eject, the story of a mixtape.

A poem from 11/8/11

source codes and languages in secret,
she evokes regrets, she plants her pride but rarely waters it
detects lies, she sells them her best side,
light but locked down many moments
she pulls out less than happy,
messy complex
and it’s simple you see, simplicity
greasy hair and a lack of eye make-up remover. remove her,
smells like teen spirit, remixed, fixed, fixated, debated how many
mixed tapes, discuss title names, sips on regrets, exchange empty stares,
more like heartfelt glares.
approach for touch, but can’t feel much
feed needs.
break emotional diets.
spills pills on counter tops.
stops listening to what they say
heavy on the poetic flow,
posted up and not ready to be picked up.
ignorant is rooted in ignoring the best.
move away from this space.
snippets and sound, sonograms and song-o-grams.
pictures and speech is processed slow, long hours on phone
she doesn’t remember wanting, waiting on hold, speaker phoned.
pressed play but forgot to turn the volume up,
cleared her throat without making a sound,
let em all out.em
she feels
like hell.
and they all feel too much.
executes a perfect translation of the conversation with the help from an interpreter
but she still doesn’t talk in links and and flashdrives
do you remember floppy disks?
bass rock versus base rocks.
live under the fear of an aftershock
in between sets on a stage with no lights.
digitally speaking she can’t understand what they claim to be creating,
count me in, recite, uptight
machine codes and conceptual vomit, miss or hit…

Scalpel and Herringbone 3.

It was too much to cut ties,
So I burnt bridges.
I stained my own lips with words you hate.
We stopped taking a stand on soft ground.
I loved your absence more than your heart as a home.
Simple strands,
Tangled in the sunlight.
Things between us,
Seem dull and bland.
Burnt out the porch light.
All we did was fight.
I’ve been drained.
And I cut.
Scapel to Herringbone.
Expensive taste.
I’m more likabale when my lips are sealed,
And we spoke in
Broken promised and untied knots.
A secret language and I was always lost.
You hate, to live.
I love, to hate.
All storms are meant to pass,
I’m not a natrual disaster.
You’re a derailed train, a constant pain.
I block phone calls,
Who knows where you’d been.
I’m like you, but we’re not the same.
It makes it hard to place blame.
Cramped and angry
Hate misplaced.
Crush Ladies and shake babies,
Ashes and urns.
Hand me the scalpel,
I’m cutting into herringbone.
Let the finest gentleman know
He can call me his home.
I still get fickle and mean.
I don’t know what any of it means.
Hand me the scalpel.
I’m going to the backbone.

-this has been on going, there’s parts I and II on this blog site.

This is Not a Poem About Cadavers

The tiniest flicker

From the deepest dark.
Well wishes choked and placed on hold.

Hell bent to spellbound,
Not everything fades.

Cover untouched ground,

Break bread
Clear head.

Apologetic and intent
On compensation,

Force fed words and phrases.
Collections of sonnets piled

Into the dusky sky.
I tried.

Caught fire,

Burnt my fingertips
Bruised lips

Heavy with desire.
Perfect principles,

Misguided morals
Lined her internal workings,

Bird of prey perched

We preach
To undead things.

We make no amends,
Criminal acts

Dishonor and hate
I ate your white flag,

With my own heart in my hands
You stopped hating us first.

Death Poems

Death Poem was from 1987.

It was full of shit and only consisted of two incomplete stanzas in my mother’s composition notebook which was broken up the spine and mended together with words I made up. No one read my stupid poem so I only spoke in rhyme until I was sick of hearing my own voice (which only lasted for five minutes). I practiced rolling my tongue and spit words at the reflection in the mirror until I outgrew that self-hate and became precocious, which I looked up in the dictionary sixty-one times, but never fully understood what they were saying about me.

Death Poem (1987)

Skipper and Tom, kill
Your cat
A stupid caged animal that is black.
Carnagisms and growing pains end
Stop it.
I am too young to be here.

I am a dark cave
Hate and bats
Park slides live in my brains
Swing Set Heart is my new name.

