I hate being a woman.
I hate how being a woman means vulnerability.
I hate how eyes, undressing–judging–are always combing over my every flaw
there is no hiding in the open They force on me.
X-ray vision is only a metaphor.
Big Brother is always watching.

I hate vulnerability as a lifestyle
As a mindset
As the unavoidable conclusion.
A prophecy foretold.
A feeling always foreboding.

I hate how calculated wasting away is done for Their pleasure.
Premeditated, a concentrated effort to create vulnerability.
Because liberation is a threat to Them.
Liberation in a woman is sin. The original sin.

I hate how without One–you are not whole.
To be filled. Incomplete.
Without One you are an outcast.
A social deviant.
Rejected. Defective.
A conversation piece at a party
The preoccupation of those that have been claimed
A predatory preoccupation of Them.
Vulnerability is alluring.
Vulnerability is one drink too much and being led away from a protective flock.

I hate how without One you do not feel safe.
I hate how sharing a sidewalk with Them makes me wish for Jim Crow
so I could have a reason other than fear to avoid.
They are the male family member required to accompany to protect against Them.
As if They are not One of Them and you are safer because you have One.
As if she who is with He is not thinking the same about Yours
But statistics shows it’s almost always One you know.

I hate the bravado, the sureness that overshadows my little, steady candle.
They are shadows, nameless shapes encroaching at the edges.
Hands on my neck.
Eyes on my flaws.
Whispers in the back of my mind.
That pause, that hesitation that causes me to miss a moment and become vulnerable.
Footsteps behind but ever quicker–approaching–until you are compromised.

I hate how being a woman means compromise.
You have something to be taken. Something that can never be returned.
I hate energy spent, energy diverted, to Them.
Like that worship is more worthy than the cast-aside altar of me. Only me.


I never have a gift for that altar.

Flying Over Nebraska When the Exile Is Over–Ode to My Home


Thin, spidery veins–tributaries–snake across the land, now iron grey in the setting sun.
They stand in defiance against the settlers’ attempts to tame the land in a patchwork of square blocks and narrow strips of green forestry.
Source of life–Midwestern Star of David, guide human existence, give birth to the race on your shores.


Firm earth, meet infinity.
Kiss forever and quiver at its expansiveness, at your vulnerability/mortality.
Open wide your embrace O earth and surrender.
Lofty prayers reflected and answered in your promise of unending.


Tiny clusters of magnesium orange light break the monotony of endless darkness.
Lights wink and hint at the life sprawled across the prairie–
Macrocosms of the abundance undetectable at this height.


Cars move along single-file, like fluorescent ants on a path to sustenance.
This is how the veins of a nation of builders crawls along and moves the world.

Marin–12/28/13 flying over Omaha, NE after not having been home for over a year.  Written through tears of happiness and inspired by a bursting heart.


To me, humbleness is not a weakness.
It’s the ultimate strength.  It means never being so sure of myself that I cannot be beat.
It is a state of constant strength.
It allows for endless potential–possibility.  It means constantly seeking to hone and perfect.
It is the opposite of vulnerability and the twin of awareness.
Being humble allows me to look with honest eyes not only in regards to myself, but with everyone and everything.
I am prepared and poised for action at all times in this state.

The Selfishness of Peace

How does one find peace when peace feels so selfish?

Is peace the luxury of ignorance?   Is peace a right of merit, an indulgence of the strong?

I seem to have lost my faith in good.  I feel negativity well up inside me and I feel trapped.  Trapped because there lies still a naive hope.  Hope against all odds that seems to grow more steep every day–with each story with each bitter emotion that shadows and intimidates me.

With so much evil and hate, how does one cope?  I am so helpless to it all, I feel as though I am drowning.  And help, refuge, would take away the precious needs of others far worse than I am.

How can I stay positive and engaged in this world?

How do I shelter myself, how do I recover?

The world suffers and so do I.  Like some bastard Madonna I weep. I feel the pain and anger of the nations and I am a ghost now.  Silently, I have lost myself.  Blindly, but willingly, I have given myself up to fill it with the hurt of others with the hurt of the past and the hurt yet to come.


I miss being near the earth.

I miss that fertility and life–the endless cycle of creation, destruction, and rebirth.

You feel so humble living near to that.

And the stars.  They feel so close.

I swear when I look up in the sky at home, I feel like I’m living past, present, and future all at once.

I am both alive and dead.

Infinite and finite.