First poem in a while. Consider it a work in progress.

I am tired of writing poetrybridge to nowhere
While the world burns down
Set to the droning sound
Of helicopters hovering in the skyline
Like I have been tired
Of so much for
The past five years
The past ten years
The past life

All my loves
Wear worry lines
Into fragile smiles
Brittle eyes filled with
Visons of the fire next time

But we have been dancing
In the flames
For our entire lives
Save for brief respite
Of breaths
Shared in rooms safe as houses
Doors locked against the cold outside

Standing at the edge of industry
In the weeds
With my friends
Burning Bridges to nowhere
With a blueprint for
Breaking my own heart
All over again

I wonder just how
Far we have to fall
As a (death cult)ure
Where is the threshold?

Fall asleep with the breath
Of emptiness exhaling whispers
On the back of my neck
Spectral eyes stare
Hell into skin too thin
For this fucking planet

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First poem in a while. Consider it a work in progress.

Signals Fill The Void Mix Volume One: Apocalypse Dread In A Dead City/Gravity Pulling In Reverse

It has been one of those days.

It’s one of those days where the gray sky has been dripping cold rain on my face for days and days without relent.  In my anxious state, it’s just all too easy to worry the winter sun may never come back when it sinks beneath the slate gray sheet of sky at four PM.  As the long night falls, the ever-pervasive clouds snuff out starlight and moonlight alike, giving an eerie abyssal feeling to the sky.  The darkness is pervasive as it is consuming.  So much so that I get the feeling walking home sometimes that the blackness towering above me wants to reach down and pull me into its maw, swallowing me whole.

Like I was never here.  Like I was never supposed to be here. Like gravity pulling in reverse.  That’s how I described my feelings of alienation and displacement in conversation once.  Like the world as it spins now, does not hold a place for any of us.  It’s like that episode from The Twilight Zone, where the three astronauts return from a mission, crash landing their space shuttle.  One by one each of them gets the feeling “they aren’t supposed to be here” and fade away.  That’s what lonely nights in this city feel like.

Like gravity pulling in reverse.

On quiet nights like this one, were it not for the internet and panic paced twenty-four hour news cycle, I think it one could almost forget the world exists outside this city and its dim streetlights.  As if the world just falls away into nothingness once you hit the city limits. So I go it alone one more night, hunkering down to write to my favorite songs in my small bedroom, shut away from the world I’m so desperately afraid of fading away from, but don’t know how to rejoin at the same time. Tonight it feels like all the clocks died at two minutes to midnight.  Fuck, the whole last year feels like that.  The kind of apocalypse dread and desperation that reminds you what attracted you to punk in the first place.

So tonight I lose myself for the millionth time, slipping into the spirit of sound.  Ensconced in the wail of guitars and D-Beats drumming out a battle march with all the rest of the lost souls and bitter children.  Screaming at the madness and sheer fucking senselessness of it all.  Because I don’t know about you, but I haven’t gotten a good night of sleep in what feels like weeks.  Ever since that intercontinental ballistic missile false alarm last week, mushroom clouds have haunted my dreams almost nightly.  All across the city, everyone I love just wonders when the hammer might fucking drop, and that then that’s it; lights out for all of us and the roaches have their go.

Punks have been freaking out about the end of the world for forty years now, my entire adult life.  I inherited these deep fears as much as the next oversensitive ex-spiky kid.  I mean, shit.  Discharge made a few flawless records (Let’s just pretend for tonight that Grave New World just never fucking happened, okay?) and a career off these fears. Beyond that they inspired legions of leather clad, paranoid emulators.

I don’t really know how to end this, except to say that I’m scared sometimes.  I’m sad sometimes.  I’m strong most of the time.  If you’re reading this and we know one another, I love you so much, and I’m glad you’re alive.  I want you to keep living.  If you’re reading this and I don’t know you: I probably like you.  I love your lives and your stories because you have them and they count for something.  Here’s some tunes that I love that have been on heavy rotation the past few weeks.  I hope you find something you like.

This mix represents my first attempt at what I hope will become a more regular feature of incorporating my love of music and my love of sharing music into my writing practice.  As always, thank you for reading.  If you’ve got feedback, or just wanna tell me what songs you loved or hated, I wanna hear it.

Track List:

  1. Chaos UK – No Security
  2. Icons Of Filth – Fucked Up State
  3. Skinny Puppy – Nature’s Revenge
  4. Confuse – Hate (Is It War?)
  5. Black Flag – My War
  6. Ash Borer – Waves With No Shore
  7. Body Of Light – Burn As One
  8. Larm – Chemical Suicide
  9. Cemetery – 4:30 Blood City
  10. Gauze – Unknown Title, unreleased song. Live, May, 2011.  First show back after the Fukushima Disaster
  11. Lydia Lunch – Suicide Ocean
  12. After The Bombs – To The Void And Back
  13. Youth Code – The Dust Of A Fallen Rome
  14. Nausea – Here Today
  15. Killing Joke – This World Hell
  16. Broken Bones – Death Is Imminent
  17. The Comes – Ningen Gari
  18. Part 1 – Pictures Of Pain
  19. Pharmakon – Sleepwalking Form
  20. Lebenden Toten – Near Dark
  21. Drift – Mirage
  22. Bellicose Minds – Orwell’s Troops
  23. Scumraid – Tsar Bomba
  24. Crude – Stand And Fight Again
  25. Life – The World Lies Across Them
Signals Fill The Void Mix Volume One: Apocalypse Dread In A Dead City/Gravity Pulling In Reverse

Best of 2017 Mix

What a brutal, beautiful, terrifying year.  Everyone I love struggled and everyone I love strove to do their best.  I don’t really know what else to say.  There was tragedy and triumph, and most importantly communities getting stronger.  Here’s some of the music I loved this year.

2017 Year End List Mix

  1. Cold Cave – Glory
  2. The Gift – Blank Stare
  3. Converge A Single Tear
  4. King Woman – Hierophant
  5. Falls Of Rauros – White Granite
  6. Outreau – M.D.H.
  7. Clayface – Sister Is Dead
  8. Hide – 91 Lashes
  9. Ritual Veil – All Black
  10. Chelsea Wolfe – 16 Psyche
  11. Bromure – Catacombes
  12. Akatharsia – Groveling Towards Oblivion
  13. Vatican Shadow – They Deserve Death
  14. Ritual Howls – Their Bodies
  15. Nidstang – Ergi
  16. False – Hunger
  17. Cigarettes After Sex – Each Time You Fall In Love
  18. Rixe – Tenter Le Diable
  19. Limp Wrist – Como Vos
  20. Wear You Wounds – Shine

 Favorite records, in slight order: 

Bell Witch – Mirror Reaper LP – (Profound Lore)

This is actually my favorite LP of 2017.  The only reason it didn’t make it on the mix is because the song is massive, clocking in at 83 minutes.  If you somehow haven’t heard this, go listen to it.  Easily one of the most haunting doom metal records ever recorded.

 Cold Cave – Glory (Heartworm)

Cold Cave rarely release a record that’s a miss for me.  Glory is no exception.  Maybe I’m a fanboy buying into the hype, but goddamnit, this song is just so catchy and Wesley Eisold is one of my favorite lyricists, constantly capturing the foul ennui and alienation of a burning world, but making you want to dance your black heart out as it burns down around you at the same time.

Ritual Veil – Wolf In The Night Tape (Self Released)

Go to Ritual Veil’s bandcamp right now and order a copy of this tape if they have any left.  These things went fast.  Ritual Veil make you feel like the 80’s and 90’s just never ended I mean this in the best way, because listening to this, I’m transported back to the smoky blacklit clubs of my youth while still feeling like this tape is just so fresh and exciting.  You get the feeling this band is headed for big things!

King Woman – Created In The Image of Suffering (Relapse)

I was first introduced to the music of Kristina Esfandiari sometime in 2015 or 16 and have been obsessed ever since.  Forlorn, hypnotic, heavy and intense.  Created in the Image of Suffering doesn’t let up, even in it’s quieter moments.  Somewhere I have a photo of their live date in Olympia.  Kristina had just dove into the crowd, wearing a homemade shirt that says “LORENA BOBBIT”, seemingly a message to all the meathead metal bros, not ready to relinquish their stranglehold on the scene.