Sarah madder 6


No one ever understood my views on dying so I stopped talking until I was old enough to sit with my back against the chair and my feet flat on the floor. I turned into a whisper and sank into the walls for so long I forgot why I’d come. I made new notebooks full of poems, they were all just as shitty as the death ones. I cried over moments that I knew would slip away and lived under my grandmother’s name, for many years. I read Metaphors over and over again, letting words spill out of my mouth and into my lap. I never knew what to do with them, so I wrote a poem.

Damn It (1994)

Twinkle, twinkle
I’m seeing stars
I guess I shouldn’t have
Driven my body
This far.

Stupid girls
Do drugs
No one loves
Stupid Girls.
I’m going to rehab
Save me from myself
Put my heart
On the shelf.


That was exactly what I did. I served a life sentence, even paid for crimes I hadn’t committed. I started listening to songs I fully understood and read thick biographies in silence. I learned about love by eavesdropping on conversations between grown folk while preying for a best friend. I’ve never learned how to not be me. I’ve never stopped trying to find someone who made as much nonsense as I in any attempt to live out their own misinterpreted dreams . I grew up too fast in a slow motion world that never gave a fuck. I broke everything I touched, even if I didn’t mean to take too much. I think I became too good at playing dead. So I wrote a poem.

Scrap Metal (1999)

Two birds, one stone.
Stop dating men you hate
Hang yourself
Cut your wrists
Bleed out

Your husband
Will Kill
For food,
You’re food.
Scrap metal is better than death metal
Go cut your flesh.
You are ugly
Dumb people finish last.
Don’t forget to blow up your house.

No one loves you.


My shitty poetry helps me feel less frantic about being stuck in this body,
explain that to me.

It’s the strangest feeling, out living the part of me that wants to die. I’m not sure why that ever happened, was it a flaw in the design? Was there a crack in the foundation? Built on soft ground? Something was wrong. I thought that I was designed to want to live. It was as if once I was aware of my own existence there was this piece that just worked against the natural force that was designed to take place. I wasted so much time being stuck in this crazy love hate state that I might have thrown years away, years I can’t get back. Time with people who are gone. I stayed numb and addicted. I grew comfortable in chaos. And just fed this cancer that has grown inside of me. And now, I’ve outgrown all of that. But what’s left? I hit rock bottom years ago and started digging (my own grave). It’s the strangest feeling to be in love with myself now. It’s like I need to redefine what being human is (to me). It’s like I am that girl from 1987, but I’m not. I’m a ghost of my former self.

The Day the Sun Never

I rise, just to fall.
I exist, to expire.
I’m exasperated, with it all.
I’m weary, and my insides ache.
I’m empty, yet full of feelings I can’t shake.
I’ve learned to live
Just to die in a million different ways.
Maybe never,
Maybe all together.
I play dead to stay distant.
I need space to feel whole.
I need a void to call my own.
I broke my heart, trying to fit it into my body.
They jump started my vessel, against my will.
I’m lost, yet so profound
Creating new reasons to exist, on borrowed time.
Corresponding lives.
Crossing parallels.
Connecting points.
Impossible hate.
Hook, line, and
Sink her.
Projecting it all
Relating to some
Rejecting you all.
I caught a one way flight,
hollowed out my bones to fly home.
I crash, on course (of course).

I once walked ten miles in the snow and cold, preparing myself to be a sheet ghost. My core was so cold I was taken to the emergency room and they assessed me and sent me home. I was blue for several days and my mother expressed much sorrow over my new stance on being void of affection.

I tried to explain everything without words,
I bent my emotions, trying to fit them into your box of understanding.
I folded myself neatly into your moral dilemmas.
I failed your ideals and broke everything, including my pride.
I accepted.
I settled.
I stayed, for you.
I was wrong to feel less than you expected.
I threw my feelings
Shattered across the hardwood floor,
The Archetype helped me shuffle my mess out the door.
I turned the porch light off and locked myself out.
Out of control.
Out of understanding.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.
Out of my mind.
Out of time.

When I was seven I died. The first time in a series of less than nine. I drank jello for a week, lemon and lime. And choked down chemotherapy induced sobs, between the words everyone spoke when they thought I was resting in a deep sleep. I self-soothed away any intense pain through a timed pattern of repeat stabs to the back, by my mom and dad. I can’t say I hate anyone more than I hate the changes we don’t mean to undergo.

