⌈ “as a convention, ⌉

an object’s image is said to be

at this (x) location

⌊ behind the mirror.”⌋

⌈ hidden from view,

the secret self the Id— ⌋

¿if a material (being?)

is opaque to the light, such

as the

d a r k

animal Id I’d hide



ego human and superego

god I’d perfect to avoid

an image

that is successively dark-


“the image of the object is the same size as the object.” how small am i?



“the image formed

(of Pygmalion with statue

or god with Adam from dust)

by light rays

that appear to come together

(in matrimony)

at the image rendezvous

behind the mirror

but never really do

(things fall a p a r t)  when fall is ≠ ∞

not equal to infintity; tone quality, on finite things. it is an anagram

a virtual image. 

a virtual ∞ (alt num lock 236)

a virtual image of infinity; alternate [universes] num[erous endings] lock[ed doors] 2 [people] 3 [is a crowd] 6 [66 the devil’s in the military detail]

a mage of verses, roses

rural finery

a virtual image can never be displayed on a physical plane (dreams)


“the other side,

where light rays do

not exist–

and where virtual images

are formed–         is called

the b↓

ac->ks- i de,backside

b-acks-↓                                             ck^

i-↓                                     a^

d->     e,          b^

of the mirror                              ɿoɿɿim ɘʜɈ ʇo ɘbiƨʞɔɒd ɘʜɈ

souls go here. and

the things the cannot

e x i s t

on the physical plane                      they go HERE too.


“when the (beloved) object is at the focal point, the image (of love) is infinitely far to the left and therefore not seen, as indicated in (b).”

but “when the object lies (naked) between the focal point and the mirror (this page is a surface for an angle of incidence light touch down on the) surface,

the image forms again, (turn, be love)

only now it becomes

virtual and upright (like a pop-up book)

as shown in (look and) (c)”



black out (if i’m honest)


the rachis;

the distal part of the axis

of a feather shows stem cell white;

conspectus of angel conceptus

and the immortal adnexa (unveiled:


anatomical organs of a genus

of prickly shrubs,

the leaves pinnate,

corollas fleshy human and

proximal to the dais

of gestation; goddess light).



zero; i adjust the sights of a firearm to hit the point aimed at–a target having no magnitude or quantity–the metrical foot, the trochee

v a c a n t

having no modified inflectional form.



at zero hour, the observatory duty scientist watches luminaries

pointing NASA’s Swift telescope at a singular swath of sky

in search of the theorist’s holy chalice:

flashes of x-rays and ultraviolet light indicative of a wrinkle in the universe.

black holes swallowing dead stars.

i saw a romance of person;

mysterious events set in a remote time and place; Einstein’s general theory of relativity foretelling the pyroclastic flow deposits

of her fallout

the federal bureau of investigation’s most wanted

colliding in spacetime

with systems of white supremacy and suspicion:

Angela Davis on trial for collusion in a titillating murder case charged with political valences.

i look like her. fear me.

formed in the image of a black panther party member, my flesh and its historically subversive adnexa conjures

the government’s institutional memory of

an all black branch of the communist party; of militant resistance

(for a limitless time at all times resistant)

against police brutality; against extrajudicial terrorism


and so, this is the reason

why eyes follow me. my past life is

why i can’t buy a candy bar in peace.

the cashier’s afraid i’ll steal the status quo

and exact a revolution.



this is my prayer:

i will not be your negro.

“Negro Slain By Texas Posse: Victim’s Heart Removed After His Capture By Armed Men”

the real headline is this:

in order to kill me

you’d have to kill me in every permutation, iteration of

all time existence

i’ve ever been manifested in.

lynching is not enough.



i wrap my head like Congresswoman Ilhan Omar; Somalian angel who wears her hijab like a diadem. a map of the horn of Africa floats on a backlit screen: the central intelligence agency has an online fact book. a black star denotes where Mogadishu unfolds. i see her like i see my father.

complicity and the axis of spin, that rachis on which tangential velocity spirals, twirls like the finger of a goddess touching secret countries–that is the revolution of quiet that allows the CIA to back death squads in lush Ayiti.

