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.



cover your eyes in case

8 Oct

i can’t return to 


your creaky wood stairs

so instead i return to water

there i shimmy off

my human

in the shallows

until there is no 


between the sea

and me

i imagine myself into

a small wave

nipping at the shoreline

in puppy excitement

as i push myself off of shells

and rocks

i allow myself to swell into

something larger 

all of the memories of 


take shape 

make crests

rise high enough

to make shadows

over fearful fishes 

in deeper depths 

i tell myself if i become

a tsunami

i can be ferocious enough 

to end myself 

at your well worn 

wooden steps

finding you there

made of the very sun

i miss nothing i miss everything

6 Oct

once there was a time
i watched the way
you blew little puffs
of air between your
perfect lips
while others were
i took note of it
a little tic
a little more than a tic
something that soothed you
i guessed
then it happened again
small little spaces
of unsaid worry
so many
i began to collect your ghost
worries in my pocket
there came a time
when the reverse gasps
simply stopped
so i emptied my pocket
next to the river
setting your worries free
watched them flitter into
the world
how i wish i had kept them
all of your secretly
released doubts
now that you
are floating
over my river
a prism
a ghost secret
an unsaid worry


amanda amanda amanda

30 Sep

i decided that
when i miss you
i’ll roll my heart out flat
crimp the edges with my
own fingers
slice plump
pieces of our time
and layer them
inside the shell
i figure if i
bake you inside my heart
watch the timer tick off
the minutes i am without
fill the air with
our our feral
hot history
i can pretend we are
laughing together
in my new kitchen
the one you will never see
this morning
rusty dried blood coating my
fanciest apron
i decided
when i miss you
i will feed my home baked

Femmes Before Literally Everything

28 Sep

Amanda Arkansassy Harris, femme vivante and artist, left this mortal plane to meet up with Patsy Cline in honky-tonk heaven on Friday, September 23rd, 2016

She left behind a very tiny, yet regal, dog named Memphis and her wide spread family, both birth and chosen

Amanda spent her whole life in service to her queer community, seeking to create and foster spaces of inclusion and intersectionality, and finding ways to interlace that activism with art any chance she could. Because of her incredible work curating shows such as Y’all Come Back: Stories of Queer Southern Migration, and the beautiful and vulnerable photography and storytelling work she did showcasing femmes in her recent photo series Femme Space in the National Queer Arts Festival she was chosen by KQED Arts to be featured in their “Women To Watch” series.

For over 10 years, Amanda worked in the non-profit sector, where she was a tireless advocate for LGBTQ youth. She was on the board of CAR (Center for Artistic Revolution), and credits her art-activist roots to CAR, who made space at the table for her when she was an undergrad working with UCA PRISM and Conway League of Queer Activists. She believes CAR and its programs, including the youth program, are essential lifelines for queer folks in Arkansas. She was endlessly passionate about getting resources for queer folks in the South, especially in Arkansas.

In her personal life, Amanda was in love with being in love, a true romantic, with a heart made of Arkansas diamonds. She would often get lost in rural areas, camera in hand, photographing and documenting what the world left behind and nature came to take back. While she loved her west coast living, Amanda’s heart was always in the Arkansas flat lands where her rural queer femme roots sparked and took flight, and her deep love of butch/femme ancestry was born. Her small town heart made many transplant queers in her community feel loved in the small ways that folks like her performed kindness. She would always call people on their most important days, bring a casserole or dessert for those recovering from illness, and her charm and sparkle was truly infectious. Amanda was generous and expansive, an amazing friend and lover, and ready for any whirlwind moment that might catch her up in its electricity for a spell.

Amanda was a femme’s femme, stole hearts with a flick of her acrylics and a toss of her hair, and was loved by many. Her community will miss her country ways, effervescent laughter, razor sharp mind, and ever fabulous style.

impossible to tell

26 Sep

sitting on your well worn porch

i am surrounded by succulents 

we talked on my back porch that time

about how much we admired 

how we wanted to 

surround ourselves 

with their spiny bodies

my hand on your thigh

your hand fluffing your 

impossibly thick forest

of hair

you laughed real cute

when i said 

what i love most

about them is their

inability to be killed

by the thoughtless 

their absolute desire to 

stretch languidly in the sun

and where many would perish

they live on to tell the lore

of their families before them

you said

you could never be a cactus

while i picked collected 

dust out of your comely quills 

i said 

try being a rose instead 

i am sure there was a parachute

23 Sep

when love is the way
your breath creates a mingled fog
while each holding up a mirror
with your backs against another
fingers intertwined
when love is the way
you drag your eyes across the room
to look at everything, anything, the most
mundane things
avoiding their flame
feeling the prickly feeling
of a sunburn on your face
when love is the way
you carefully choose
each syllable
of each word
chess game intensity
making static between
so much it shocks
both of you
when love is the way
you use fondness
like a caress
in a lighthearted way
as if you were
their garden
as if it bloomed
with such a fierceness
all by itself
when love is the way
of morning birds
not even bothering
to hide their secrets
while balanced
on a wire

wings made of paper

22 Sep

perpetually curled into your
horny shell
inching along
i tried all of
my best magic
such as
using my special
the one that
once made a field
of flowers sway my way
then i tried singing
in every language i know
painting my
vocal chords
with gold
so that only the
very regal songs
would find you
i called upon
the forest creatures
in your path to
charm you
welcome you
show you how
to love
your direction
never faltered
your soft mollusk
dark glittering shell
sweet honey soul
eyes on the ocean
never on me

one more thing

21 Sep

every single time
i hold my hands
over my mouth
i think of you
in the dark
rolling a joint
while humming
a nonsense
when i watch
people racing
towards their
important life
i think of your
ever pensive body
perpetually curled
into a slight bow
how your languid
cowboy way
infuriated everyone
but never me
when i sneak out
in the middle of the night
leave my shadow sleeping
i think about your
secret book of escape plans
i swore i would never read it
but i did
now you’re houdini
me left with your collection
of ropes







if you shove a backbone inside it

20 Sep

genius daughter
i taught myself to whistle
in the summer of 1977
sitting barefoot in underpants
on the motel room stoop
another gritty day gone
momma didn’t care none
baby cried himself to sleep
no one but me and the neon sign




i could read then
but vacancy
was something felt
not read
that red hot
is what made me squint
into the frog croak of a night
pucker my lips
curl my tongue
my crooked
baby teeth
drooling on my dirty chin
until a faint
spit soaked
weak little
burst out of my lungs
into the sweaty
dark place
i called
for one night

i never found a candle

25 Aug

there will be days
where all you do is
birth tears
each one carefully
caught in your
shaking hands
you will count each one
in case one goes missing
(good mothers count)
you will line them up
on your window sill
at the end of the day
fingertips nudging them
until they
against one another
aboard the largest ship
they will ever sail
as you pretend to sleep
your tears will
grow restless
press against one another
become one wailing orb
in the morning you will
pluck them from the sill
swallow them whole
grief made a baby