Tag Archives: January

diaric, poetry

’25 lmao what a ghoul

Screenshot of @alisonmartino Vintage Los Angeles' twitter post "The tribute to David Lynch at Bob’s Big Boy continues to grow. Lynch went to Bob’s everyday for seven years for coffee and a milkshake. As far as memorials go, this impromptu shrine is very touching and uplifting" with image attached of Bob's Big Boy Statue with impromptu David Lynch shrine including cans of cola, flowers, snacks, homemade keepsakes, photos of Lynch, doughnuts, and more
Credit: @alisonmartino Vintage Los Angeles

and by “ghoul”, I am referring to the stockholders’ meeting from Monday, and all the relevant sycophants. 

When, just yesterday
we were talking the King’s Disease.

When today it’s hot water
bathed and boiled in it
hot water, lemon, cayenne pepper. 
Thanks, Honey.

When under the blankets,
Choose the one who gives you 
giggles.

<<The way you treat others is a reflection.>>
What do you see?

When our touching noses
sparked.

When the sick and cold is too much
I can't touch grass
like I'd like, like you tell me I must. So

If it must be suffocation,
May it be
Trapped in an elevator—
Me, the Glory of spring
You, my Impossible crush
cornering me, daring me
My kiss a revolution daring you
Crack the window
—Sliding doors. 

When I am Focus. I refuse to give
my fear today.
I got too many gals and babes
to rile up 
and protect.

sonic bullion:

sonic bullion radio coming to you live from WKDC, juicy poetry and tales live from the crossroads. Stay wavy…

jukebox:

a time capsule

out of the past [diary archive]

what these nets drug in, 2019 and counting:

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diaric, poetry

’24-’25 Concord promise

Wisdom Gazing at a Serpent [reverse], c. 1500 | National Gallery of Art, Samuel H. Kress Collection
'24 concordat

Studying.
All these hollowed out
crowns, so lofty it’s dangerous
You are vulnerable,
charlatan elite.

When it’s cookie baking day
And for some reason i always 
Have to watch Steel Magnolias
Because of the women who taught me
Recipes to repeat, patterns to shake
Who are that strong
Who are dead

When it’s a daytime fire
When it’s a nap break
In between the molasses and sugars

When nothing says Christmas
like 19th century Massachusetts and March

When you best
Watch out for all these bugs



'25 Concord promise

Exalted, Venus came to town.
Under the covers in my dreams,
waking me up, an inside love;

No, not you, dear, 
no vacancy for the past.
If you must, 
you can watch.
Can you stand it?

I used to be 
so grateful to give you
my kiss. 
To make you laugh.
Anyways.

Nowadays, the dinner table:
‘It’s not the mindless consumption,’
I sit and consider the grocery list.

I’m building something. 
Across from her,
plates and cups a spectrum, honey, hearty,
fresh water. 

They say to leave the tree up
till January. Prosperity.

When those ginger snaps
carried me through—
stomach bugs galore.

A band on my finger,
—horns, strings, woods, drums
iron copper bronze
linens and lace—
The dance of time marches

When elsewhere, it’s a piss era
Shillery par excellence.

And then I realized, I’m on the roof. 
Wow, that’s bonkers, or
Sorry that happened.
Anyways,

Nowadays, I take my napping seriously.
Bury me in the earth,
my strong suit snakeskin
I transform like the year 
back from the dead
a snake in the bed
again and again.

I open
unto my yearning—
I am in love
again for the first time.

sonic bullion:

coming to you live from sonic bullion radio, WKDC, juicy poetry and tales live from the crossroads. Sit a spell, enjoy a while…

jukebox

out of the past [diary archive]

what these nets drug in, 2018 and counting:

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poetry, station notes

Station note: Fire on the Mountain

Hunter’s Affects no. 1: Winter Tour 2024 | EiC Alannah Guevara; cover by Tom Stockman

Hello darlings—

I am honored that two of my poems, “The Enemies’ Disease” and “everything i do is beautiful”, have been published in Hunter’s Affects no. 1: Winter Tour 2024. (be sure to check out the soundtrack, too!) Thank you to Editor-in-Chief/One-Woman Band Alannah Guevara for everything. It’s a delight to be included, I hope you all enjoy reading. 

💕

love is real 

💕

Love, 
Kate

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diaric, poetry

’24 the eccentric dance of the death lord next door (in five parts with a secret kick)

I. Myth
Astride ice mountains, a mood
daguerrotype of the demoted
planet. Out in the cold swarmed by the wounded
healer, the hateful river and the river’s cousin
the serpentine of dreadful resilience.
Shunted outside the galaxy.
Still, we do not escape metamorphoses.


II. Home sphere
It’s the neighbors again.
Their drip annoys,
their curb appeal draws
your stomping boot. In This market?
Pluto’s loyal diamonds advise "Buy!-Buy!-Buy!
	 “It’ll never be so good again.”
Interest pays some and cuts both ways.

