Millenial Protest Song


Locked fortress of stone

There’s a fire in your home

We can no longer be patient

No longer docile patrons

The blacks are no lepers

The women no whores

No person illegal

Bathing in the blood

Of the poor

Indignant uproar

Burn burn Baltimore

Chaotic kids

With the crack

At the end of the barrel

The catalyst

A Feminine Ball of Yarn



*Written from a woman’s perspective.


Tufts of thread out of the palm of his hand. A spool of yarn slowly undone down curling dirt roads. Our steps are not our own as we’re dragged down the trail littered with pot holes, but we refuse to let the yarn hit the ground as we grow smaller and the man’s smiling face is far, his only sign a taut string following the curves in the horizon. I know I must be minuscule before I can gather myself to that smiling man for I am unwound. The strand frays and I struggle to stay inches above the cakes of mud.

To Choose Life

Times without number, taken in fluted reed Could be the dancer who Swore she would no, could not, hang up her shoes Neglect that spirit within who urged to move Still now, decades pass She has lost her edges, she is a filament of someone who Once danced in fury in all her youth and […]

via So quickly we forget the steps — thefeatheredsleep


And he can’t tell if those are callouses at the end of her toes

Or bloated cherries, boils oozing puss

At the end of each of the fifths of her tapering feet.

He shames her from progress

As she grows strong

Towering over the people

The industries, infrastructures,

Sizing up sky scrapers,


He’s shrunk

Feels as a stain on the sidewalk

For the ego kept him strong

Termite infested crutches

Fire licking away at

The wood’s soft center

And he doesn’t have

A leg to stand on.


The footprints

Left across her malleable frame

We send Mother to the camps

Get her working in the lines,

Heaven knows if ma

Gets out of hand

Gaia will swallow us whole


They carve away

Beneath the surface

Rotting jack o lantern

Toss the slop in the trash

Her vital organs.

We’ve progressed

From butcher house cutting board

To scabbing through


flanking Planned Parenthood

for the surrender

The only thing worse

To make the choice


Not death


For loving the little she had

Malingering Justice

We talk daily about stemming the spate of violence against women. We pay lip service about punishing offenders, but when is justice really served. When a judge sentences a privileged white man to six months in prison for brutally raping a woman what message is that sending to others like him? The Judge in the […]


Thank you. There aren’t enough people talking about this. There aren’t enough people angry about this and it may feel that it doesn’t matter, but it’s another step, and womyn’s rights are getting somewhere.


Malingering Justice Picture


Brandished wildly

Desecrate by

The same dumping ground

You’re still, silent

But you’re howling

Ice cubes melt

From your face

Frigid, moist

Engulfed in tides

 He is


Moving one with the

power, one with


He thinks about what

It’d really be like

To dominate

He holds the devil

So close when he dances

I can’t tell man

From beast

To live in that strange,

Dark continent

Watching, waiting,

To sprinkle the sand

over her eyes

He’s embraced her dark corner.

He violated those dark corners

A dream of what

Could have been

Burning in the oil fire

Convention begets violation

From the law

To chivalry

To the gilded athletes,

Devouring, dissipating

Our children’s survival;

Our future

But it’s convenient

To stay in your

Burning home

When it’s cold


And the judge doesn’t bat a lash

Sewing the stitches

Through the labia

Of woman’s humanity

And releasing

Mad, parched dogs,

After a night in the pen.

For the growl is heard

At all hours of the night

And her figure is ravished

Perforated teeth mark turf

As he chews on her

Under the guiding hand

Of “justice”

Is monogamy a myth?

Is monogamy a myth?
With the end in sight
Speeding drunken mad man
I stand headstrong ready to smear across the squealing, snorting nose
or dive away at the last second

The gluttonous trip
falling short
They had to admit him to an institution
Wobbling on one leg
He killed himself shortly after
I’ve been there.

Standing outside of towering white house
Suitcase in hand
I can see them tending to the lawn
Raking the dirt
Sitting under shaded oak trees
They aren’t happy
They aren’t.

They sit with the longing memories
of the last pork chop
between their
sagging knees

Give it up Griffin.