The Gift – Running around This Town (Time For Action)

I surprised myself with how much Oi!  I listened to this year.  A friend recommended this, and I grabbed it on a whim.  Oi/Punk/Power Pop from France.  This record is light and infectious from start to finish.  Perfect for listening to on those crushing days when you want to forget the world for a minute and focus on dressing sharp as hell and loving your friends.

Outreau – LP (Une Vie Pour Rien?/Crom Records)/Rixe – Bapteme Du Feu (La Vida Es En Un Mus)

More OI! from France, but this is what you listen to when you want to psych yourself up for throwing rocks at cops and setting Nazis on fire, looking good while doing it.  Music for hooligans, by hooligans.  Morte Aux Vaches

Clayface – Sister is Dead LP (Total Negativity)

Local to Olympia, I have seen this band a bunch, but didn’t manage to grab a copy of this LP until almost the end of the year.  This is the authentically tragic DIY Goth record Robert Smith wishes he could still make.  Deeply personal and haunting.

False – Hunger EP (Gilead Media)

I also surprised myself by how little Black Metal I listened to this year.  False was a big exception.  Crushing, weird, and unlike most of the other metal out there.  Best experienced in all their throat shredding live glory.

Hide – Black Flame EP (Joyful Noise)

Having heard Hide’s previous EP, Widdow and I went to see them at sparsely attended show with an odd mix of bands at an upscale bar in Seattle.  Indie rock, dream pop, and then HIDE in all their menacing, industrial glory.  For forty minutes the bar transformed into a strobe lit, black leather and lace monster.  Widdow and I were so inspired that upon returning to Olympia, we swore an oath on the shores of the Puget Sound with the full moon as a witness that we would start playing music together.  Maybe we’ll get around to it in 2018.

Limp Wrist – Facades LP  (Leguna Armada)

Can you name a better hardcore punk record by a band that is approaching their twentieth anniversary?  Me neither.  One of the best queer punk bands of all time.  If you want to fight about it, I will see you in the pit with all the other sweaty homos.

That’s it for now.  I’m sure I forgot a ton of records that I loved.  I’m sure I slept on a bunch of records that other people loved.  I also loved every single record that made it onto my mix.  I guess I just didn’t have it in me to write about every single record, especially considering the fact that I don’t actually know how to write about music.  Anyway, the sun is out and I need to take my dog for a walk before the Pacific Northwest is plunged back into gray washed out rainy waste for another four months.  Thanks for listening.  Thanks for reading.  ❤ 

Best of 2017 Mix

Homecomings (Dear Lover)

Work in progress from a larger piece written about a trip this summer.

Dear Lover,
It’s somewhere near one AM. Sam and I are driving through the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania. We are speeding along route 30 between the small town I grew up in, and Philadelphia. We should be arriving in Philadelphia just past one AM. We left North Carolina at nine this morning, stopping a total of three times between our departure and now.

We just left a diner in the heart of York County. The same diner where my friends and I used to spend hours rotting with nothing else to do; smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee after punk and goth shows in the 90’s. Sam was kind enough to indulge our stopping for two hours so I could have a reunion of sorts with some old friends, some of whom I haven’t seen in close to twenty years. We are talking the kids who formed the crux of the formative years and the person I’d grow into. I’ve practically written novels about these people, and here we were; all together again, and all grown up. Our reunion was brief, and joyous. Outside the diner I promised my childhood best friend and first love I wouldn’t wait seventeen years between to see her next time. I told her I’d come meet her partner and her baby.

I meant it too. I fucking miss the east coast. I miss the oldness of it. I miss my roots. If nothing else, I miss how compact everything is. I miss how trips like this aren’t so seemingly impossible out here. Sam and I had to coordinate for a solid six months to make our cross-country meeting happen.

