Hey! Look! Listen!


Hey, all! There’s 294 of you now. That’s a fricking lot. And I’m totally grateful for every single one of you guys and gals and others. You’ve stuck here with me through all of my phases and fandoms and feminism. phffff

Anyways, I guess I’ll get to the point.

People of color are on the screen in movies and television in a big way these days, and you see black people and asian people and hispanic people all the time now. But have you ever really seen any Alaskan Natives?

Not often, at least. A lot of “Alaskan Natives” I’ve seen in the movies aren’t even truly Alaskan Native, or they’ve got crappy representation as violent, drunks, or simpletons in igloos.

There is a movie script out there, waiting to be made, that features Alaskan Natives both in front of and behind the camera.

The script is a sci-fi action thriller about a young Native woman trying to stand independent in a post-apocalyptic world ruled by monsters. It covers controversial subjects like reproductive rights and teenage pregnancy. It also highlights multiculturalism, survivalism, and Alaskan Native language.

The problem is that there are no funds for this script currently. That’s why it needs your help. (All of you!)

There is an IndieGoGo campaign that’s been set up here, where you can find much more information on the movie and the people that are going to be behind it.

Go, go, donate! There’s just less than a month left to do so!

Even if you can’t, reblog and signal boost this to get the word out to people who can.

Waking Moment

In the Springtime love
where we fell to wake from low,
darkest nightmares of reality into
dreams from the caves and coves

of our minds. We build staircases
of thoughts and swings of ideas
so that we might sway from
perpetually dissipating lights via

brilliance and slow dances with
visions of loveliness. The culprits
of breathlessness belong to our
fevered souls and stones so cultic

at the bottoms of our hearts. The
worship of books and rose scents
blossoms liveliness into your eyes
and bright alcoves to get drenched

in knowledge. Morning haze glazes
petunias and daisy chains as we
wander them in our lust for all that
is out there. The birds, the trees,

the dryads and nymphs in the forests.
Conjure up all honey-drizzled fantasies,
clutch hands and hearts in abject
fear that we lose them in sudden greed.

The scene is set for us to walk into
sunsets and silver twilights upon
the ladle in the marzipan moon
and indigo nights of haste forgone

for love and imaginative escapes
wanted for later use when we lie
in bed alone with beams of Autumn’s
eve streaking the covers in stripes.

To Our Worlds, And Let Us Die / Dreams Are Everything

In the center of a black supernova, I sleep

with your name on my cracked lips.

I sleep dreaming of a world where

the keys to a loss of self is slipped

under the door in a pretty fuchsia

envelope, where strange tittering

voices whisper our sins before

we wake to find flittering,

fluttering shreds of pink paper

coming down around our bed.

Oh, how I wish we were rocking

to and fro in the throes of dead

romance and erratic lust, rather

than this ridiculously unreal

act of lovers when we’re not

even ever supposed to feel

a love of any kind because

we were souls born apart

in different eras. One day I

will take you and your heart

to examine it, setting each piece

to the side to dry in the rain

that trickles down dark eyes

into city lives; the window panes.

As a hive mind buzzes and trembles

into many metal cubbies for the

night, covered by dark’s shroud,

we embrace in the dreamcloud hub.

We look down on ourselves from my mind.

Two souls - one brighter than heaven itself

and the other with fissures burst at the core,

fallen into its own cracks - traverse the vines and

dirt paths through this concrete jungle’s roar.

(I shan’t tell you which is which, who is who; they are they and that is that.)

They pass beneath the flickering street

lamp, mere flecks in the grandiose picture

of a smudged civilization like this one, and

reach their destination; time flows quick, quicker.

Their hands are grasped close, and the broken

light goes out as one leans in. The volume of water

increases as thunder cracks across the sky and

echoes their hearts. Mouths meet, and slaughtered

are their conscious thoughts as they drink in

each other in slow sips at the very first,

but soon hands cup the backs of necks,

with a pent-up heartfelt kind of thirst.

