The Kind of Love Your Mother Felt

Time will bury girls and boys paint their minds  then blow  away I was bright– and you were new I was a poem yesterday Now  cut my skin– or kiss my mouth, The notes I sing are always  gray.—and every time you look at me My eyes  are nothing much the bitter kiss  of compromise…

All Warriors Have Scars

A scar is yesterday. It is the corpse of a memory too sharp to be forgotten. And Zanthia’s body was a graveyard.    Her olive face, handsome yet delicate, bore a slash from her brother’s axe. Arms, back, and legs too were cloaked in tough mutilated flesh that told of her bravery, her loyalty, her glory…

The Walls We Are Inside

For the man who doesn’t need me, I am a million wanting hands growing from stones too hard and impenetrable to sprout anything at all.

That Kind of Girl

That mouth hanging open -dripping like a soiled dish rag– –she is porn –she is titilation she is the repulsion that comes afterward with green fingernails and wet, dying eyes. Sweet, cherry nipples stuck on Tender breasts She’s here for you sweaty– greasy– limp with filth.   salty fingers on her tongue she wakes alive again…

When She Waves

For Hellos and goodbyes my hands are brittle sticks stiffened by the forceful elements raised up as if ready to punish the space between us with a strike. unable to grasp– They are unable — to feel to hold Affection slides off of them. and sharing is lost. Whether coming or going they wag. wag.…

The Silenced Wound

A scar is yesterday It doesn’t stab through lonely bones or bite at freckled wrists. It only sits– flacid. — The corpse of a memory that I have forgotten. Callous and benign  in a garden of  blooming nerves– Trying hard to imitate the rosy shades of life being felt. But still- it does not fit Still it…

Of Empowerment

Being in a gi again. Tying my belt, again. The meditation, knelt, eyes closed As on the precipice of a great plunge.  – I am changed now : My skin is not as young, Not quite as pretty as I was. My joints not quite as limber. But my sweat still smells the same. -…

Sunday Funnies: Surreality Programming

Peeping Tom by Steven Quinn  Speech on Days Past by Eugenia Loli Devil Katz by Cosmic Nuggets   The New Baby by Tyler Hewitt Macklemore by Withapencilinhand

The Way it Happened

Cold sands rolling over dents and dunes silent as death and only my chilly lips between to feel them pass– At once, light and stiff- a densely packed strip of shoreline  separating east from west. spit from swallow speak from sleep. I recognize this place. It is where pale strands of life rest on my nose exhausted…

Girls On Film: French New Wave

I’ll Be Your Mirror: Performance and Identity in French New Wave  by Angie Hoover Cleo descends the dark spiral staircase as she contemplates her dwindling health. She peers out of a foggy, barred window, confined by the weight of death and cancer. Again and again, the image of her pretty face appears like a looping…

The Gymnast

In the evening, when her elbows grind into the gravel beneath whirling toes and plump, freckled cheeks, she is alive in the world with the rest of them. She is the bringer of motion of percussion— of lightness and music– she is everything. But when the faint moonbeams recede, she is a hardened lump of…

Cat Fight

My work is going to be featured in a Los Angeles-based production this spring! Vanessa Cate, critically acclaimed director,  is developing her first independent production. The project,”Cat-Fight”, is an all female show which will explore the complexities of womanhood through a series of vignettes written by Vanessa, myself, Crystal Little Bird Salas, Cheryl Doyle, and Natalie Hyde! It…

I am not a lesbian

I am not a lesbian. Not really. but I know what it is to ache for a woman. To be her smiles and her tears To know That she is the truth To fantasize about feeling her breasts and her belly About making her cum About making her feel less lonely but I am not…

The Problem With Blue

The problem with blue is that it  plumps up my lips with the fatty fluff of petulance until I am a beautiful beast— -coddled- – admired- ————-and loving it so “I am Woman. Hear me Whine”  by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse Gold & Pearls by Jenny Liz Rome

Twist me Tender

-knees and necks  this way and that– I hate to see that bluish bend. Beneath the floors like dying rats, The folded backs of melting men – Cowardice by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse Artwork by Franz Flackenhaus

Your Drowning is Contagious

The heavy stone tied to my ankle is you because you are smooth, asleep,  and sinking downward with all those lovers still attached. —–At the very bottom, My eyes are both closed and open because who can tell the difference down here? I cannot breath and  I know  that waiting is all there is anymore.…

Sunday Funnies: I am not an Animal

Kitteh People by Eugenia Loli Owls are Cool by Ashley Percival Mr Walrus by Animal Crew Fish Bowl TV by Vin ZZep Night Smoke by Eric Fan Mr Rhino by Animal Crew


I feel emerging from my softened heart the rage of that diamond-blooded girl. She boils in my body like she did then– sharper than glass and drenched in sacrilege –  ready to draw your blood. “Platinum” by Angie Hoover Hillhouse

Rouge Illusion

with blurry fingers and white shadows she beckons me to her mirrored hall of —-  madness ———— –I won’t go no, I won’t go– but  you are always in my eyes spinning shadows into fire underneath your bloody rose “What it is to be Red” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse Artwork: Rouge Illusion by Elle Hanley 

Where it’s Safe

I am here– No hands to grasp the prickly air or limbs that long for impossible love– But I am here — a face stuffed  with pale, white mud –so that the world will never get in or out of me. -“Where I am Today” Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

I will Protect You

My gaze– brown and hard– poses on your tiny  back, piercing holes into those that you do not wish to face. “Safe” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse Artwork: Immunity by Filmout

Repost: Sex and Dystopia

An excellent article on self-objectification in the post-modern world through the lens of Sex and the City. taken from one of my favorite online magazines: The Hairpin Television critic Emily Nussbaum has an outstanding piece on Sex and the City—and how it lost its “good name”—in this week’s New Yorker. When people tell the story of quality television, Nussbaum argues,…

Art Heap: Jenn Mann

Bubblegum Sea Gal Pomegranite Mars the Grackle and the Two-headed Girl Milkweed Bear Mountain See more of Jen Mann’s Art Here

Girls on Film: Orange is the new black

Before Piper leaves to spend her first day and night in prison,  she crawls on top of her boyfriend: “we have to make this the stuff of fantasies,” she whispers.  And then they struggle through their tears to force one, last meaningful fuck. This, says tv, is what women are. They can be smart and…

Never have I ever

At 12 I didn’t have that homoerotic best friendship that I’ve seen in movies– I never eased my sweaty palm into yours and we never shared powdery-pink kisses during sleepovers just for practice. I always slept on my side clinging to a small square of purple sheet instead of with you forehead to forehead in…

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