The Green Man

The structure of power

Welcome, and a warm first hello to the newcomers!

I’m so happy you’re here.

In the tradition of tarot, The Emperor is a father figure who teaches us personal authority.

The last time we visited his doorstep together, it was February 2024—just after Valentine’s Day—and I was starting to find my groove with poetry, music, and graphics.

You can check out that earlier post below:

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These days, the feeling of personal agency is easier to access than it was back in February.

My life feels like something I have a say in, even though I know I can’t control everything that happens to me or around me.

I find myself less concerned with gaining power over others, and more interested in managing myself.

(Special bonus announcement: my new album, Black Swan Event, hits streaming services on August 19th! Click here to pre-save it on Spotify.)

Contents:

1. Wrinkled Cup

2. Ordinary Eye

3. The Man Act

4. Dig

5. Cigarette Saltines

6. Black Opal

Background music: “Hourglass Is Half Full” from Black Swan Event by The Lizzy Co Show

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Wrinkled Cup

My face is becoming the wrinkled cup 

That young folks pour their tough questions inside.

I always tell them that they are enough,

And ask them how they’re sleeping in the night.

 
My hands are growing age spots like my mom’s:

The marks she always agonized about,

And warned to apply sunscreen all day long,

So as not to show age. One must cast doubt.


I do not care if I look as my years.

I earned them and I made it through alive.

Each event that caused me some mortal fear,

My body recorded in scars and stripes. 


The cup will hold, baby, share what you will.

Talk to me, ‘til you feel your needing filled. 

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Ordinary Eye

My body has softened to middle age:

It looks the way my mother’s figure did

When she would grab her flesh with fists of rage,

Crash into diet one day, quit the next. 


I do not hate myself. I learned to love. 

I touch my skin so softly, with great care.

When I start feeling lonely-not-enough,

I tell myself I will always be there. 


This body shape was never a problem.

It does not offend ordinary eye.

In order to see ugliness in me,

Peek instead at the dreams I bear each night. 


My body: such a conduit for joy.

My bowl to be filled, my most weathered toy.

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The Man Act

I wanted to be treated like a king,

Like someone who decides what’s going on.

I studied all the people running things:

The patriarchy, shirtless, mowing lawns. 


I stared at how they stood. They seemed so sure.

I listened with care when they spoke aloud;

Heard how it differed in tone and texture

When only other strong boys were around.


My hiding-place was dressing like a man:

I disappeared in roomy, boring clothes,

Like basketball shorts. Such a simple plan,

And so effective: I was like a ghost. 


I got quiet, and gave ear to their speech:

What I heard them say would ruin your week. 

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Dig

I did such things to fight the root canal:

I drank an ocean; it left me thirsty.

A thousand diet pills for speed, and still

I could not outpace all the pain in me. 


Ten years of therapy, some inpatient,

But mostly in the comfort of my home,

Was what it took to drill down where I went

When I started to feel so all alone. 


I had to believe, to foolish degree,

(I felt absolutely ridiculous)

That I could find a way to move freely,

And that it could be real, not just a wish. 


That root canal hurt bad, and it took time,

But now I feel confident that I’m mine.

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Cigarette Saltines

Saltines that taste just like cigarette smoke,

Stolen from worn cupboard in dark kitchen.

The floor beneath, yellowed linoleum:

My mother brought me back to her prison. 


Most days of the week, we would head over,

To clean the house from smoky tip to toe. 

Just me and her, but why not my brother?

"It’s women’s work," that’s why he didn’t go. 


I learned bloodline lessons from those visits:

"Don’t make those sudden moves around Grandpa;

Always double-check the cards in your fist;

There’s no point in dreaming. The stars will fall." 


Those cigarette saltines (kind of) nourish,

But I don’t think they’re any kiddo’s wish.

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Black Opal

I close my eyes, find black opal within: 

No mind-canvas for this girl, it goes dark.

My lashes and lids are dark/pale curtains, 

Which close, allowing no visual art. 


The name is aphantasia, and it means

An inability to picture things. 

It’s just a little hiccup in the genes;

It never held me back from building wings. 


Look at all the good music that I make;

The dragon’s hoard of poetry I write;

The way I love myself at any weight;

Tenderly tuck myself in bed at night.


Imagination has many faces.

I wonder, what are your special graces?

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Please consider a small donation to my fundraiser to support the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention.

I will be walking to raise funds for AFSP this October to celebrate both my birthday and my continued existence on this earth after multiple attempts on my own life. I am now healthy and strong enough to walk, so I walk.

Please click below to share the link or contribute: