Posts for June 12, 2026

My best friend and I 
Have known each other 
For nearly our whole lives 
For this story in the timeline 
Were merely seventeen 
Thought we knew everything 
In reality we were on the cusp 
Of knowing nothing about anything 
While out celebrating her birthday
We had our tarot cards read
I wasn’t much for believing in such
Whatever was to come in my life 
Would surely be left up to me 

The tarot reader laid it all out 
I would have many who claimed 
To love me, but it was the seventh 
Who would be my true and forever 
In every lifetime, they would find me
I laughed
She laughed
My best friend laughed 
On this very night I had no idea 
That you were coming all these years later

Inquisitive meows greet me as I step into the enclosure.

Nestled by the water bowl, battered feathers closed eyes. 

A limp outstreched finger to an unknowing god, I scoop them up

A job well done against the poor trespasser

The meows turn to protests as I step out and close the gate

I carry him outside, so light yet not enough to take off. 

Seems offensive to bury,

so I place them at the base of a mulberry 

Not a mine, not a canary,

But a fragile chickadee

So keen to shelter, and fill a belly

A broken wild spirit, is all I see.  

Cyanotyping life into poetry

means accepting that events will

almost certainly be distorted,

for that is part of the process.

Some colors remain

while others subside

as they make way for clarity

that was not present

while we lived unaware

that we might want to 

write about this someday.

Transposing single images to create film

or forcing themes out of sadness,

the results do not matter

as long as they are obvious 

to the reader.

Yet photographers do not need

to worry about distorting themselves

through their work;

poets can only hope that

their distortions grow larger

than the smallnesses they capture

in words.

My cheek on your chest, my leg thrown over your hip,
my arm wrapped around your ribs – as fiercely close as I can get to you
I can hear your heart
as you’re falling asleep
and in my own drifting drowsy daze I imagine holding it in my hands
          not to claim it,
          but to protect it.
Like the seeds I planted in your balcony flowerbeds
as of today I’ve made it my singular, stubborn mission
          to tend to your heart with consistency and care
to pretend I know what I’m doing
to convince you I’m up to the job.
My up-until-now haphazard way of gardening is no longer sufficient;
this one
I have to get right.
I’ve got the emotional equivalent of a shed full of shiny unused tools,
          and I finally have a place to get my hands dirty
Because I know it isn’t easy…
          the spent soil and dried-out roots of our past
          won’t just disappear
But I will cultivate, and fortify, and sweat all I need to
all for you
for your heart
and for the seeds of this wild love
          coming into bloom

written 5/11/26; posted 6/12/26

I am invisible.
I dont matter.
No one talks to me,
I only talk to others.
and they respond.
sometimes.
only the kids who dont wanna be mean.
My “family” doesn’t care.
but it just sucks that my family is only blood to me.
I try my best but they don’t care or notice.
They only see me as my past mistakes.
I was going to apologize
until they call me an ungreatful brat.

Now, I’m debating if 2 years is that long.
I’ve always wanted to make it this far,
having little hope I would. 
But now I’ve lost my escape.
Now, a week seems too long.
How the fuck am I going to last 2 years?

With my birthday coming, 
I’ll be able to say I did my best,
I made it all the way to 16. 
I will try to make it for 2 more days.
But 2 more years,
seems like a star,
shiny, bright, something everyone wants;
but hunreds of miles away,
too far to actually reach.

and with a star-crossed lover,
mixes all of them up,
making me want to try harder to reach out,
but rearanging the sky every time I get too close.

so place your bets,
ladies, gentleman, and everyone in between,
take your pick to see,
which “2” the stars choose,
days or years?

I pray I’ll know the answer tomorrow.

Humans are #1
at killing it,

I mean
killing shit, and

I mean
all of it.

I saw the couple
all dressed to the nines.
Coy eye contact,
brush of a fingertip

Glance over the brim
of a glass of wine.
The wind moves her hair.
He reaches in his pocket 

He moves the bread plate close
She looks out the window
He has a small box
Her breathing stops

Her eyes meet his
Never left them
And he picked up the box
his knife drops.

