the porch problem

when you think you are performing for someone but there is in fact no audience 

when you try to create something for yourself but can't stop thinking about the impossible potential audience 

why I never write anymore 

why I sing only during dishes

when will I learn 

or figure how to forgive myself

amy and I talked about the selfishness of artists and wondered if that's what it takes to make anything worthwhile. do I have to stop everything else? not that it is anything but I haven't written in weeks, months, years. what do I want anymore? can I blame the place or the job or just me?

a borrowed beer on the porch, a beer too often. a smuggled smoke, ashes again. 

these small sacrifices grow a larger harvest. they don't answer the questions or the problem. 

where can I go? my home under the hill? I've almost stopped believing. 

there's truly no place for me. 

the truth is I'm stuck again and I hate myself for it. the worser truth is that I don't see any way out. even though there are people out there waiting for me, wanting me to bring the fire, I can't believe that it's the right fire. I only have one flame and it's gone out. nothing to be done now. 

have another smoke, another drink, don't think.
the porch is the only place you'll ever be, there's nothing here but what you see. 

I am the fake at all costs

dream

light and dark

we lived in the trees

they wanted to destiny Christmas

hooting people

we did rituals to protect ourselves

costumes and performance

mama there telling me all the truth

mama leading us esp the new generation

a woman has been coming to our side seeking shelter and solace

reformed

we perform rituals to cleanse her

hash

shiner

(blood wine for dark purpose )

she's telling tales

we're stuck as the rifleman makes rounds

ruthless. shooting even our youngest without power

we are all women and old men

she's here in the very center with the most powerful ones

I left them downstairs to protect abatha (the most powerful of all of us, but stuck in a coma and helpless)

when I crawled away trip grabbed my hand and wouldn't let me. I worried they'd shoot me right then, that they'd see me.

but I made it up to the core

my mama in a trance

my costume comedic for joy and mirth (all straps and buckles, my

hairy legs and open skirt)

my clown calling

she tells us she misses that power

details the dark ritual

three times at least she fucked her dark lord, got pregnant and transplanted the fetus to one of our light wombs

abatha, so powerful. she claims that's why

and me

so that's why I was three weeks late

dry birth

covered in scales

made wicked from the start

but where is my power ?

I'm just a jester

so glad mama isn't here to hear

but she most know somehow....

and disgusted to know my true father

and that he wanted to fuck me

and laylee helped us protect the chrosmas things

sort and hide and disguise

morgan had made a beautiful story with wonderful illustrations

I would die to save it