Psych Ward Refugee

“Is the world going to end?” I asked.

I walk out with them in my Mexican blanket; a glass of water in my hand. I set the water on the plant ledge on the side of the shed. Now sitting in the back of the car, I am off to my next checkpoint with my two trusty companions. I envision the crack that spans the horizon of my painting in the studio. I envision the crack in space and time: closing. Electric white light. Primordial worm. They have dropped me off sleepwalking. I feel the grip of strange men. Suddenly I am awake! Commanded by plastic badges on their chests, they are merciless. My shoes have no traction on the linoleum glowing up fluorescent worm at me. Rabbit heart. I am thinking of screaming and I don’t know.

I have experienced moments, in the months leading up to this, where I feel as though all the people in the world have disappeared and I am alone, walking through a world that is this and that. A world deconstructing. A world and a girl with one hand with the living and one foot with the dead. A day when there were no people in the cars and they drove themselves around a color-coded world. A half-life universe. The days come and go and people rarely notice anything that isn’t moving. They are not themselves sometimes and they don’t know.

On the opposing end of the spectrum, I have felt myself a satellite and these are the highest states of energy. The fountainhead. Godhead. Connection to the senescent forces of Earth and flux. I have heard in passing that the clinical term is “thought-broadcasting”. I would go so far as to use my own borrowed terms; the words that pour through my electric mind: “global consciousness”, the “ancient one” and the like. Solar flares, telekinetic energy, something to do with the pineal gland. Hyperawareness at times and demonic possession. Fuckin’… activity. Is it just me?

I find myself being thrown into a cement room with a cement lip of bench, a small double-pane window and a metal door, a small contraption on the ceiling and a camera in the corner. My clothes are ripped off and I cannot get the words out to describe or halt what is happening. I am screaming; psychotic; having “an episode”. What I truly am is a woman being held hostage in a cement room; the captive of frustrated men. They crave control of me. I am too weak of body and voice for this. My heart is broken.

I am alone. Uncomfortable. Naked feet on cement. Naked genitals. Locked door. No cracks. White box. White casket. I have a Styrofoam cup of water. A Styrofoam cup of unidentified red liquid sits on the windowsill. Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. Will I starve to death in this room? Will they carve me up in this room? There are these drawings on the walls. My GOD! S.O.S. bubbles and empty box diagrams. S.O.S., S.O.S., S.O.S., S.O.S., everywhere. Twisty palm trees. Up high there is a cave-drawing-esque picture of a boar with what looks to be a smear of shit or projectile vomit coming out of its mouth. Is it meant to be vomiting shit? Was this a contribution by a previous tenant of this hellish room? It is high up. Are they so sick as to hire and pay a man for this? Is this art? Is this hell?

I am running through dialogue with my dead friend society. Hold my hand as I try to die. I see bones. Purple and blue flowers. The demon who has built this room within his matrix; the demon who has drawn these ugly things on the walls; the demon who has taken over my body; he will break every bone in my body with cruel mercy. The world is cruel. I will die surely here in horrible pain, unable to touch the earth, because humanity is this and humanity is cruel. A scourge to all in my life!

Time goes by. They come in and out. Come in and out of me with rubber gloves and needles. Come for my blood. My pee. Come to sting me like bees. Come to see my pussy. Come to put strange venom in me. Come to hear me scream murder. I wish I was rabid. I wish I had AIDS to bite them. I wish I could kill Ol’ Joe twiddling his willie to the camera feed. I wish I was an X-Man. Somehow my Mexican blanket has made it into this room. I wrap myself in it and huddle under the image of a palm tree. My bladder burns and my crotch burns and I hear a voice of reason say, “do it.” So, I peed on my blanket. They couldn’t have it. Their liquid gold to the god of the underworld, and get the demon baby out with it.

I remember bits and pieces from that first week in the ward. I remember looking out that city window; just watching the rain. I was lying in bed, drifting in and out of sleep when a nurse came in and held a pill-in-a-cup in my face. I thought to myself, “no drugs today…I would like to fast from this.” Don’t even know what it is! I put my hand up. No thank you. I am finding it bearable to close my eyes and have found a bit of solace in this. I wake minutes later to a male doctor and five uniformed male officers. They are in my room. They have closed the door. They are silent. They have a plan. The officers flip me on my back and take their places at the four corners of the sacrificial alter. Their lips are pursed and their gloves are tight. The blessed doctor pulls my red sweatpants and panties to my ankles. I am a wailing worm. The scream haunts my ears. The needle burns my thigh. The poison burns my brain. It does not burn out the memory. It is over. They leave in silence. I run to the bathroom and tie a bedsheet around my neck. Throttle down.

We are having a hearing about me. I am incoherent. Ol’ Friend who brought me to this asylum of pain has come but I cannot hear what they all are saying, dammit, over my chemical lobotomy soundtrack. Ol’ Friend is crying. His eyes were so blue. I must stay here for another week for my reaction. So says the judge and jury of fucking assholes at Peace Health St. Joseph Medical Center. God bless ‘em, ‘cause I won’t.

