I can be like a hound dog, occasionally distracted by attractive scents, sniffing successfully until something redirects me.
Harsh, that's what my mother's generation called verbal abuse. Harshness. Harsh meant you could be spoken to however the adult wished.
by Vennie Kocsis I don't quite understand these constant holidays, dedicated to moms and dads and bunnies and love. I see them as marketing scams, a way to boost economy almost every month, by throwing in a Holiday. But hey, maybe I'm bitter. On these days I am reminded of my absent mother. See, not … Continue reading Motherless On Mother’s Day
There are people who learn to trust the streets. I think of their lives, how they have made darkness their day and daylight their night so they can stay alive. Where is the safe space when the alleys are teeming with the unloved at night, ravaged by the anger in their souls, screaming out their … Continue reading Around My City She Sleeps
Writing cleanses the soul, and you don't have to be a writer to do it.
I wonder if my mother ever felt the rejection and pain of her children. Did she ever cry? I can't recall in this moment, ever seeing my mother cry. I wonder if she'd care that I love pictures of my family; to document moments of happy, because no one ever did that for me. I … Continue reading My Childhood Is a Graveyard of Ghosts
TRUTH EVOLUTION "My name is Cathy O'Brien. Mark Phillips and I are 25 year veteran US Government Whistleblowers on the subject of mind control and healing from it. Mind control is a sliding scale from the kind of robotic MK Ultra mind control I endured during the Reagan-Bush Administration to mass mind control social engineering … Continue reading An Open Letter From Cathy O’Brien
The Original One wavers, lazily sleeping, snacking and avoiding. Might I silence the fire, burning and buzzing in the spine? We run into the trails, avoiding the undergrowth of tree roots pushing their way through the ground. We grab at leafy branches. She’s an avalanche avoiding her own rubble. Sideways in the gradients lingering around … Continue reading Abstract Aberration
I am recalled to this video piece, Throat Lumps, linked below, from my poetry book, Dusted Shelves, that on days which celebrate the essence of love, my heart sits silently with the unloved; the child who has never felt a hug, the ones neglected and the humans dejected by lack of connection or touch. Don't … Continue reading This Day Always Leaves Lumps In the Throats of Some
I think you hate me because you can't break me.
I am here weightless. Ear tuned to every sound. The fireworks are starting. A week filled with the explosions of war. I despise the celebration of generations who've been traumatized by genocide. Headphones. I'm trying to stabilize. Can I float off away from this place yet? Work to do, but goddamn, I'm tired. Inside. Down … Continue reading Streams Of Consciousness | 6.25.15