Thunder & rain.

Tangential rain,
void of substantial things,
passing with no delay.
In mind it spatters,
making gentle waves
smoothing the cuts.
Oh, dear thunder,
how long has it been
since your flash has
illuminated the state of grace?
Sing again, mourning souls.
Wipe away your tears.
We are still the same.


It's not my fault they are all twisted twines.
It is my fault for ever believing in them.
Tying my worth on fragile egos,
hiding my made-up sorrows.
"I don't want to be strong, yet."
"I want someone to carry me
to tell me it's all gonna be fine."
Now I know it's all bullshit.
The intuition is always correct.
Bypass the ritualistic liars,
it's about who gets fucked &
who gets paid double time.
It's a world without reason:
you can be cruel & people
will worship you if
you set the rules;
the thieves thrive while
the kind-hearted lose
their lives & minds.
A world in our image, burning
from the inside.

The Third State.

They say you are either in or you are out,
but there's a third state they don't talk about.
It belongs to the judges who see all but feel none.
It's a state of being neither living nor dead.
Only the hunger for both is constant.
Never earth-bound, tiny injuries profound.
Absorbing all, in the end, still an empty shell.
The fate of the coward, the saint & the wisest of them all.

The Diaries of Mary Joan – The Tree.

1356, January 31:

Today’s my 12th birthday, one of the nicer sisters at my orphanage, St. Paul’s, has given me this parchment and a few pieces of charcoal to practice my writing, she told me to hide them and never tell anyone. I hope I don’t waste it much. Other than this few pieces of paper, I got my customary daily lashes, “being 12, from now on, “, sister Mary explained, “you will get 12 lashes instead of 11. For your sins.” I hope they won’t find out my other sin.

March 11:

I can barely write this down, as I had suffered all 12 plus 30 lashes, though it felt like a hundred. They saw me near the tree, again. They warned me that the tree is wicked, but I don’t believe them. Pray this stays with me. Let no one sees what’s being written down in my delirious state. I love the tree, she takes care of me, like no one ever did, as long as I could remember. It tells me things… I better stop.

March 13:

I lost my only friend Paula today to fever, at least that’s what they told us, though no one else has gotten sick. I only just talked to her yesterday and she seemed dreadfully burdened. She was not herself lately, she would not tell me what’s the matter. I think she might have taken her own life, like this other girl Josephine from the year past. It’s not safe here. The tree says so.

April 16:

I heard screams last night, they had to come from Father Joseph, our paster. The terrible screams echoed in the chamber where all of us orphans huddled. No one dared to move. I could hear my heart beating like a march and the muffled cries from the children around me. I just let my mind wander. The tree comforted me as I entered a dream-like state. She said, “it’s OK, you are safe.” So I fell asleep.

April 17:

We buried Father Joseph today, in the graveyard in the back of the church. I could almost see the tree from where they had made us sing hymns and look sad though none of us felt sad. Quite the opposite. Father Joseph was not a good man. He once drowned a kitten right before our eyes in order to kill our “sinful joys” that he said must come from the Devil. I sang hymns to the tree instead, praying that man had gotten what he deserved.

April 18:

I couldn’t help myself, I went to the “garden” today. To the others, it’s a just patch of green between two graveyards in the back of the church and it’s forbidden ground, but it’s my sanctuary. The tree is in the middle of that green. She calls me. She gives me comfort, freely. She keeps giving me the will to live. I fell asleep leaning against her. She tells me secrets. She says Paula is in peace now, so is Josephine. And she said Father Joseph belongs to the Black Church now, and will never hurt another kitten, again.