Sitemeter: more ways

people found my blog through google by searching for:

"i mermaid.a mermaid when i touch water.i mermaid blue or red tail.and when i am dry i human.and i tell only 4 people about being mermaid"

and

"girl walking home man fuck her from behind in a alley"

Snakes Eyes and Betrayal (On Becoming a Woman)

Whitmansexual

by Antler



Whitman was a mansexual,
a womansexual,
A grasssexual, a treesexual,
a skysexual, an earthsexual.
Whitman was an oceansexual, a mountainsexual,
a cloudsexual, a prariesexual,
A birdsongsexual, a lilacsmellsexual,
a gallopinghorsesexual.
Whitman was a darknesssexual, a sleepersexual,
a sunrisesexual, a MilkyWaysexual,
A gentlebreezesexual, an openroadsexual,
a wildernesssexual, a democracysexual,
A drumtapssexual, a crossingbrooklynferrysexual,
a sands-at-seventy-sexual.
Whitman was a farewell-my-fancy-sexual,
a luckier-than-was-thought-sexual,
A deathsexual, a corpsewatchsexual,
a compostsexual, a poets-to-come-sexual,
A miracle-sexual, an immortalitysexual,
a cosmos-sexual, a waiting-for-you-sexual.

Well Documented Life.

1992: Self-portrait of me tied up inside of a tear, smiling. First words written in first journal, age ten:

"Never keep your thoughts hidden because you'll be like everyone else and that's the worst thing in the world."

And of course, a picture of my planet....? Just in case we destroy it and escape to outerspace. Someone has to remember.

sitemeter

it's cool to see what search words brought people to my blog. today's top two:

big tits and deer horns


and


how to sea a soul.

Cheetah

(2006)

I don't care
that your ex girl-friend is a Suicide Girl
with big tits
and perfect pale skin
and pretty lips
of blood-red
under black bobby bangs
like your every run-of-the-mill
Betty Page wannabe.

But not really. I'm jealous
as hell. I feel plain and pure
against her dark-virgin black lace bra
above that ass so fat and fine,
if she were mine
I'd be reeling.

It's ok that you said
you were young and crazy then
and I said maybe now
old and wise
and you said maybe.

She's got a cheetah tattooed shoulder
and her shadowed eyes
are surprising
in every spread eagle shot. Surely,
you miss her sometimes.

This is love. Cheetah hunting.
Selling furs and tusks to the untraveled,
buying glossy paper girls
for a bedside obsession. This is love-
the leprous new lover
reeking insecure, singing
gospel
against that devilish ghost of a girlfriend
you've got licking every pole
in your mind.

As I go down
I find myself sucking in her spirit
and blowing my body back in backwards,
believing suddenly
you can hold many memories equally
loved,
but you know no girl
wants equality.

It aint the bra-size or the boylist
that makes a girl good, right?
Just cause she's selling that shit
doesn't mean she has it, right?
Doesn't mean I need it, right?
Does this mean you believe me
when I say it doesn't bother me?
That bothers me.
I mean, I know I'm beautiful,
right?

Next to your sleeping serenity,
I'm up all night scratching my fur raw,
scratching my secret scabs to blood-red.
My eyes are open and alert-

This is love,
procuring night vision.

