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.




riding a horse at night

8 Dec

the other day i are standing up

over the campfire you left

the night before

it would be easy for me to

think you left it for me

cold as it is

maybe just maybe

you left a scrap

of your heart

from breakfast

i could slide down deep

into the warmth of

the memory

of campfires past

where i told you about

spirits who whisper

on the edges of my days

the veil i wore

for a whole year

or the insects i rename

to this day

instead i rock back on my heels

clean up evidence of

a place you slept once

sew myself back together

with threads of a shirt

you wore

when you were


how to stay alive (alive)

6 Dec

dream your life away

no seriously

create worlds without

a library

live inside each one

until they become


stop to steady




shaky mother fucker

that has never let

you down

carry hope

inside your

front tooth

make it whistle

until your


gives the


how to stay alive (alive)

4 Dec

instead of being ashamed you have

no damn money

you could try to extract your uncanny


drink deeply

the luck

say fuck


if everyone ain’t got


instead of making small talk

remember something funny you


about wanting to get into


tell them your dream of

befriending a bird

more intelligent than


say screw



dark dank sinkhole

push forth from

that foul earth

call yourself royalty

perforate your skin

with hope

raise your

lungs to the light



four to five almost six

26 Nov

i want to tell her about


while brushing her hair

how it’s like magic

that you must


in nothing else but

how it can be in a curl


freshly painted nails

under a breast

in-between ribs we counted

on our own bodies

while looking at dinosaur


in the arrows of kindness

instead of all the other

words we could sling

under our feet

as we walk alone

electricity become


become the light

that blinds


instead i sing

one of our favorites

and say

you are

such a great


mister black

7 Nov

i write you love letters

attach them to the

steam birds

i watched fly from

the window in the

wake of your shower

the love letters don’t make it

all the way to the battlefield

but your birds of intimacy

always answer to my


counting to ten (again)

27 Oct

you don’t have to be a bird

bird bird bird

(no four)

really don’t listen to me

when i tell you over the

kitchen sink

about how your tiny hands

seemed to want to snap off

so they could fly away home

or the way you can scream

so that everything vibrates

until it learns to behave again

you don’t have to be of

porcelain bones

to be


bird bones redux

3 Oct

it could be the

rest of our lives

that we are circling

that soft cave

i built from my

own rib cage

moss from

my own heart

there all of the

noise hovers outside

insect fury

inside we are honey

against one another

you will insist

that you were

maple syrup

when you read this

years from now

by then my hunt

will be over

yours to


the day you


train the bees


27 Aug

i caught a fish

the fish was gold

shiny fins making

clacking sounds against

its body

i asked the fish

what does freedom mean

the fish arched itself

(wadded up tinfoil)

and looked me in



i opened my

mouth to ask


i swallowed a fish

the fish was gold

ten years ago you

24 Aug

“he used to say

i was his sun”

you told me

curled up on

my blue couch

another petulant


“his sun?”

some fools

think they

love fire

only to drop it

as soon as they

feel a little


bees in the yard again

23 Aug

those who love you

would not seek to

tame you

if you let them

feed from your kills

bathe in

your stories of

you and the moon

the rippling

of the lake at night

where you watched

a lover show off

the winter you

spent without

another living


but most importantly

if you fall in love

with a mighty

oak tree

let them know


hunt for