Class wars was a cute joke
but here are the keys—
It ain’t no fucking game.
	Ain’t no fucking way.
You will see. You will covet
your lost privacy.
Your only solace the delirium
that you did not pay
to give it away.

Déjà vu: closing the blinds.


III. Sisters, brothers
When the real weight on you
is the knock that you are not at home
in your own body.

When the real work is to take
space. Terrifying, no? Say, No. 
On your own behalf. That’s Enough.

When you act like it 
will kill you to tell her
how you feel. That wall lies, BTW. No matter
if you built it.

When it’s not peace. It’s liberation.
Justification will only leave you
colder. Desecrated cemeteries envy you.
Now give over the keys
everybody go home.


IV. Sonnez les matines
When Elvis haunts me, his plaints his sad
When I make my baby a peanut butter and banana
milkshake to soothe those cutting teeth
and I finally feel the love for The King. 
Power melted him. I hope he was earnest as I believe
he was. I pray—whether he is 
an alien or dead—he is free. 


V. Leave
This is what power makes of me:
a reach to god. 

What offerings shall there be to Lord Death? 
Hmm… Did I mention I’m not into wine? 
Not this pale suburbia mama, no Sirree, sorry not sorry. 
I beg your pardon, but haven’t You had enough? 
Haven’t you been on the dole too long?


VI. The Secret Kick
Her hiss is a kiss
I'll eat it all up, please.
I may be a Sag 
but I love me Thee Stallion.

This winter is unearthly beautiful
despite the plagues, 
despite the genocide. 
Must be some of that Snow, Tina. 
Must be some of that pinkwash
heart glow that the shareholders could never 
kill nor take. After all,
This Is Regeneration Season
for the next 20 years.

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

jukebox:

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diaric, poetry

’23 Six Years a Wife

Photo by Monika Grabkowska on Unsplash
When it’s Christmas
at Graceland and his sweat
—Elvis’, that is—
	bygone king
pours but the keys pour more
rain down on me since Rapid City ‘77
nothing those spent red soda cups could hold
	busy holding him together with suit sequins and leather

Just like the melody, thank God
It’s unchained. May we all be.
	rivers get lonely, too. How could that be? 
	swim, stay next to me. Resembling eternity.

The devil takes the water,
The devil makes it mine,
The devil tells me, Quiet now,
All will be fine...
	Just give me all your power.

But when it’s six years a wife
and nearly two a mother, thank God
The waves make clear—
The fight is surrender,
The devil makes you choose
	—dignity or else—
tortion is just another dance

Spell with your hips,
	tongue and lips—
I am in love with you.

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

jukebox:

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diaric, poetry

‘23. your ship is sunk, my friend

when i remember my own tipping point.
when you chalk yours up to
a generation's desolation and clawing for
something 
resembling control. weight. A carrying. 

You are underneath, darling, now what
can i do to help? Have a cookie.
Have two.
Get mad. Madder even. Loose the still. 
I became a derelict
—that’s fine, i accept—
by not keeping their ship
afloat. I surrender, you’re asunder.
 Oh I must be so powerful.

Even now, I swim the same
sea—yet vast, yet oracle;
skim the surf
while at bottom,
the sands, the deep, and theirs eat
the planks, the convoluted halls,
the mezzanine. A clinic
of leisurely reign.

In so deep you have to remind yourself the water is moving.
Photo by coco tafoya on Unsplash
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diaric, poetry

Wars, Dynasty, Rules, Gifts

Saw this poem coming from a
mile away.
Had me in its sights.

That guitar—neck snapped right
at the base.
Heavy gauge strings now
heavy gauge coils.

I broke it. I snapped. 

Here you go, have it
back.

Oh, this feels good—a sink
into the warm bath.

You did bargain for this
whether you
know it or not.

An elegy; I best be on
my way.

broke meter
Maestro of form so above
it all, neglected yours.
Pithy thing. 

Don’t take that tone with me.
Watch what I
do with it. 

When it’s time for
The Grandest Scale.

You woke me up, dammit.

The runway. I’m on it
like a bonnet. 
You betcha. 
Okie doke.
Here lies.

Photo by Camille Brodard on Unsplash
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diaric, poetry

Nothins gonna touch us

when the belated gift is now arriving,
when you gotta float all calm-like in the highest altitude,
when even the dog bosses you around,
(yep, still float)
when authority falls down
(yep, still float)
and you look directly at the camera.
(yep, still float)
 
when you put on your shades and ask who cares? the sun’s going
to explode anyway

Photo by Uninteneded Concept on Unsplash
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diaric, poetry

Correction:

When they must be doing something wrong
(a whole lotta cheating going on);
when your butt’s sore (but improving)
and the clog is deep in the line (but courage
and determination must persist);
when the Chief Justice is you, presiding
over consecutive flurries

When this time of year: makes me think of rainbows
because my twin is one; a horned mermaid
underneath and a horned rising to your face.
She’s the start of the wheel.

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