And when I got out mother came to make me take my pills again.

Exorcism of She, Part II

I don’t really have night terrors




I used to have fucked up dreams

Now it’s when I wake up

Think about my own life

That’s when the terror sets in

Pounds of adrenaline

Pumping through a vegetable

With skeleton eyes

Fuck or fight mode

I fear I might die today

Or worse

Have to cast it past myself again

In pain

Of whip of possession

Why is it always possession

Escaping into my notes

When so many brighter words fade

Without their due

This is far too much for what

It’s worth

Black gloves do stain my arms

Do sting

And bruise and cuff

And it is not enough

To describe the circumstances of


More graphically

It does not do to dwell

On what is legal

Justice loves us

Not enough and

Everyone is potentially

A psychopath

So lock it up

Where it’s safe enough

They snuff us out

If we get too loud

The quota was meant for us

Down to the Cell

One must argue that if the fetus does have a soul, so then must the egg. For the egg is of course just waiting for it’s time to take a shot at life. By what mechanism it does decide or if it is the body that compels it to its loading dock I do not know. Some say fourteen days go by before the cell of lover’s sperm and egg call out to its mother for her blood. What single tryst goes by those two weeks in the cradle of life. A romance, ah but no more by comparison as that of the tragedy of hundred souls that wait by the hours only to slip through time.

Women carry hundreds of lovely unfinished children in their lives and each one a pain to lose, I can tell you that. Each one by the moon goes by and does not protest one way or the other so who are you, sir, to decide that the unfinished child would seek vengeance upon Mercury and Venus for their eternal divide. And the sun! Give birth to them all in another life!

Men their millions of smaller and swift particle child souls that choose their time in a more, shall we say, opportunistic way throughout their ride in sex organs. Still swimming in the primordial soup and genetically aware of ye old father time and what it shall bring with it on its journey to the nether-life if it should get so far. As is the case, it is a race with ye old father time to the moon that goes by and does not protest one way or the other if ye should get there alright.

The protest up to the mother at picket line. Protest ye mother, oh Nasty Woman, PROTEST. But all mothers of time have heard themselves screaming not always for their children. And sometimes some souls hear it all the time and still protest in silence, for the battle is within ourselves as well as outside and we do not wait for ye old wasted souls at the starting line! We lose them at their hours and there is more to say for that than can be said.

What to say today to you, my daughter or son or that by then had surely chosen one way, both, or neither. I write to you all the time but not often do the letters swim out of the pen in alphabet gumbo jambalaya chunky meats and holy vegetable and no gluten. Speak to me in soup my darling, for it is ash in my mouth.

I know we’ve never spoken, but I love you very much and hope that you have forgotten my awful touch and humanity. I have not. We’ve never spoken. I haven’t named you much. Just somethings and I hope someday I forget your birthday. I’ve forgotten, you see, like the letters before, to stop counting. The soup and the years that go by without them, I don’t miss them as much. But I still know how old I am. How gone you’ve been.

A decade older and still not rich enough. By and by. For mother’s love. Still bearing your aborted fetus in my ulcers. I wish we had never been born to each other! I love you more than ever. And maybe I should stop there and go away forever. But lo! There in that thing. There the very strange thing I say to you again is that I love you! Behold that northern star, kid! In it the ancestors of time have written love songs for our lost children. What I have not written to the desert sun. What I have not written because I am young and unfinished.

Coyote and Skeleton Man: A Hopi Tale

I am from the desert were Hopi face the burning sun and painted sands and are turned away to call upon the west-land fates. The desert faces the south sea and wastes away! Waste awaayyya awaayyya awaayyya.

A tale of the Hopi revisited: Coyote, foolish beast of the southwest has found Skeleton Man seated wily in his place and they do some things very strange. Coyote is watchsssssshhhhhhhing watching him waste away, he sings, “Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey! Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey! Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey!” His eyes have gone south rolled away and came back into his cranium again just the same. His eyes go south, out of sight to see so many things and come back wanting for the south again he is bones away from his southern star. “I like that song you were singing,” Coyote says, “I can do that as well and will roll my eyes south like that. Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey!” Her eyes have gone and they have not come back. Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey! Rolled out of her head and gone south. Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey! She has placed yellow gourds in her sockets. Holy yellow vegetable eyes of gourds. She returns home to her children and they scatter in fear across the earth, never to come back to her again with her unholy eyes of gourds. Cursing Skeleton Man, cursed Coyote curses the skies at night. OOOOWWWoooooo! Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey!


My soul

My soul is the most beautiful thing on paper

My soul wants a lover

My soul wants a lover I don’t have to fuck

Jesus Christ, I don’t want to fuck


My soulmate

My soulmate is not here on paper

My soulmate is not a lover I have to fuck

Jesus Christ, get over yourself

I don’t want to fuck


My soul, baby child

Does not want to fuck your lover

My soul, man

Is not your cadaver to touch

Is not your cadaver to cut


My soul is not here for more lovers to fuck

Can I say it any louder?