Fingers are run through hair, and

the rain is absolutely torrential,

yet there’s no care for it. This is the way

you and I were once, a quintessential

type of love. Now I feel you retreating

behind an unbreakable glass. I can see

you but never touch; I call out to you

but there’s no rush. It’s you and me,

me and you, but never totally

so in this high of bloody flowers

and music boxes playing

over and over in the soured

land of milk and honey that

is my head, involved in its dark

corners and living in the dusty

places no one else looks; but hark,

because I flood these pages

with the truth blossoming in

my heart. It’s a twisted, confusing

labyrinth of young words and sin

but I set in motion a genocide of

mainstream schools of thought

and all the corrupted worldviews,

dispelling any inner draughts

of fake and plastic opinions,

put on and taken off as easily

as we cast each other into

faults and betrayal for the treaty

we signed in the caverns of

sorrow in which we fall asleep,

to please the higher powers

with the will to change the keys

to our worlds, and let us die

at each other’s doorsteps.

I am thrust from you, from dreams

I wrapped myself totally in, and I’m

suddenly alone in my own chaos bleed.

The reality was I was always

corrupted to think I could always

have you near and dear to my

very soul, amongst my craze

of the skeletons that lay at home,

waiting for me to break under the violence,

so they could make me like them

in a world of deafening silence.

As a brilliantly jet-black

star collapses in on itself,

I wake with a start, crying out

to those that cannot help.

By myself I must rebuild

and rise out of the grey ashes and

posies alone; quickly some more

structured souls can grip my hands;

but I must walk alone.

Artist Inspiration.
Things We Know

My Name Is Savannah

I can smell her cigarette, and
briefly imagine her Chanel no. 5
kiss on the unfinished cancer stick.
The picture dissipates very quickly

as she takes me by the front
of my denim jacket and yanks
me up closer though I’m beneath her;
oh, her enraptured look is pure allure…

Her simply wild and lusty expression,
her curvy body in that dear silk blouse,
the white button-down shirt with a Peter
Pan collar revealing her soft neck here

to me. Our lips meet, softly, for a
second; then infuse and twist and dip with a needy heat radiating from them.
My dearest Lily, the Soc working at the

library. Her legs are tightly straddling
my waist, and I sit up to meet her
better with our hot tongues forbidden.
I’m just a dirty greaser with a taste

for ruining the clean-cut and hospital
scene perfection on the other side
of town. That night, a lily is deflowered
by the desert and all her tumbleweed

desires rolling in the heats and rains
all alone. It’s raining when she’s finally
asleep and I cradle her against my skin
with Fate whispering the wrongness

of it all to me constantly over the
smoky trail of a cigarette in the
moonlit dark. Her blonde hair spills
like gold across my neck.

I’m sorry it’s got to be like this.
I leave her all wrapped in my plaid
comforter and adorable by herself
to go out, find myself in all this turmoil.

My name is Savannah.

That’s a start.

The Lion’s Mouth Is Beautiful Until There’s No Glass Between You

You beautiful monster.

There I kneel in the steam
beneath the shower, breath
caught in my throat as hot
water cascades down.

My neck is gripped powerfully
while our desires pour around us
in the humid air, and we pant
in the deep humidity hugging

our naked bodies down to
the very bones within.
Carnal energy courses
through your hand

in its simple gesture around
my soft throat arched down
toward the floor of the shower.
My little red dress hangs

outside on the bathroom door,
tiny on the fogged metal hook.
Your black one is pooled on
the floor where I urged you

to step out of it and step
into me under the water as
we satisfy ourselves in
flashes of rough pleasure.

You’re my Sunday drug,
my Monday love, and Tuesday
we go out and drink ourselves
into oblivious little blisses.

You said I was the most
exotic pair of eyes
ever come into your life.

We went fast on the streets
and even faster into the sheets.
You charmed me, with that leather
jacket of yours, peppered with

the kisses of your entire past.

Someone as dangerous as you
with all your lovers under the
bed and every hope for
forever crushed until dead,

shouldn’t pair with a soul
like mine. I’m too easily led
by that bittersweet, 
dark chocolate gaze.

