Mar 13, 2018
"Womyn is Phoenix. Is God"
New poem published! Iâm excited.Â
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"Womyn is Phoenix. Is God"
New poem published! Iâm excited.Â
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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A poem that categorizes how we scramble to make the best conclusion to life, even in the final days.
I have a poem up at Enclave, part of the #finalpoem project. Here it is in full.
Waterwing Nonballad
Yesterday I woke with the feeling that an important note had been rolled up and stuffed inside one of my hollowed-out bones.
Today, I talk to myself off & on, trying to speak the message out of me until I realize weâre all just ghost-in-speck and hiddle ân hide, know what I mean? A fraction of a head
flowing on by itself.
As for tomorrow, I will go to soliloquy beneath the deity of Thursday night and Friday morning, his preteen fingertip pirouetting a string of birds like bubblegum. I will try to come to terms with the fact that hallelujah is a word made up of thousands of words, that someone somewhere is lying in bed with rain pouring from the entire landscape of their loverâs bodyâsomething more than a kiss, more than fur and boneâa flash flood warning inside a dream. I will try to prove we are halves of a Venn diagram searching to collide and create a different voice a different static a different intercom of blood.
And, for the day after tomorrow, Iâll try to wrestle every inflatable thing into the same glass time capsule; and for the day after that, I will place a dozen tiny mirrors around me and try to look into each one; and for the next day, Iâll try to make up another reason, and Iâll try the day after that, too, and try, and try.
When is it okay to conclude that where Iâm going and where Iâve been are tucked between my shoulder blades, burning into a stunt of feathers? When is it okay to hold the hand of your own debate until its wrist degrades into something weak, skinny?
There are never enough days to claim, before or after. There is never enough time to solemnly
swear.
Published in Enclave
Written 3/25:
May 17th Temptation fluttered like gilded butterflies. The harsh truth burned like a living coal; a parched throat. My family was no longer. Broken, scattered like shattered glass on the side of the road, At eight years old, the seventh of May, the once ânormalâ chapter of my book had closed. This was all her fault. Clothes peeled off like petals from breathless roses; a veil of bleak despair suffocated their love, tears rolled down her face, like a fretful stream over boulders. Engraved in my brain, as the catalyst of turmoil. I came to see my father a defeated man, his unrequited love severed limb by limb by a double-handed saw. I laid broken, hollowed in the chains of defeat. My life had become a long road of dissolution, a tornado destroying everything in its wake. Scarred as the barrel of a 12 gauge shot gun, a memory like a well-ordered cupboard.
Written 1/28:
Numb I used to smell the white crystalline powder release in my nostrils, like a horse that breaks loose; galloping across a plain. I used to taste the chemicals of sodium bicarbonate that slowly dripped down my throat like a melted ice cube. I used to feel the energy and euphoria but Iâd still be numb. I used to see tears roll down my mother cheeks like a fretful stream over boulders. I used to hear my brother voice quiver like a prey desperate to escape, âyouâre wasting you life away.â His words slapped me in the face; I was no longer able to feel any bliss.
Written 3/2:
I want
I want her luxurious 6 million dollar mansion. I want her wood finished floors covered in lushes throw rugs. I want her sheer curtains billowed like mist on the wall. I want her rusty red V6 Fastback Mustang. The password entry, circle driveway, and five car garage. Â I want it all. I want her money easily spent, all her nickels, pennies, and dimes, Then maybe Iâd feel safe and secure. Until then, My envy flickers like coal fire by the constant flow of air. My jealously as poisonous as rattle snakeâs venom. I want the life she lives.
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Written 3/2:
Cento poem
The first time I got high I stood in a circle. 1 Out into the streets, 2 Passing a bullet shaped bottle of malt liquor, 3Â 40oz of OLD E. 4 Even God must be punch-drunk. 5 The sun light had gone down hissing, 6 Mottle hues of graffiti. 7 Twisted metal, wires and broken lines, 8 Dark windows, blind alleys would make your tongue trip. 9 A stray of bullets erupt. 10 Shatter like ice waste. 11 Blaring of sirens, blood of children. 12 His broken body swaddled in a shroud, 13 Somebody said he was already dead. 14
1. âBluntsâ By: Major Jackson
2. âCalledâ By: Major Jackson
3. âBluntsâ By: Major Jackson
4. âHoopsâ By: Major Jackson
5. âSkylineâ By: Major Jackson
6. âEveningâ By: Jill Alexander Essbaum
7. âHoops: By: Major Jackson
8. âMeditation #4â By: Jane Elkington Wohl
9. âIn the beginningâ By: Jill Alexander Essbaum
10. âMeditation #10â By: Jane Elkington  Wohl
11. âThe poem with its teeth caught in the carpetâ By: Karyna McGlynn
12. âMediation 1â By: Jane Elkington Wohl
13. âWednesday Ashâ By: Jill Alexander Essbaum Â
14. âI found pennies on my skin, I put them there.â By: Karyna McGlynn
Written 4/19:
Echoing silence
Eyes like a very dark topaz, Glisten like a swarm of fire flies tangled; in a braid. A soft and purple mist like a vaporous amethyst, Faintly, withers away. Like a falling dew. Emotions surge in the soul like a tempest, Thoughts sway idly; like a water lily in a lake. Envious wind crept by like an unwelcome thought, Echoing silence.
Desert Dreams