orchids of state terror bloom from fertile ebony loam. fifty tons of cocaine (worth one billion dollars) paint the Haitian military regime thunderbolt gold.

secret files contact the dead; speak of Duvalier in whispers, saying,

“he is ‘Papa Doc’ the virtual personification of a voodoo god; to the country’s overwhelming negro population, he has shown himself to be anti-mulatto (i am in awe of the menagerie of

disgusting, divisive

incarnations of jim crow’s one drop

red, tear shaped


and a devotee of black supremacy.”

the special operative called us negroes; thought it odd that we’d think ourselves divine; spoke of the communist threat. i read the agent’s special report, eyebrow cocked convex, thinking fuck this son of a–

Ayiti: near apartheid, tensions viscous between the noir and the subtly mixed; in Papa Doc’s palace auspices glint wetly on coils of goat entrails;

president for life,

vodou spirit Lwa of the dead and his tontons macoutes (the bogeyman) were:

gang; cult; secret police; fascist militia

power: raping; extorting; murdering at will

with a cold (in cold blood) grip.

and the vampire of the Caribbean selling blood by the bag

dealing human body parts;

while mad max mutilated the genitals of political prisoners.

slavery made us brutal



“our Doc,

who art in the national palace,

hallowed be thy name.”

he revises the lord’s prayer.

he rides in a bulletproof Mercedes limousine,

raining money on the people; bankrolls

fall from heaven (our Doc

who art–)


he decapitates a man. the severed head

holds secrets

that can be divined

from blood. the brain will

tell Doc what he wants to know

because he is a god–


when Papa Doc dies, the US is afraid that Fidel Castro will see the witch doctor’s daughter, see

that she is tempestuous beautiful

an emerald window glowing across the sea

calling in low tones to Cuba.



there was an idiot

who called my country

island of the damned.

we are free. we revolted

against the French.

our land a mystery

like naked bodies behind a magic cloud.

the jungle. the starved look to us

for consumption. they want to see

the cannibals;

the blood spilled everywhere

(where is the bleach

for the kitchen tile?) dripping;

hearts sawed

out of stiff bodies, the pink muscle somehow

still beating

with black fire, witchcraft, magic.

the watchers,

they are the cannibals.

oh, the poor refugees.

fuck you.

you’ve failed

to see

the politics of magic.

you are so easily seduced by

blood sacrifice, by brown

bodies, by unrest

large enough to rip timespace.

you are the one running from yourself and thanking god hail mary for the wretched of the earth in this fun episode of escapist media consumption.







Beach Bomb 

At dawn, Cuban cigar smoke and Cognac buff the cloud bluffs till they shimmer gold.

Midday is painted with Gordian knot, unsolvable blue, blue that invokes the totem Deva of the salt sea;

The eventide’s sea is a ruched ballet satin, foaming with teardrop lace; and pudendal pink with wine set of sun and starlight.

Guazy mauve illumines cloud nine; the brined air wefts icy, tulle cirrus; and suggests meteorological moksha.

I wish I could disappear in a swish; 

get gone 

like a chandelier of clean rain 

cascading in a water closet; I’d go down the shower drain in a vortex, my portal’s cirrus spinning like the geometry of wind turbines, and I’d  make a single formulaic glass rose before gurgling to nihil. 

I’d go like 

the waves that draw back their 

jeweled seafoam hamsas from the seething kettle of flambé sands.

Then I would have moksha: freedom.


Can I pull myself out of my own shadow; from some meta, superstructural rabbit hole of
cocoa darkish velvet?

I try
to pull my soul by the nose
out of the mirrors
of my pelvis

I go up the seraphic
forever-wed staircase;

It’s all
sewed with wedding bands;
it’s a
moonlight pantheon            ,

upholstered in
bottle ∆blond∆[¢land]∆est∆[ine] gold
and opulent sunrise yellows.

It rounds bends like a baby-
soft helix of satiny DNA;
a strain of.          singular.      

(bottle blondestclandestine

Here, the sky materializes
in a rush of shamanic violet;

waves of mauve sky fleet
towards beaches of
frosted glass, their
frozen time’s sands
glitzy and illumined
by black lights.