Sam is leaning back in the passenger seat with their eyes closed, resting. I have the new Chelsea Wolfe record playing quietly on the stereo for company. I thought about listening to Sisters Of Mercy or Cock Sparrer for old time’s sake; I have those two bands on my iPod, and they helped define my youth haunting this old highway, but this record is just so fucking good. I’m listening to it again, and composing this letter to you in my head to stay awake.

The houses that line route thirty all have their lights long off. They feel like home to me in this strange way. Oddly frozen in time, as if I could just pull off the highway and settle here, like it was still 1998, and I never left Southern York County. I imagine moving into an old house; trading bitter winter walks to the post office and writing by the fireplace for Pacific Northwest winters drenched in rain. I tell myself I could keep in touch with the outside world by buying records and zines at 3DCD (or whatever record store that opened to take its place, since I’m sure it has long since closed.) again like I was a teenager. At this present moment the idea appeals to me. Funny, because I spent the entirety of my youth scarcely being able to wait until I was old enough to escape this place. Seriously, Melanie and I would talk about it for hours. We planned that shit out. We’d dream about running away. We would hold each other close, reassuring the other one just another year or two until we were eighteen and could escape. We counted down the days until our grand departure from Southern York County, never ever to return.

Now I’m laughing at myself in the late night hours for (however unseriously) briefly entertaining the idea of moving back here.

There was just a storm. For the first time in several days it almost feels cool outside. We have the windows rolled down. The air is thick with humidity and lingering lighting. A flash will crack the sky in jagged streaks every now and then, leaving the clouds red in the afterglow. I love it. I don’t know if I’ve seen a thunderstorm since I left the south. I have missed them terribly. The storm was torrential and massive, nothing like the pervasive Pacific Northwest rain we complained about all winter. I fell in love with you in that constant drizzle and gray. The rain smells differently out here, but I smile at the thought of how that love deepened to where I smell rain, and feel that love even three thousand miles away, in a place that feels light years away from the small world we know.

I don’t know if I miss Olympia right now. I miss you. I miss the sanctuary of my bedroom on my dead end street. It feels weird and indulgent to go on a trip when it feels as if everything around me is crumbling down and the world is a goddamn dumpster fire. Who am I to go running off to meet up with some of my oldest friends on the other side of the country when there is so much work to be done at home?

Over the winter, Sam and I often reflected on the nature of impermanence; just how fleeting and fragile everything feels. The world feels a shade darker than it did a year ago. In that regard, two old friends on a road trip makes all the sense in the world. Tomorrow we will wake up in Philadelphia and wind our way through crowded city streets to meet up with one of our other oldest friends. The three of us shared the stroke of luck to meet in this city almost exactly twelve years ago. We managed to forge the kind of friendships that survive the pitfalls and anxieties of old age.

We will sit on a rooftop overlooking the city that brought us all together so long ago. We’ll laugh at the follies of youth and be thankful for having left them behind. We will give thanks to for resilience and adaptability. We will give thanks for everything we ever outran. We will give thanks for a future that may be fraught with incalculable fear, but is still yet to be written.

Homecomings (Dear Lover)

Dream of apocalypse sex with apocalypse ex

A dream of you this morning
Three years on
Pressed against the wall
All filthy and tender
Open

We were never
Going to be anything like
The love of one another’s lives
Or grow old together
And that’s just fine

Because we both have known
That kind of love
Shakes you to your core
Pulls you out of your skin
To dance in your bones
The kind of love that
Will not let you settle for anything
Gets you fucking moving
And this, this just is.

An exercise in anything goes
An exercise in escaping emptiness
From one moment to the next
Running circular furrows in
All the same well tread paths
Until boots burn holes in our maps

In the afterglow
Beneath the flickering lights
Whisper your secret fears
Of the fire next time
Written into your genetic code
Whatever horror this world holds
You feel it coming for us
In your root of your soul

So here we are
All fucked up
Yet unbroken
Against the wall
In love and war
All at once now
For war
But never in love.

