren’t doing anything other than trying to wake up. Yes, our heads were close together. We were enjoying a delicious and innocent morning cuddle, talking about the day ahead and how hard we were going to work, how much money we were going to make. What we’d pay off and what we would do with the extra.

A few minutes later the husband walked in. We had worked really late the night before, and it was almost ten o’clock – his kids were waiting to get into their playroom, he explained, and maybe we would need to move outside to the trailer if we wanted to sleep later. It actually sounded great to us. We moved out there, and the next morning we had a delicious sexual snuggle in private – no risks of children, wives, husbands or anyone else (mostly a mix of people who were unconcerned anyway) walking in, catching us in the abominable act of enjoying each other.

Work went easy. We were happy, relieved of some tension. A great selection of music was played, marijuana was (legally) smoked…

And then eventually, the husband walked into the room. In front of a group of people who had laughed together, passed joints, exchanged music and Facebook pages, and struggled through the tedium that is often a marijuana harvest, he proceeded to humiliate us.

I just started to figure out the past few days that you were lesbians, he said to us. There were a number of disconcerting things wrong with this statement, including the fact that, while loving a woman at the moment, I personally don’t identify as a lesbian. I have had, and will probably have another, male companion at some point, unless she’s the last. I go for people. Second – we had been warned, he follows a particularly strict strain of Rastafarianism, and people like us were the aforementioned abominations.

My girlfriend, however, is a lesbian. Not only is there absolutely nothing she could ever do to hide it, she doesn’t want to,  shouldn’t have to, and basically has to expend an awful lot of effort into defending herself and the way she is. This is, to her, part of her calling. As a person of two spirits, as well as (yes, in all seriousness), a reggae artist, she has a road that until this moment, I was sure I was going to travel with her, because I was completely unaware of how insanely homophobic the reggae world can be. And then this. For the first time, at 42 years old, I was being chastised for enjoying one of the sweetest loves of my life thus far, with someone who shared similar dreams and aspirations, someone whose mere presence made me a better person, someone who could sing a single line of song in my ear and turn me to putty, and whose hands alone were capable of bringing me to some beautiful states of bliss.

He poisoned the room that day, and he poisoned my love.

Regardless of the fact that it took him days to figure out we were a couple (because like anyone else settling into something that is easy we were flaunting the togetherness a bit less), once he was sure, it was an issue that he felt needed to be brought up in front of everyone.

He represented a religion and spiritual practice that preaches one love, but that day he went on to tell us that men and women are meant to be together. Penises and vaginas make sense. What we are is an abomination, that according to all the research he’s done, lesbianism is caused by a chemical imbalance, or by being abused in childhood. Children, their children, need to be protected from it. They can spend days upon days breathing rogue THC crystals, but god forbid two women hold hands and take the dog for a walk.

His wife, standing beside him nine months pregnant with her third child, defended every word he said and gave some examples of her own, such as encountering a man in a miniskirt and heels and needing to shield her children from a man whose idea of representing “the mother” was so different from her own. You’re not the mother, she explained, and never will be. You will never bear children and without that you can never be the mother.

I was in awe. This was being said aloud – to a woman who had borne a child, and to a woman who never would. I asked her then what if I decided to wear a three piece suit – certainly not an immodest choice in clothing… But this, too, is apparently also an abomination. 

I decided then that I was done with the conversation, said as much and put on headphones. I should have kept them on but when I headed my girlfriend’s voice rising in volume out they came. I needed to ask her to be quiet, to keep calm in the continued war of her life, because I had just been tossed to the front lines and had no idea how to handle it.

It was the first time in my life I had been faced with this. No matter what choice I made, I lost something. He had poisoned the room, and he had poisoned my love.

I tried to explain this to her as we drove the hour back to my cabin a couple of days later. This is why we don’t involve ourselves with bisexuals, she said, because for me it isn’t a choice.

I bristled at the word “bisexual” because it’s not what I think of myself as. People turn me on when they have brains and can sing, take care of themselves, walk with confidence and nice physical features, especially if those features are unique. Whether you have a penis or a a vagina in your pants isn’t exactly irrelevant, but not of major importance to me, either. I can work with whatever.

I also see her point, but at the same time I wanted to say fuck off, because how can you look down upon someone whose sexuality is equally as valid as yours, just different. One has to wonder.

I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t even look at him. 

He had poisoned my love. He brought ignorance and shame and disgust into my love, and I had no idea what the antidote was.

meditation on delayed gratification

written in 2004 as a first attempt at spoken word in a writer’s group i was involved in back in Portland, OR. I had to get drunk as fuck to read it onstage and it just… Didn’t happen. I woke up hungover from wine and failure.

Never actually did wind up fully hooking up with the subject of this poem, tho obviously there were a lot of moments of deep, heavy breathing and claims of tantric practice. We were all part of a very messy and juvenile attempt at polyamory that ended badly. But hey… There’s this.


no one else will

brave the between –

you and i with

i and i

and eyes locked

we are soul gazing…

my body’s shaking,

heart’s smiling

oh my god you’re so

fucking amazing!

what flows between us

requires other people

to split in two

i know nothing of you

but the sound of your voice

and the strength in your hands

the shape of your lips

how YOU feel in MY hands

what i know is that

i ache all the time

from the profusion of joy

that i do quake in this state

from the coming fusion of we

that the brush of your hand

induces a spasm

makes me think about things

like prolonged orgasms:

like i said, my body’s shaking,

and sweat-making

this is spirit-moving

soulgasm, soulgasm,


oh yes i spasm

because i think about this

and i can’t even fathom

that it’s any better

than i can imagine

and that’s all i’ve got to go on –

thank god i’ve got a brilliant mind.

i am awake upstairs

awake down below

and awake in every space in between.

this house is a temple

and every room is alive –

all the lights are on

and from the street

i appear to glow

from inside.

i am runnin’ up the bill

an empty glass for you to fill

a full one for you to drink

if you’ll raise me to your lips

and sip slowly

i’ll intoxicate

unless you hesitate

and consider that

perhaps i’m poison

in which case…
…it’s highly likely that

i’ll inflict some damage.