Sitting at the peak of the world
Loose paper flapping in hand
More than the leaves from the trees flowing before me
The tree tops earnestly staring at me
Mocking them
Mutilating the corpse of one of their own
With a needle point quill
But I care
But I’m sorry
And that makes it okay

As long as the trigger of the Lugar is pulled
The bullet meant for the commanding officer
Barking orders
Making masculinity miniscule
Then all of the squandered lives of
Perfectly good men
Are justified

My 648th Rodeo

What hot button topic
Headlines the news today?
While the slaughter sweat shops
Still maintain the nets
Stopping the depressed
From the suicide
Their entitled to.

What words anger the privileged?
What stops the bagels from being cut?
The coffee from being hot?
While woman are burned alive
Witches with the witchcraft
Of an independent thought.

What child can’t afford the new game system?
While children in third world countries
March endless miles
To get an education
Surviving off of thimbles
Of dirty drinking water

You’re right when you say
We need to help ourselves before we help others
Take it from the creator
We’ve been high and dry for centuries
While he’s working on his celestial corvette.

Why help the unfortunate
The weak
When you can empower
The strong?

For the top 1% will never have enough of our money
And the bottom 99%
Can never starve enough
When we’re eating our children to survive
We must remember to save
The best cuts of meat
For the corporate head

I’ll work myself to death
A corpse mashing the keyboard
Before I’m through

The Evolution of Language

Only I can see it. They’re like tumors. They bulge from the apex of the back of their head.
Here it remains dormant.

The eyes are relaxed, once shifty eyed, now slightly glazed. The pink candy bubblegum turns grey. The bubble grows, I can see the tumor perched on the back of her skull slowly deflate, slowly, it is consumed.

Elsewhere, I see it burst from his lips. Spewing like puss from a straining pimple.
The letters wrap around the walls of the expanding bubble gum. The pink goo from her pursued lips is stained. A single drop of black dye
in a rainbow
makes grey.

It’s thick. It pops, oil dripping down her supple frame.
It’s acidic, the clothing burns away and she stands fragile, naked.

The tar streaks her skin.

As the syllable is finished, and the teeth and the tongue collide with the final “tch.”

The match dropped at her feet, she bursts into flame. She wails, running to the faces around her, but the men don’t know what it’s like to burn, and the women are silenced behind their candy bubble gum. Behind that dull demeanor, they pray for the health of their burning sister.

Her skin blisters, her body cries, pus dripping out of the swelling boils. They pass, avoid eye contact.

A modest pile of cigarette ash in the corner. It’s only a passing moment and she’s made again. She rises from the ashes, a new tumor on the back of her head, and bubble gum inflating from her chapped lips.

Holding or Held by the Leash

Always the fight for inertia.
And when the pressure adds up
And I start to give
You’ll pick me up out of my gutter
I know I can count on you

Children being worked and trained in third world boot camps
Sex trafficking
To first world buyers
Women shunned and shamed into slavery
The slashing
exasperated bigotry
All of the abuse
All of the self pity
All of the apathy
All of the sweat shops in third world countries
All of the sweat shops in our country
All of the desk jobs
The fate we’re all doomed to.
Sometimes I find I’m
Walking with a leash

These Innoccent

I’m a glass, half full, placed and forgotten on the windowsill
I like to watch the boys ride by on their bikes
And feel the sun cook my yoke.

The elements and condensation drains
the prolonged winter freezes me in place
stagnant, stationary
inhibiting dispersion
like dandelion seeds of pomposity
across the Western frontier

I can’t fill myself with the love of the world
But the woman with the pitcher
She has more to get out of life
Than to be the housewife in the apron
Tending to my needs.

I do my best
But sometimes the water drips dry
And all is lost

An old man in his death bed
Dependency and bigotry
has made us fat , worthless, lazy

“Nurse, please”
Until eventually
All water dries out.

But I was aware from the beginning
All water dries out.
And it isn’t their job
To pave the way to my future

In masculine terms
With their fallen sisters, daughters.
I’d rather falter
Than require
The stepping stones
Made from the cadavers
of these innocent women.