I want to be... A flower
I want to plant my roots
Deep inside the muddy earth
I want to stretch my leaves 
High above the azure sky
I want my petals to sing
With the birdsong drifting
On the morning air

To stand with my stem

Garden Hands

I’ve been working in the garden a lot lately, when my body allows it. I find it to be very relaxing and therapeutic. I don’t have a ton of space but and attempting to squeeze in what I can. I’m most excited about my Jack-o-Lantern pumpkin! I just have to be sure to get to it before the chipmunks do!

I waltzed onto our concrete slab today and happened upon this gorgeous shadow. It makes me think of how I feel so trapped in, yet so disconnected from my body. Living with chronic pain is such a lonely battle. So difficult to describe, even to the people I live with and love every single day. 

Today I leave you with my Garden Hands. 

Fibro-optic Art

Yesterday I did what we call in the Chonic Pain community a “Could but Shouldn’t.” I got to see Pollock (and yeah, I cried. Again.) and exposed my kid to some art (she was bored the whole time). I also was able to spend time with my in-laws.
But I paid (and am still paying) for it. By the time I got home my entire body was THROBBING. 😭 
It isn’t just the walking – it’s the drive that kills me. Any sort of activity that is outside of my pathetic norm of Target, Jewel, and brief garden tending is like throwing my body into the middle of feeding time on the “Midnight Meat Train.” (You should see it).
I’ve learned my lesson. Those days have gone. Tallulah didn’t get why we had to “drive all this way when I can see this stuff on YouTube?”

Me neither kid. 


This brown skin

This brown skin is terrified

These cells cry out

My melanin remembers the motherland

Remembers the rocking of the undercurrent on that ship

The shackles around my ankles

The whip cracking my back

This brown skin tearing open and bleeding
I remember trading freedom for service

We got some acres

But no respect

We sat in diners but were not served

We drank from fountains but were not quenched
You ask

Why do we gather?

Why do we gather?

Why do we cry out?
This brown skin is terrified.

Our cells cry out.

Our melanin does not forget.


This is a house with butterfly wings

Kept in clear plastic baggies

Covered in layers of dust

They lay unattached

Waiting to be discovered   by someone
like me

Love Letter

This one
Is for You
my love.

You make my heart beat
You cause my lungs to inhale
and exhale.

You formed me from nothingness.

You decided to make me a lost child –
lonely, torn,
worse than fatherless.

You kept me safe.

I remember finding You,
I remember the first time I read Your words

I had just been admitted to hospital
a mental hospital
And my tears could have brought forth rivers within days,
You heard my cries,
and answered my wordless prayers.

You were with me.
You’re always with me.



Street art by Rejoice and then some.



Wicker Park


This soul was vapid.
A product of loveless lovemaking,
The girl child spent youth watching her mother
Take care of other people.
Enable other people.

Having been put on the back-burner
to simmer on low,
She began to raise herself.
Growing inward – shy, quiet
a b o o k w o r m
A nerd with one friend who was also a nerd.
Heroin needles under the sofa.
Raging drunk beating down the front door.

This was normal,
everyone grew up like this.

And then….something…..
No longer a shy quiet bookworm –
A simmering pot
if forgotten long enough
will eventually begin
to bubble
and burn.

Now filled with armor,
an armor of rage
of sarcasm
of “I’m fat but I’m funny.”
She spent her teen years in this state.

An unnatural ebb and flow of weight,
Brought her into her twenties.

A marriage.
A daughter.
A reason to find God.

Heavy with love.

Wasted Youth

Too many years
Way – WAY too many years
spent wandering
Bumping through
Scraping by

A public education
Trying to find myself
in city kids

Too white for one
Too black for another
Not Polish enough
Not Puerto Rican at all
And much too tall to be a Mexican

A private education
Learning to hate myself
in daddy’s eyes

Too smart for him
Too drunk to love
Not dedicated enough
Not motivated at all
And way too proud to take such shit.

Too many years.

30 years

And I still don’t know