She cries (just a little)
Not really surprised
Slides the ring
On her finger

While he spreads butter
Across a dinner roll.

Girl look out
You in danger
They a little too gleeful to see your mistakes
To look past the hard work that it took
Pardon me–that it takes
And it seems that most of the world ain’t cutting you no breaks
They literally sit back and celebrate your outtakes
Every stumble, every stutter or botch
When we all got them too
If you run all of our tapes back
(And it doesn’t mean not to make amends
‘Cause that path will definitely lose Confidants,
Family, Friends)
We’re all growing every day
We all got a past
We all thought we were somebody’s first choice
But somehow got
Passed up
And weren’t even picked
Last
May not even have been asked
Most would have been
Jaded by now
But somehow
It might have taken you getting hot someplace else
Reformulated and
Placed into a different engine
To get gassed up to reach your full potential
And now, you are octane
Calibrated to burn and perform at high levels
Defined by your mettle
Reminded of the times they said
“Your goals are high”
And you didn’t settle
That’s why the real ones see you 
They got your back when the rest didn’t believe you
And even if you trip on those ropes on your entrance
Any missed kick or ad lib
Even if your tights rip or your
Wig slips
We love you through it
All
From the forefront to the background
Day ones don’t ever back down 
And ’bout you, just know, I’ll always lay
The SmackDown

She wasn’t supposed to replace him.

That was never the assignment.

Yet people keep holding up photographs,
pointing out an obvious contrast in sound,
and asking a questions that quite frankly
don’t even deserve an answer.

They keep chasing echoes.
Searching for familiar scars.
Familiar screams.
A familiar silhouette beneath familiar lights.
A familiar story. 

As if the point
was to find someone who could fool them
for three and a half minutes at a time.

What an impossible request.

To ask a stranger
to become a ghost.
To demand imitation
when authenticity is standing
right in front of you.

The truth is,
she wasn’t chosen because she sounded like him.

She was chosen because she didn’t.

Because some stories
deserve more than an impersonation.
Legacies are not museums.
They are living things.
Breathing things.

Things that grow,
change,
and somehow survive the people
who built them.

The voice they lost
cannot be recreated.
Nor should it be.
Its imperfections,
its passion,
its pain,
and its power
belonged to one soul alone.

And perhaps the greatest sign of respect
is refusing to counterfeit it.

So instead,
a new voice stepped forward.
Not to erase.
Not to rewrite.
Not to compete.

But to say thank you.

Thank you for the songs.
Thank you for the memories.
Thank you for the years spent carrying us
through battles nobody else could see.

Thank you for building something
worth preserving.
And what better way to preserve it
than to let it continue?

What better tribute
than thousands of people still singing together,
still finding strength together,
still gathering beneath the banner
that he helped raise?

The critics keep mocking.
Keep trolling.
Keep letting their ignorance shine.
Keep asking why she’s not closer to 
the sound they’ve known for so long.

The answer is simple:

Because she isn’t supposed to.
Because this was never about replacement.
It was about reverence.
About gratitude.

About refusing to let a beautiful thing
end simply because one chapter did.

And maybe that’s the hardest truth to accept:

The highest honor we can give those we’ve lost
is not freezing them in time.

It’s carrying forward
what they created.
Not as they were.
But as we are.

With respect in our hearts,
their influence in our blood,
and enough courage
to keep the dream alive.

Martin Mutant claimed the park as his office
and his business was in alternate dimensions.
Wish your life had gone differently?
Wish you’d been born in a different place?
Wish you’d been born in a different time?
Stop hopin’ just call Martin!
Yank one you out of earth-2
and stick you right in your/their place.
Earth-2 you wants to go back home?
Martin will work out a suitable replacement
for that you too!
And if you find yourself unsatisfied with that could have been
Martin’s got plenty of them.
(so long as your the one paying)
Going back will cost you double.
(a lot of work went into doing this for you)
Here’s the handbook, don’t screw up!
(read the fine print, you pay your own temporal legal fees)
Martin Mutant doesn’t spend time pondering alternate timelines
because Martin Mutant is riding high and completely satisfied.