Dream of apocalypse sex with apocalypse ex

For fucking fearless queer love.

queer bootyI wanted to send my sweetheart a cute selfie tonight.  We will not be seeing one another for a few days, and this is literally what I look like in bed, so I figured why not?  I look fucking good.  I’ve been feeling myself hard lately, and not ashamed to admit it.  I wore a ton of make up to the gym the other night, and chuckled internally just a little bit at the bros giving me a wide berth as I made my way to the squat rack with Black Sabbath’s Paranoid blaring in my headphones.

I’ve hit a wall with my writing the last few weeks.  I have two larger pieces in progress, and I just don’t know how to land the first one, and the second one, well some of the subject matter just feels so raw somehow to dive into fully.  So instead I write short poems, and read a lot.  I don’t do enough work revising pieces intended to submit to journals.  I keep meaning to, and I keep running out of time in the day.

I’ve been playing with gender expression regularly lately for the first time in a long time.  In so many ways it’s still such a strange and terrifying journey.  I grew up effeminate and sensitive in your slightly more homophobic and right wing than average family.  My lack of masculinity and sensitivity quickly made me a target for bullying, and soon after it made me a target for sexual violence when a few of the older kids in the neighborhood got me alone.

By the time I was seven, I was well on my way to learning to keep parts of myself cold and buried forever.

And those pieces of myself refused to stay buried.  For that, I am so, so lucky.  This isn’t to say I didn’t grow into one hell of a vicious streak, and that I don’t still have plenty of ruins to undo, but still.  I’m so blessed to not have a head that is entirely filled with bad memories and broken glass.  I’m lucky enough that I figured out how to not let my trauma define me.

I have spent my life surrounded by some of the most courageous and loving people on the face of this battered earth.  I don’t know how any of us could have made it through this burning nightmare that is the modern world without one another.

Middle school in the 90’s, and tough girls in combat boots taught me how to wear raccoon eyeliner like my idol Robert Smith.  When I was in high school, I played in bands with boys who cried, and crusty punk girls who punched nazi skinheads at shows.  I hit my early twenties and came out as genderqueer.  I wanted my gender to be total negation.  I didn’t want a gender at all.  I would wear all black everything, and keep my face shaved a smoothly as possible.  I learned to only share my body with those who I could actually be intimate with.  Nobody else deserved it, or could even understand this strange and distorted reflection I saw myself in.

When it was time to drop out of the rat race we’re expected to inherit when we get out of college as soon as I fucking could.  I hopped freight trains and into speeding vans with fearlessly criminal trans women who survived and braved lives that I could scarcely imagine on and off the streets while I was still dreaming of running away from Southern York County.

In my late twenties and early thirties, still trying so hard to live bravely through trauma and mental illness, I allowed black and white thinking to cloud my vision.  In this world supposedly without boundaries and binaries, I still found myself feeling as if the world held no place for me.  Maybe if I tried harder to squeeze into a binary, it would.  I would identify solely as a transwoman.

That part, I don’t really want to talk about, aside from noting that my exploration of this identity led to the worst mental health crisis I have ever faced in a life that has been well, kinda filled with mental health crises.  It took years to pick up the pieces and get back to where I am right now; which is living relatively comfortably in my occasionally made up and lace adorned skin.  While existing in this gender fluid space with relative ease, I also I live in awe of all the courageous, creative, and criminal queers that came before me.  The trans women, the gender benders, the fags, and the dykes that fought and died so I could be right here.  I think about the QTPOC who threw bricks at cops a decade before I was even born, and live with a lack of privilege that I can scarcely comprehend.

Thank you.

I’ve rambled enough, and it’s time to sleep.

All this to explain one cute selfie.

For fucking fearless queer love.

Anyway, things burn.

Flicking matches scratched
Off of broken teeth
Into broken homes hollowed out
Dry as bones and drenched in gasoline.

Making way for moving the fuck on
I just wanna watch it all go up in smoke
Tearing out every page we wrote

The story wasn’t even good the first time around
Bored as I get with cliched melodrama
And true tales of tragedy and woe

Come on baby, dry your eyes now
We’ve all fucked with fire
Just to know how
It felt to get burned. 

Anyway, things burn.