It is the most beautiful thing on paper!

My soul is in tatters and blown

By all the dicks to suck



I am glad my soulmate is not here

To see me cry

To crave my cunt

My soul is a lover I don’t have to touch


Hey you, my soul

My soul is beautiful


And fucked enough

Keep your open roses to yourself

Doppelganger, Pt II

I want to consume your shape

Your silhouette

The vignette of the light behind you

A sizable man

I like your shape and

The cartoonish wisp of your hair

I want to consume your hair

And wear it on mine

I want to consume your outline

And if you let me stick around

That’s what I’d do

And what you’d do, too

Because we labor over love

But truly live to consume

I like the shape of you

I want to eat your hair

St. Joseph

She's had enough

She's had enough

She's begging, "Please"


She's put her hand up

It's enough

To take down that cup of

Don't say nothing

Choke down what's in it

Don't say nothing

Enough to be free 

Of those walls and scrub


For a city window in the moonlight

At that night hour

He steps off

He's had enough

He's calling into the darkness, "Please"


Saint Mary! Unholy!

At that night hour

Battering hands of dark are more kind to me

In the morning I've had enough

She's my captivity, and he

Oh darling!

I would set you free!

He, I hear you calling

And I would see you free

Bulletproof walls

I cannot get to you

She's begging, "Please"

To lead walls

Through double panes

He's calling into the darkness

I looked into the darkness

For someone to set me free

Set my voice free

Oh, Mercy! Unholy!

Can you hear me calling?

Calling rape in the morning

Calling chemical lobotomy

Oh, darling!

Does no one love you?

Would no one see you free?

Hands of darkness are enough for me

Double-pane moonlight

I do not need

This selection of prose is brought to you via my experience in Peace Health St, Joseph Medical Center in Washington state. Forced injections, inhumane treatment, and abuse of patients is rampant among this country’s Mental Health facilities. Institutions broken apart within the last few decades have been moved into Behavioral Health Units within hospitals, where medieval practices and shock therapies have been largely abandoned. Patients now have the right to refuse shock therapy, but it is available upon request. What is now common practice equates to imprisonment with a chemical lobotomy: forcing highly addictive and volatile medications into captive’s bodies. I was held down by groups of people, stripped (even had my clothes cut off), and was given mystery shots on the inside of my thighs near my genitals. I thought I was going to be killed each time. I was taken in and released with the diagnosis of PTSD. Go figure.

Satellite 17

Warning: Sleep deprivation may cause hallucination. I was nearing 17; standing in the bathroom at the end of the hall. I had been up for days and likely had not eaten a thing. I was nearing the euphoria a piece of string cheese must feel as it is peeled off for consumption. Unsuspecting, I turned from the mirror to look over my left shoulder and down the darkened hallway. At the end of the tunnel where the last smoky bit of light lingered, the shade of a massive dog stood facing me: starved, lanky, masculine with the pointed ears of a pinscher. Just the one at first – two at a stare. Feminine twin to the first, the second lay on its side at the other’s back haunch. I locked eyes with the space for sockets on the first. I wanted to see it. Animus came forward and in less than four bounds was at the doorway, suspended. The creatures vanished from the gloom. All that remained was null. I would not start or turn away from what could be no more than a drug-fueled mirage.

Those hounds of hell.

Those phantoms black.

One goes forward.

One stays back.

The Exorcism of She

Whatever I eat I have no hunger

Just gut pain

Dilated and constricted all over

Taking and it just keeps going

I keep smoking

High or low

Can't get it out

I can't get it out

It's starving me out

I am in pain!

And the dialogues just keep

Scrolls of them rolling

Noises from the bathroom

No one's home

Distant triggers from real surroundings

Bringers back to life

The orchestra

Eyes prune in sockets

Can't close 'em

What do I need

To be so goddamn awake for anyway?

Water want nothing

I am rabid

Gustave’s Theatre

The guy upstairs. He listens and writes. I listen to the rain on a tarp. He writes in the dim moonlight. Writes about monsters and falling pillars. Dreams ’em up. Spits ’em out into wax figures. Makes stop-motion movies with ’em. Spits ’em out. Frame-by-frame. Makes this typewriter noise with his throat when he does. Real guttural. His characters got piano teeth keys. Piano key teeth. They play Monk in the morning and Chopin at night. They don’t talk. So they’re silent movies, you see. He projects ’em from the roof when nobody’s watchin’. Onto the moon when it’s full. Full moon night. Sometimes it’s warm and clear. And there’s a halo around the moon. Projects it in threes. Prisms. The whole town gets out on rooftops and watches. Sometimes it’s cold and rainy. Ice freezes the blankets. The air. The guy, he gets up and climbs real high. Up into the mountains. The trees. Projects the movies into the clouds. As close as he can get to ’em. For only him to see. And the crows. The crows watch in murders. They especially like the horrors. Piano keys play only minors. To the guy, “Why the fuck?” might you ask, does he spit up those figures? What does he eat before and afterwards?