The Pyramid of Lost Treasures

The Mummy’s Eye is an aqueous globule forged from champagne colored garnet stone. It’s chatoyant eye winkles under a continuum of gold sunlight; buoyant flecks of silver dust drift on the yellow air within this opulent tomb. Explorers have searched for King Tutankhamen’s enchanted thyrsus, now worth millions, for centuries.

Now, here in the ruined Atlantis of this magical mausoleum, I’ve discovered the holy grail of ancient artifacts. I reach a deeply tanned finger out to touch the ghostly scepter, all crusted in precious candy colored jewels. I touch the succulent Egyptian Eye as if it were a dripping forbidden fruit.

Suddenly, a gust of sparkling, wine colored wind bowls me over. The wind’s smell is musty, like old scrolls covered in downy soft mounds of lint, dust, and gems; as the wind dies, the smell is imbued with the dusky scent of wet, fresh roses.

I taste wine and honey on the air, and see the stellar constellations of the zodiac glowing on the tomb’s high ceiling.

Golden hieroglyphics form a mystical, golden helix in the air; suddenly, a regal form materializes before me: it’s King Tut, dripping in gold like an immortal honey comb.*

A BIG Thank You!!!😘

I’ve been meaning to do this for a while, so here it goes:

Thank you a trillion, bajillion, million! This goes out to all of my followers who make writing on this blog feel so rewarding!

Also a super special thanks to my baby sister, aka The Birthday Queen KaKa (step down Kim K, lol).

Also, I’d like to acknowledge one of my favorite bloggers, Victo, who I basically adore.

Thank you to all of you who have surprised me with your kindness, steadfastness, comments, likes, follows, clout, humor, everything!

Keep it up!

Yours Crazily (but adorably, maybe?)


🌌Evanesce: Enchanted Romance💋💖

Let’s evanesce in a coruscating mushroom cloud of magical, mauve smoke;

We’ll fly away to the morning star in a copper teapot, splitting rainbows with the Bowie knife of a sea glass prism.

Bring your sequined mage’s cape, we’ll go see Silver Leopard, the big top aerialist.

We’ll ride a glass elevator to tomorrow; steaming up its panes with Cleopatra’s secret treasury of cobra tongue kisses.

I’ve got a golden fishtail braid: Rapunzel’s rope; I’m hanging by it out of a steam powered balloon, my hand extended to you.

Grab it and we’ll soar together over the spires of Victorian London, dangling by a yellow thread of princess hair.

Laugh With Me: Marathon

One of my coworkers, who is a very funny lady, is a lead teacher at the preschool where I work.

She is a tiny woman with a Rapunzel like sheath of raven mermaid hair, saucer eyes that breathe fire, and enough height to make her forehead touch my nose, haha.

Today, this tiny fairy made the subject of her ire, a lost little boy. During writing and dictation, The Lost One dawdled at his desk, writing a shortlist of letter K’s as if they were contenders for a prize.

When her gaze rested on his paperwork, with all the K’s numbered and bulleted, she said:

“1K, 2K, 3K, 4K we are not in a race. Like he is sponsoring or something. 1K, 2K…”

He was supposed to be writing about insects.

It took me a while to realize what she’d said. I couldn’t believe the quick blade of her wit. Poor thing, he was blindsided.

He was like a runner grounded by a clip right in the Achilles tendon by a ferocious competitor; The Lost One was left with all those K’s ahead of him.

Turns out he couldn’t see the board, so I dictated to him personally, and he churned out some very good work. Although, I think I like his first paper better. 😂

DIY Style Solution for Writer’s Block!

Today I did some retail therapy. I absolutely love shopping for eclectic decor and jewelry.

I purchased a gorgeous, rustic silver filigreed lantern. It’s meant for candles, but I’ve repurposed it as a magical wishing lantern.

Instead of putting a candle inside of it, I’m going to put strips of paper with wishes on them in it instead.

That way, I’m forced to use my imagination and to write something; and I have a new fashionable home accessory!

I hope this helps somebody!😀