I keep leaving my cracked compass in the glove box of my crushed car.
I drove myself to the edge of insanity,
and found comfort for more than a year.
And you might find me madly typing away in the dark,
On a powered down laptop in a bucket seat
Somewhere up North.
I don’t mean
To rise, just to fall.
I don’t need
To instigate just to feel tall.
I don’t want to ruin
More than I can fix.
I’m just exasperated, with it all.

The summer before I turned ten years old I cut the bottom of my right foot so badly that I caused permanent tendon damage. I had been playing in the creek by the nursing home at Ft. Washakie on the Winder River Indian Reservation in Wyoming; my mother rushed me to the Lander Valley Hospital, which was about twenty-three miles away. I took every stitch out, because I wanted to touch my insides; I was curious to see if there was something more to what the emergency room nurse said behind the curtain, “She’s just one of those greasy Indians.” I took every stitch out as I waited to be taken home. I took every stitch out to fix what had been broken. I take every stitch out because I want to fall out of my body.

True North.

I first heard about how Seven ate Nine when I was six, as a result I practiced digging my own grave for twenty-four minutes each day. I told people I was making mud pies and would continue digging until I was up to my elbows in mud, sweat, and tears. I put all of my effort into digging those graves; all of my worries, each troubled thought, hoping and praying they might rest in peace. I was heavy at a young age, my small ribs were weighed down with regrets that belonged to people I was supposed to love. I would shake my head thinking about Seven eating Nine; I would picture Nine being torn apart by tiny vicious teeth and wondered why Nine never ran. Later I read a dozen articles about fight or flight, and sometimes a freeze response. I was horrified that I would soon be seven. I wondered what my contractual obligations were and if I would get to know Nine before the feast. I would talk my silent horrors down and tell them not to worry too much. I reduced my mistaken fears to rubble by nightfall and I challenged my pillow fort to protect me until the sun came up the morning of my seventh birthday…

I was convinced there was another way, a different path, something more, maybe if I found my True North?

I made it to ten, by then I had learned to push the screen out of my window and roll off the porch roof, climbing down the lattice and ivy that crept up the side of our house. I liked watching dad fight his demons from the outside; for some reason they looked a lot less like mom from the bottom steps of our porch. I never watched without wondering if this was what I was destined for? I judged every broken beauty who came close to me; I filled the pores in their faces with thoughts of what their lives could possibly be and asked a million questions about their unattained dreams, crippled emotions, and misguided self-conceptions. I learned how to mend a broken heart by the time I was twelve and people started to hate me for saying the right things at the wrong time, so I stopped talking. I created culinary masterpieces that no one wanted to eat for fear they might contain a magical spell or a truth serum that would unmask their hidden alien race. After my attempt at rock stew I stuck with cold cut sandwiches and discovered it was always best to spread the peanut butter and jelly to the crust of every corner. I thanked people while making direct eye contact and tried to walk a straight line into every class. I wandered through my early teenage years in a haze of street drugs and misplaced hate, jumping from tiny mishap to bigger mistakes. I graduated two years early with an average GPA and had big dreams of becoming an invisible escape artist, somewhat like Houdini…

I was convinced there was another way, a different path, something more, maybe if I found my True North?

I regret not being as slutty as some of my friends and wished I’d had a boyfriend outside of my demanding drug habit to comfort me when I was going through any number of traumatic early life events. I tried taking the high road but found this particular route seemed to elicit extreme growing pains which I could not allow. At nineteen I was higher than a kite and almost flew off the left coast never to be seen again; I sat on the edge of insanity and told a perfect stranger about my misunderstanding of idioms and other ridiculous things. He told me I was perfect and embraced me with a love story that was safe until he stopped being new, to me. He was deployed into a place that “looked a lot like hell”, and I was sorry I couldn’t feel more than my choked heart space would allow. I longed to feel safe and sane but didn’t know how to not be me; so I ran by train, plane, and anything who had a essence which preceded it’s existence. I sparked and went up into flames that burned so bright no one wanted to see my light, so I started walking on the edge of cliffs (at night). For months that were swallowed up by years I survived under the stars of a cloudy sky. I smiled less and less and forgot what sunrises felt like as they spread across my dull red skin…

I was convinced there was another way, a different path, something more, maybe if I found my True North?

