Words of Acadiana

  She walks where the earth has forgotten softness— a cathedral of fracture and bone-dry prayer, cracked clay splitting like old confessions no one dared to speak aloud. A desert witch, hair tangled with the slow grief of melting glaciers, ancient ice weeping into strands of silver and salt— memory of oceans she has never seen, yet feels in her blood like a rumor. Ravens circle where nothing should live, black ink against a merciless sky, their wings writing omens she pretends not to read. Beneath her feet, a throbbing— not of the land, but of longing, a rhythm buried deep in the marrow of things, calling her downward, inward, toward something hidden or something lost. She presses her palms into the dust, whispers to it like a lover gone cold. Sigils bloom beneath her fingers, etched in trembling lines— circles, spirals, broken symbols of want. Sage smoke curls from her mouth, not exhale, but invocation. She breathes the past into the present, lets it sting her eyes until she can a...

 The horse came out of a wound in the sky  Stitched from extinguished stars  And the breath of things unnamed  It did not bow its head  It regarded me as if I were an apparition  When I touched its neck my fingers passed through frost and fire  And the desert opened like a eye that does not close  Peyote dreams  Green lightning bleeding into veins of night  Mountains rising and falling like sleeping beasts  Every grain of sand whispered a tally of bones it had swallowed  Cigarette smoke drifted beside me  Though there was no hand holding it  It unspooled in thin deliberate spirals  Like a sermon spoken by a mouth without a face  A dive bar in the horizon  Neon buzzed like trapped insects  A jukebox coughing up dusty confessions  Whiskey staining the wood with amber halos  Men bent over their glasses like penitents  Drinking to forget the shapes of their own shadows  The starry h...

  At the crossroads where the desert splits itself like a wound, I sat.  I found a dive bar flickering under  neon bones of red and blue , a last-chance lantern for the lost. Inside,  country music bled slow from a cracked jukebox, steel guitar crying like a ghost that still remembered my name. Cigarette smoke curled into grey serpents above the bar, hissing secrets only the midnight and the damned could decipher. I drank  whiskey-bent lies straight from the bottle— truth tasted too clean for a night like this. The bartender’s eyes were moons of their own, half-lit, half-shadowed, seeing more than he ever dared speak aloud. Outside, the  full moon  hung heavy, round as an omen, bright as a spell, pulling at the sand, the blood, at every crossroads choice I’d buried under years of wandering. A gust rose from the west— warm, wicked, whispering— and I felt the desert stir, a witch’s hand brushing my spine , reminding me that magic lives in moments like th...

  Cursed & Cured Out in the desert where the witches dwell, I found my name carved in a drought-bleached bone— a curse whispered under a neon sign flickering like a dying prayer above a dead-end bar. Whiskey burned its truth into my tongue, country music bleeding from the jukebox like a wound that never learned to heal. Unrequited love sat beside me, boot heels kicked up, acting like he owned the night. Ghosts drifted between the cacti, soft as the sigh of a past life; they knew my story, how I’d worn my boots thin chasing someone who couldn’t turn toward me no matter how bright I burned. But the witches circled back at dawn, their shawls catching the bourbon-colored light, their voices a low rattle of mercy. They crushed mesquite leaves, mixed them with dust and moonwater, and painted a sigil on my chest— half curse, half cure, all truth. When the spell settled into my ribs, I felt the desert’s pulse replace my own. It didn’t promise love, only clarity. Only survival. Only the...

  I feel right here— lit up in my own ruin above a dead-end street where West Texas forgets its name and the night comes down heavy, black as a shut eye. My neon spine crackles, a wounded halo flickering over gravel and broken glass. I buzz like a prophecy that no one ever wanted— calling in the lonely, the hunted, the ones who bleed their truths only when the whiskey starts to drag open their ribs. Inside, country music twangs with a desperate tremor, a steel guitar bent like a witch’s hand curling around the heart. The floorboards remember everything— every confession whispered on the ballroom floor, knees bruised, souls cracked open under the weight of wanting too much. The air is soaked in whiskey breath and old sins warming in the dark. I glow for them— all those tired spirits trying to outrun their shadows, trying to dance their way back into their own bodies. And though the night is thick with ghosts that never learned to leave, I hold steady, casting red light like a spell ...

  Love Letter to the Disco Era Mirrors multiply the life I’ve lived— Confessions spin, the night forgives. Silk, fur, and rhythm collide— The Disco Era never died. Dear Disco, You are more than a genre, more than a decade caught between revolution and excess—you are resurrection. In the strobe-lit temples of your worship, we learned to become infinite. Sequins and sweat mingled like holy water as bodies surrendered to the beat, each pulse a promise that the night would hold us, heal us, forgive us. Under mirrored ceilings, we were a thousand selves reflected back, refracted into light. You were freedom in motion—heels clicking against linoleum altars, hips swaying to liberation’s heartbeat. The world outside might have been cruel, divided, hungry for conformity, but inside your glittering sanctuaries, we built galaxies out of desire and defiance. The bass was prophecy. The synths were spells. Every song was a chance to be reborn, if only until dawn. Even now, your pulse hums beneat...