Are We Dead Yet?

“Charleston Church Shooting” keeps blasting on my screen 

my phone, my laptop, and my TV

I hear the phrase from those shopping

a radio host talking

once again, how do we understand a stab to the gut kind of story 

when another racial matter stops loaded chests from their rising and in people we

 fail to show compassion

When I first heard what happened, I thought, “of course again this has happened” 

and then a thought 

something has happened

something inside of myself has horribly happened.

I am stone

veins frozen

where is the blow that this news brings my heart of what I thought was always warm?

Why am I so unmoved by the earth shattering broadcast that is supposed to cause a knee buckling sensation and why are my hands not shaking?  Have I gone crazy or is this world beyond a cure- a saddening acceptance I’ve been carrying 

& how long?  Where is my hope – the one on my sleeve I preached proudly?  Did it wash off like a tattoo’d thumb or was it stolen from me when I was – oh how long was I 


That sort of loss when you cry so hard you can’t cry anymore type of break up – with an American hippie’s dream, “peace, love, and unity” – my patience 

a desert run dry from too many rainless nights to water its kindhearted intentions.

“Charleston Church Shooting” please pinch me from this sedated-by-news-gorging slumber and help me feel again, so to speak

up for other mothers grieving the loss of loved children because of something so irrelevant in meaning 

like color.  

No, I can’t sit back any longer and let the world my children grow up in be flooded with hate, crime, and hate crime then keep saying, “We’re doomed so why must I bother?”

It was Nietzsche who once said that famous phrase, “God is dead”, but not for the reasons our atheists hold certain. 

The phrase was not a winning statement but, a heartbreaking murder of greatness 

we killed the almighty argument because we stopped caring for the questions that kept arising from such beauteous wonder.

And so what would Nietzsche think?  If he never died from the wretched green

would he say, “We are dead” just the same?




Graduation, May 2015 from Buffalo State College.  Picture taken: Delaware Park(Hoyt Lake) or better known as the place I played a lot of frisbee throughout my college years and hula hooped my baby fat into its hills,  watched Shakespeare in the summer drunk on Carlo Rossi, a sharp cheddar and Zettis freshly baked bread.  I lingered late at night on an abandoned stage with a buzz and a few friends, cruised through its cherry blossoms on a midnight bike pedal, and slept under her big willows at noon stuffed on picnic jello.  I’ve raised my son a block away, taken him where he’s learned to climb hollow, plastic mountains all while making friends.  Seven years not too long, I am a graduate today.  A bachelor in the Arts, I grew up here with Frank Lloyd Wright himself, on the steps of Albright Knox, yes, Picasso was my neighbor.  I did it with a two year old on my side and a belly like a bubble, five months pregnant.  Maybe it’s my surroundings but it feels too much like art.  I am a graduate today.

Queen City Kait

Climbing Clouds

Silly, we beings for hating the ground – caving to our self-conscious callings & climbing the clouds.  What was wrong with the grass and the dirt and the bugs that with seeds provided a living?  What’s in the sky but a lack of easy air and a degree of cold that makes breathing hard to do freely.

Has our compass gone haywire? Lost its moral traveling course – a child brings home a baby bird in a shoebox – “Mama save it or crush my heart, I won’t sleep or eat until we do” – A dire love to all living things that as adults we seemingly forget to move for.

What happens to our simple souls when we wish to travel into the sky? Our obsession with the rise, never fearing a fall but bitter when we crumble, unexpected – it’s the risk we take before our leap, the lack of thoughtful possibility – it’s hardly even worth trying at all not having wings in the first place.

How silly, we beings – never wanting where we’re born – always trying to fly like the birds our children yearn to save – we’re all so busy climbing clouds we lose interest in our ground’s wanting of our stay.

Find comfort in knowing, we’re fine where we lay – no need to climb the heights of wonder, when wondrous life is not about rising to another place but feeling at home in our heartland instead – a cumulus bed of sky not made for sleeping, but seeping – back to our soft grass padded bed.