Roots

"We, too, are going the reverse-flower way." - Yehuda Amichai

My roots are my family, my ancestors, their names walk in my head. My roots are memories of aunts and uncles and cousins and houses full of people and laughter, children and animals everywhere. My roots are people you might not acknowledge or see as beautiful. My roots are poor and proud. My roots are rough, hardy, hand sown, and deep. Roma gypsy great grandmother said she shapeshifted to save her life, read palms and tarot cards and cooked toe nails and mandrakes in kitchen spells for lovesick women, predicted my birth and still visits my dreams. My great-great-grandfather killed in a gunfight over a poker game in a saloon still standing on main street in the town where my father grew up and still lives. My roots are generations and generations in the dirt, coal mines, gardens and prisons. My roots are war and deep, profound love simply expressed in kindness and the preparing and sharing of food. My roots are violence. My roots are flowering in peace, in the idea of peace, a real desire for peace in my lifetime, a promise to myself to end all destructive cycles. My roots are sun-cracked skin, greenhouses and vegetables delivered on a mule on the dirt roads of the New World. My roots are Mediterranean and Grandma Diamond and ancient fables and buttermilk biscuits and pentecostal long skirts and singing by the river on Frogtown road, my roots are with her. My roots smell like wet-earth, cowshit, cooking sauce, deep-fried seances. My roots are my destiny. Because I needed to happen. The universe was created for me, Appalachian braid hanging down my back like a poached snake, my olive skin becomes thick hide and my hooves are on the ground, running, always running. My roots are deer hunting, squash, slaughtered chickens, Sicilian blackjack, babies on knees and strapped to our backs and hundreds of white cabbage butterflies flying at a fairy tale pace through the catnip. I stand in a yellow summer dress laughing as their wings brush the insides of my thighs.

My Life in Boxes

I'm filling boxes with my past, trying to decide what has present-tense value. I have filled nearly five milk crates with scattered poems, unfinished essays and maniac drawings. What is the meaning of all of this? What happens to it when I die? When I move, I love to go through the apartment as if I am someone coming to clean everything up after the funeral. I like to look at it all through a stranger's eyes.

Thousands and thousands of pages. A shitty job. Mind full of obsession, mad love and art. I am Henry Darger reincarnate, aspiring toward something a little more Dostoyevskian.

The Entity We Must Honor

Long claws in the chorus
keep our prey neck naked
and willing to be blood for the living.

Some say this is sexy, some say
never will they take, but I wait
days and days to see the peregrine falcon fly low
to snatch up the unsuspecting.

The life-flight helicopter stirs the snow
of the hospital roof to a whirlwind.
We are in the globe. The frozen dancers

inside the glass never ask
what will we eat where will we sleep,
let alone, how will we love without hurting?

Claws in your back? Big deal.
I was carrying you.
You were feeding me.
I thought we both agreed.

See-And-Know-This

Ceanothus

What is it?

The privilege to kiss these lips
Any.
Time.
I Want?

The license to look once over all over all about ownership and not and all in time and not and say this is me and not and mine and not and right now, it's not

hurting

how ______ is a mirror

a rain puddle I can look down upon to see myself with wings of a rainbow arching out of my side behind my eyes inside the vibration of concentric circles that radiate out of my fingertips when I reach down and touch the illusion for real for what seems like real or sunlight and motor oil or maybe glitter eyeshadow in my lash playing tricks on my mind, whatever the surface, it's calm and I can't tell you the last time

I loved myself so purely.

Braving the emptiness inside, seeing the lies that led me there to what was called "love" before

is now land. I fell hard and hit the ground running because the ground is solid and real and never cares who I'm crying about

and this love is full of creatures who respond to my heart, my heat, all over my skin they crawl and come with wings and want

nothing more than I can give. Remember when we both confessed and agreed

that we sometimes saw flowers unfolding
when we came
and sometimes our desires were so dirty
and both were ok, natural?
Define it.

See it and know it.

Cricket in my shoe, stay overnight. The ladybug larvae who came home on my clothes, but didn't make it. The possum who watched me pee under the moon that was full, the desires we have but keep secret: to the reality of you, not the divinity: we are waxing and waning still. We are still

here. We survived this, me

and my body
on earth.

The water was cold in the creek, but how could I not submerge myself?
I want you so bad.

Cricket Medicine

Ink and Spit Portrait in my journal. Me watching Quin watch a film I just couldn't watch. Sacred Heart moves radical love of land and earth and sacred respect of plant medicine and all creatures outward while horrific images of industrialized food production and corporate greed move inward. Both Blessed and Cursed are those who know.