Pride is an Inferno

trace me,

follow the knicks and scars deep down to my roots.

tilled in poor soil with not nearly enough sunlight,

yet still I grew undeterred, unwavering.

branches outstretched far and wide like my mother arms,

there to either cradle or shade you (take your pick).

no tolerance left for inaction, 

devoid of patience for justice.

trace me,

the same fire raging you see before you has always burned hot beneath the surface,

always been a card carrying member of the “others” – the weirdos/punks/queers/misfits,

call us what you will, but we’re leading the charge now.

buying homes and settling in your quaint little areas of town,

and that raging fire is never going out.

Capitalism is Casual Cruelty

False promises wrapped in carefully crafted hashtags and campaign slogans (quelle surprise),
Bombs falling from the skies
like ashes off the end of a lit cigarette,
All the while we’re still busy
waltzing to the music in our heads.


bare bones in the sunlight,
fear was our chariot,
now we’re dripping in hope.
break it down brick by brick,
tears of joy streaming down your face like fresh squeezed juice in the summertime.
bury me 10 feet deep, so I can finally get a good night’s rest when it all ends.
the crowd can carry on and play numb,
but there’s no respite when the morning comes
and morning’s come.

The Age of Dissonance

What does it mean to be?

Sick of the same sad flow, everyday another social media post accompanied by half-hearted captions,

painstaking math executed just to capture beauty, creativity, authenticity – when none of it is truly real.

news laden with celebrity worship – I say that as kneel at the altar of a few false idols myself and bring them burnt offerings of flesh and compliments.

It’s an accomplishment just to stay afloat through this pandemic, let alone in a state where Proud Boys have stormed the capitol six weekends in a row,

In protest of nothing, if they took the time to read through the evidence.

“Anti-fascist” is a simple enough concept yet it incites fear and anger in some – confusing, since wars were fought and won to ensure the world was free of fascism.

Peek through the shades, forced to wake up early on Sundays, Navy blue dress pants and scuffed shoes,

Cracks in the tile and chipping paint on the walls are all I could ever focus on from my seat in the pews.

The cracks, the chips, are all I can see now when I close my eyes.

I blink and relief washes over me like a tidal, all-consuming, cleansing.

Safe and sound for now, but still uncertain of what it means to be

successful as another cog in the wheel,

happy in a corrupt capitalist system,

awake through the chaotic, endless nightmare that is striving for the American dream.


Have you found your power yet?

Spent years searching for mine in the heart of some rebellion or another. A declaration, a fix, a lover.

Spent this summer marching through the streets, screaming for every black life snuffed out too soon.

Police, the Guard, and their guns couldn’t frighten us.

Slept for days until that unrelenting hunger, the flicker of the flame that once burned bright deep in the pit of my unconscious re-ignited itself.

Cleansed my mind, my body, my home with frankincense and scalding water.

Past indiscretions played out in loops like graduation tapes, but that sick, sad, nostalgia for times filled with high anxiety and melodrama is long dead and buried.

No need to be the loudest voice in the room, when the room quiets for you when you speak.

This mind, this body is my empire,
it’s crossed rivers and mountains and learned to transcend the inconsequential.

I see now that the wisdom earned through tragedies, both great and small losses of the past IS my power,

And this is my finest hour, there can be no doubt about that now.

Clad in my only armor,
blood, sweat, and courage.

In Support of the Arts…

My husband and I have been on a mission to fill our apartment with one of a kind art. We figured we’d start our collection with works by artists we know. After commissioning a pair of portraits from dear friend Lisa Baroutgian, we decided we wanted our next piece to be a conversation starter for the living room.

To fulfill this desire, I reached out to Hazel Handan, a brilliant artist and fellow activist that I met while partying in LA in my youth. Needless to say, Hazel did not disappoint –

Title: Our Lady of Moons and Mindfulness: Medusa Dream

Artist’s Statement: This piece was birthed through a blind drawing that was sketched along with 5-6 other ones. The sketch picked by Hayden and Tom would turn into the Medusa Dream. This piece has a complicated story. When Hayden asked me if I could commission a piece, of course I said yes. We hadn’t been extremely close but when we met up with friends during our younger years as adolescents, his energy was always soothing, honest, poignant, and he was passionate about writing. I started the painting at the tail end of my relationship to a bad man. My living situation changed, and through the transition, the painting remained a skeleton, waiting for skin and muscles. When the time came, I arrived at a place where I could nest and make work. The Medusa went from a nightmare, to a dream. While painting, I thought a lot about how oh how the hell to deal with all the injustices in the world. How to deal with the injustices in my own personal life? How to deal with empathic overload and fatigue? How to deal with recognizing I had become a manifestation of the Medusa, that is a survivor. I kept coming back to mindfulness. Surviving an abuser is tricky, painful, but teaches you in such an intense way. The lesson goes from copper to gold, but it doesn’t happen overnight, and it doesn’t happen without intentional work. I think it was Audre Lorde who taught me to be mindful. Many people’s takes were interesting, and I respect that it works for them, but Audre really held my hand. Just learning how to turn a feeling into language, and soon, into action. That right there is the simplest and most powerful way I have learned to manifest. Did you know that looking up at the stars and talking about them, personifying them, and turning them into stories is the oldest form of spirituality? The world is heavy and I won’t try to or let anyone else try to convince anyone else that it’s not, but the stars have carried us since we could analyze and conceptualize language and narrative. We have changed and grown with the stars, trying to figure out its mysteries. Let the stars carry the weight for a bit, as they always have, and as long as we are alive, they always will.