Stop fearing the ground, the depths in its face.  Explore what we’ve already been given – learn to run instead. Save our bored feet from our dreaming heads – put purpose back into the life we’re already living.

Queen City Kait

A Train of Mindful Feedings in February

On a slow gliding torpedo toward the Hudson, big city rumble – traveling alone.  Riding a bit shaky, bumping off steel frames, strangers wear their grins.

Snow blanketing fields outside my window – lay peacefully untouched in the rarely seen plains of New York’s rural mass – impoverished back allies of forgotten sheds.  A town’s mutated gene with a broken window, three rundown cars, some cluttered lawn mowers all meant for fixing – covered in angelic, glittering white.

The sun, a blazing ball of gold on Friday morning –bounces through skinny, sleeping trees and if I close my eyes, creates anxiety -A flashing red and white dance party –eyes widen relief – the tracks kicking up white dust below.

Friday morning.  Our lucky American’s last laboring frenzy.  Counting down the hours before the happiest 5-9 – “another night running late” – slamming cinnamon poison under mint rubber – you feel no shame – you feel your feet swell – feel your legs warm – carrying up into your face flushing hot with reward.

On a train, with myself – some funky beats to block out talk – how nice not to talk – and  watch – watch the sun rave with birch and pine until a massive willow who stands like wisdom – turns our fire briefly to night in a glimpse – and is gone.

The coldest month our north has seen in quite some time – not made for people’s hands to peddle or ponder – a femme fatal murderous winter –choking lungs into frozen ice boxes that hold no breath – she’s tallied tall numbers – our taker – and yet this train is full of souls in route to another frostbitten building holding heat – proving yet again, life demands no stopping.

But how the trees dance – how the snow swings in bouts of wind that blow like cotton softly – how the sun creates hope brighter than the white that blinds me – how the untouched plains remind me – beyond my stinging phalanges and nose – what our world is without my being.

Positive Vibes that Rhyme

I am a superhero.  That’s what I say every morning, when my son kisses my head, a feeling of glory.  I’m a Queen, a tornado, an unstoppable force, with endless motivation – keep running life’s course. Doing more than just sitting in the clouds of my dreams, even though I’m not sure exactly what they mean.  Pushing it forward – another place and time, a place that parades ‘success’ in my mind.

This place isn’t so bad, just not ideal within my head.  What is the ideal? Not asleep, depressed in my bed.  I want a house without rules like, “No, you can’t paint here.”  A front yard and a backyard, with smells of pancakes and cookout beers.  A tree with a swing, and a fort for the kids.  I want a career that feeds our bellies, lacking all killer additives – replace the preservatives with expensive, fruitful feedings – beat cancer and alzheimer’s and crohn’s before aspartame takes us all along with it.

I want a school system that gives my children room for growth, lets them apply their creativity – puts it on show.  I want standardized testing to fall through the cracks so our teacher’s can freely do their own task.  I want what’s best for my children – their own pace respected – socially unmocked for being different – off course – rejected.  Tell them they’re bright, let the stars shine through their being – special in their own right, all passions being heeded.  A school that doesn’t make the montone maddening – but a place that holds standards of their individuality.

I don’t want a career that financially makes me happy.  I want to apply my happiness into a career so I’ll never go napping.  I’ll take what I love – turn it into something green, even if it’s just a faded mint in the beginning.  A passionate interest keeping me on the go – Not a selfish, hopeless wish but a constantly moving reason to wake up and roam.  My kids will see their mother doing what she loves – see her prosper as she chooses, a vanishing sense of ever losing.  And maybe, just maybe, they’ll end up doing the same.  That’s what I want more than anything.

I want to tell other women in less fortunate places, where I’ve been before and can relate to the phases: cynicism, regret, an insecure fate.  Give love to the wounds that were created by hate.  Know that time is not a barrier, not a social status either.  You’re amazing, a survivor, a limitless leader.  Say, “I am a superhero, a queen, an unstoppable force – running through the phases of life’s troubling fast pace course.”