You speak volumes of dark
desire underneath those eyelashes.
My honey poisoned, my blue raspberry
cyanide, you’re going to love me

and leave me on the road.
But I’m ready for it. I want all
your sweetness until I choke,
your writhing love

until I’m thrown back against
the wall (a kiss) for the last time.
We’ll love each other wholly in
my bed while Elvis

plays softly, and you can
leave me in the morning,
you beautiful thing.
You monster.


A room is dead gray
The air still and stale
Walls reek of gloom
A silent sort of wail

Eerie ghosts of past life
Linger in blurred paint
Streaking in deadened
Colorless, weak restraint

Without knowing it, people walk past
Consciousness sliding over the room
Like it isn’t there, as if it was invisible
In a sea of faces, a shipwreck doom

A slip of translucent and silver soul
Flows unknowingly into the vicinity
Spirit that once reveled in sweetness
Splashes down into sighing infinity

With a dark flourish, the poor soul,
She is given form in a trapped chapter
Blindfolded, tied to the depressing room
Stolen from air by a self-appointed master

Her white dress is dirtied by grime
Slipping repulsively from the walls
Wherever her fate lies before, ahead
Lies only when she gives up and falls

Little does this invisible captor know
The power of this spirit is still alive
Words were not covered in a river
Determinedly unmoving like the sunrise

She opens her dainty mouth easily
And whispers one word: “Love.”
The next thing that happens is
Incomparable to Angels from above

A scarlet explosion flings wildly
Bursting in velvet, feathers, joy
Like wine thrown on white sheets
It splashes the walls in a way so coy

Injected with brilliant, lively color
The walls come to life and ripple
Pulsing with ecstatic emotion
Washing away the rain, in trickles

The girl gives an exultant scream
The bonds and blindfolds falling away
People stream into the once empty
Room, bringing all light into a new day

Veins of natures, far-away sights
Close in to grace the inviting area
No more shoving and scared pushing
As if there is disease around, malaria


So alive

This heart is beating once again
Desperate grasps for loving someone
Fruitful in the right method, success
Able to draw through a song once sung

Hide not in the dark shadows
Or not a single soul will aid you
Stand bravely forth in the warm sun
The best thing that could happen is true




A scent like fresh laundry
Clean inspiration laces in
Refreshing and stronger
Gold gleams, no faces of sin…

Glass Balloon

A white room encased in the purity of naive thought 
is suddenly flooded all through with crimson fluids.
Like river rapids, we don’t know how or when, but
it just came upon us and drowned a precious heart.

Amongst the acrid choking and fingers clawing
for solid ground, and empty cries to empty space,
a gold tendril reaches through bluer teardrops.
Darling, a crushed leaf bleeds into an observant soul.

Soaked sheets with sweat, stress and sickness
can’t wipe out all the sick ideas looking for the
different brand of saltines grouping among the
same numbers and brands; they’re all the same.

Curses, soiled again, the abstract thought diluted
by solid fact and withering looks sowed by lesser
deeds. Personality breathing and eating tangible
expression, a brilliance of vivid colors and tastes.

The mind is but a canvas splashed before birth,
a bruised and built up time again sand-castle.
Back to zero, stars flitting toward a pinpoint, a path
shining at the end, unanswered steps beyond it.

A crime for a crime, a tsunami of bettering
for one random act of kindness. Everything means
everything and yet it can all mean absolutely
nothing when you get down to that supposed

twisted cylinder, that supposed dark cyclone
constantly turning with fear and loathing.
Wasted trust and golden youth, a soul climbs
out of a dying picture to rescue itself from red waters.

Decision streaks across unfettered greens and
reds and yellows, browns; life and death; some
sin that doesn’t exist quite yet. Decision is
the intense green streak quenching the crimson.

Speak, primarily,
Speak of ulterior motive, a
controlling goal that pulls relentlessly.
Speak about walking across spruce treetops
while skimming some basic rich topsoil.

A colossal grip of gentle gold tendrils,
carefully focused and released energy.
The one becomes many to rescue unconscious
destructive mental, unmarked walls drowning.