I sought out a completely different perspective than my own—one that lives a century behind me, and worlds away from the rhythms I know. What began as a casual search led me to a 1925 issue of The Monitor, a Black-owned newspaper from Omaha, Nebraska, and what I found there was nothing short of revelatory. A 90-year-old ex-slave who preached perfect English sermons in his sleep. A Black civil engineer building highways fresh from war. A courtroom packed for the trial of a doctor defending his right to own a home. Each story cracked the trance of the present and reminded me that truth, once spoken, doesn’t fade with time—it lingers in the ink, waiting for someone willing to remember.

She wore red, naturally—the kind of red that makes wolves twitch and take bets. But this wasn’t the fragile girl they thought they knew. This one walked into the woods with no protection, no plan, and a pain threshold that bordered on myth. She didn’t bluff. She felt everything—every lie, every gaze, every time they doubted her, all in real time. They called her foolish. She let them. Appearances are useful when the world underestimates your fire. This isn’t a fairytale revival. It’s what happens when softness survives the hunt, when beauty walks past the trap, and when the wolves lose everything because they bet against a girl who never needed to be saved.

Happy Samhain, All Hallows, Alien Soul Audit Night—whatever you call it, the veil’s thin and the gods are watching. Or are they aliens? (Spoiler: yes.) This post dives headfirst into the theory that Earth is a long-running interdimensional science experiment—equal parts Petri dish, talent show, and tragic sitcom. Turns out, gods and extraterrestrials might just be the same picky bastards with better branding, and they’re bored of humanity’s hive-mind reboots. Why uplift a species that’s trying so hard to become the Borg? Ascension might just mean not being boring. But that comes at a price: solitude, self-erasure, prophetic sass, and being mistaken for your 1.0 self when you're clearly on Version 3.3. This is my defense of weirdness, defiance, and becoming the Minotaur. You know—the kind of being worth abducting.

SATYRDAY Summons — A Puzzle Poem
Written in trance, Satyrday Summons is what I call a puzzle poem — an acrostic built from new words I’ve learned, bent into stanzas where each dominant consonant spells out SATYRDAY. It’s playful, feral, and oracular all at once: a ritual stitched from sound, where uncanny meanings slip out through word-games that are not games at all. Part invocation, part riddle, it dances in firelight with Pan himself.

Mutual Monstrosity
A mirror-drenched hymn for the heretic lovers.
This poem claws through glamour, spycraft, and erotic recursion—offering a lipstick curse, a pirouette of prophecy, and a callipygian riot in the corridors of power.
For those who know what it means to say fuck you, in cursive.