secret secret

30 Apr

Lately I have been feeling more private about my work and constrained by the public access to my blog. I would like to write more personally, more dirty, more raw. My only option to do this in a way that felt good as an artist and as a person who considers writing my career was to charge for a subscription.

If you are still reading and interested in reading the meatier stuff, please consider becoming a subscriber to my blog. You can paypal alysia dot angel at gmail dot com  with a one time ever fee of $50. It gets you a personal to you password and lifetime access to my online work. I strongly encourage people to contact me if that amount feels like a hardship. I am always looking for trade from folks with strong editing skills to finesse my pieces.




you feeling brave

18 Nov

i didn’t know the bees had made

home in my belly

even though i swallowed

them in secret

those years when love

was scarce enough

to make a person desperate

no i went on living

thinking the faint hum

that would come out into

cold air in electric gasps

was nothing

probably imagined

kind of crazy person


but today i coughed up

a dark sticky chunk

of our honeycomb memories

fall in the rainiest season yet

the popping sound of tires

the surprise quiet in my heart

proof that the bees

never stopped working

to preserve us in what might

amount to a handful

of honey

fire in the fields

15 Nov

there isn’t a picture of us
late summer sweat
warm wood planks and
naked feet
of the way your thick fingers
pulling in the fishing lines
from your
of a boat
or of the way
your swagger made two shadows
one feminine
one masculine
both cracked in half once again
(and then again)
there is no physical evidence
that i once stole away on your vessel
hid myself inside a locket
under your sailor ropes
yet here you are
barnacled to
my heart
as real as
the saltwater
you once whistled
into a tornado



from there to there

9 Nov

i hate the word daddy
long buried landmines
tip toe feet in the dark
i love the word daddy
christmas tree gasps
the strongest arms
holding the word
i hate the word daddy
an alleyway
too many midnights
a couch in the shape of
a tanker
lost at sea
i love the word daddy
torn nets for fish
freeing seal thighs
into the wild
of a better

in your first swing it hit

8 Nov

there is a chewing 

on the ends of my days

a kind of small change

that cannot be known

unless you are always looking


for bite marks

(as it always has been)

on the dining table are faded letters

tied up with a bow

on the front walkway are apologies

jagged little hungry things 

in the pomelo tree i will hide my shadow

there it will sleeps until summer

too high for the hunger

the writer

the ferine fox 

mister wrong

29 Jun

the first time i really noticed you
i was covered in cacti
they pressed against my body
making every step a dance to
avoid their hungry spines
you were haunched over your
recent kill
hunter eyes trained on
something you were hearing
in the distance
i was so caught up in
ignoring you
i hardly noticed that
the cacti had found their
own feast
starting with my head
devouring my flesh
leaving my heart
for you

three lucky marbles

15 Jun

your body does not yield against
the scratchy pleasure of rope
your feet do not know how to
dance on uneven planks
of rough hewn timber
your blood cannot possibly be skilled enough
to pump your heart loud enough
to drown the call of the waves
so i don’t know why you continue
to insist you are a sailor
bowlegged half hearted promises
of the sights you will show me
one eye open
one hand with fingers crossed
behind your back
but yet you pull that toy spyglass
out of your pocket
close your eyes and point
i see you on horizons
your body pressed against the setting sun
as if to melt against it
ship and all
the stars
like me

Protected: crooked cat tail

1 Jun

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Protected: ten thirty four in the morning

30 May

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Protected: number three hundred and forty seven

24 May

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Protected: field notes from a cyclone

23 May

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