I was never good at keeping track of the places I’d been on a map, so I planted a couple seeds and decided to stay and watch them grow. I became weary of hotel room service and high thread count sheets in chateau rooms that would never keep their promise not to disturb my extremely needy writing process. I kept it to myself when I found my running shoes in my trunk with two suitcases full of unread books. I rewrote my living will; begging my closest enemy to send me to hell and cried when my mom told me I was being dramatic, just as I always had (been). I loathed my own reflection and only smiled when I was with small children who would tell me I looked like the witch I knew I was capable of being. I studied every bible printed before the year 1904 and slept in fetal position when I sensed I was being watched by ghosts who longed to haunt my heart. I searched for someone that would be able to break me and was sad to see no such person existed outside of everyone six feet under my tattered soles. I wrote horrible poems that made no sense and didn’t edit anything I wasn’t being paid to write. I glanced at my compass and was horrified to see I had been going the wrong way…

I was convinced there was another way.

A different path.

Something more…maybe if I found my True North.

-I’m still fucking waiting for my book to be reprinted. There will be a limited number of copies, but I don’t anticipate selling very many…If there seems to be a higher demand than what I originally thought I will print this again with Goddess Works (unless I do it on my own). The link to buy Her Bent Book (title), will be posted here, with all of these words.

For Your Records: JP was God.

Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams accompanied by Hell’s Winter got me through the coldest months of this year; which was a little bit disappointing because I had believed I could count on the sobering parts of you.

I tried to sleep it off, but my bed kicked me out at closing time and nothing has been the same (since). The tattered book lay at my feet and my eyelids felt heavier than my heart in my hands, I reread the title several times before I jumped off the ledge. I fought sleep on the darkest of days and forgot why I was melancholy and disappointed in the consequences that were catching up with me. I spent time imaging us counting coup every time I could stomach the thought of being around you, and decided against a resolution for the seventh time since loving you. I’ve stayed hungry but chose not to eat because I forgot what it was to taste good food; mourning seems to dull all of your senses and I was sure I’d lost all sense between meeting you and my last life review. I flipped through chapters, page after page and worked my way through each tragedy and misunderstood circumstance from the first to the last. I ran my fingertips over the tiny black font and stayed busy doing things ass backwards because it made little sense to everyone (else).

I crashed my heart drive working through ways to ask you about developing structure and how setting might thicken my plot. I broke a bottle of perfume in my backseat and drove with the windows down on 94 west bound (just to get away from the sound your sadness makes). I hadn’t planned on responding to your smoke signals but I wasn’t sure I didn’t ever wanna talk to you again, so I and took your call.

You reminded me of reasons I might want to stay sober and it felt like you probably tripped on your way up the twelve steps. I stopped trying to help you up when you landed your last distraction who kept you busy with something that looked a lot like friendship but was polluted by your addiction to lust. I kept your number in my phone so I could block your calls without going through my carrier, I think you might be a disease and I changed your name to Dependency. I wasn’t sorry we’d stopped being friends, I was sorry we’d ever met. We weren’t really productive and I can take all the blame, I’d call fiction on all of our misadventures and title us the Unperfect Plot; the story of the perfect storm that destroyed a couple childhood homes. Your tattered and torn book lay at my feet and I thought of setting it in your step father’s mailbox, but I think you’re too lost to see it as the closure it would be.

—-If I had to title this year today it would be called, “The Year I Lost All of My to Reality”, and I think this may be good for everyone involved. I write this assuming you (all) will read it, and know that it’s for you just as much as it is for me. We can blame it on the moon and spring equinox, or our mistrust with men due to overused childhood issues, we can point our fingers and call each other names, and recount all of our last mishaps, then silently judge one another, or we can just put it all down and go our separate ways.

The bottom line is: I am tired. I need to collect myself, I think I’m lost. I’m going away to do all of my self-evaluations and I’m trying this new thing adults do; called, “Vacations”. And if you’re gone when I get back, then I understand. You should keep walking I don’t think I’m going to turn around, for any of you.

*Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams is a literary work by Sylvia Plath, read it if you haven’t.
*Hell’s Winter is a work by the artist known as Cage.