Tag Archives: Truth

What’s in a name?


A rose without name would still own its own scent

But what word would you choose if you wanted one sent?

And a person’s still been, if you don’t know their face

But when you looked to your own, which shapes would you trace?

Names can hold meaning, and a face can breed true

You can place in them feeling, and most of us do.


But imagine for me, that there’s a hole in your soul

Which is shaped like a man that you may never know

That his face is a shadow, his name just a sigh

The history you share, just the wind passing by

Your love to be gave slips through fingers like sand

And you’re left holding an ache, instead of a hand


I’ve had a father shaped hole, all my life deep inside

A bitter cold yearning, where there could have been pride

It’s made me angry, and hurt, then bitter, then numb

This haunting of question: from whence did I come?

The shadow once lived, had a name, and a face

And left behind shapes in my mirror to trace


Now, quick as thunder, that hole’s been filled in

And I, in my wonder, don’t know where to begin

The man wasn’t shadow, he had flesh, he had blood!

And had left in his passing, a whole family to love.

Now back to the question: So what’s in a name?

For me, there’s a father, and a void washed away.



Early last year I wrote a letter to a shadow, proclaiming I was giving up on wondering. That I needed to abandon the man shaped hole inside of me and accept that I would never have the answers to fill it in. Life has a funny way of giving you exactly what you’ve always wanted at the moment you’ve given up hope of ever having it. So here’s to my father, Trent Hatton. I never knew you, but you knew me. To be able to hold a photograph of you holding me, look at your face as you look into mine, is nearly as precious to me as being able to hold my own sons.




Recently I’ve had a series of questions come over me. Like why doesn’t anyone ever say “Man, she’s got a really big pair of ovaries”? Where’s the value in having a strong sense of femininity. How is my drive to nurture somehow lesser than when compared to anothers drive to destroy? Where’s my kind of toy? I wanna Mama Hawa doll. Someone who kisses the bruises when a whole NATION falls. I want to see pictures of Alice Paul on nursery walls. I want to see those who answer the call-Not to arms or to harm, but to heal the harried & hurry along the helping hands of change. And why is that strange? Let me say it plain: I don’t want the girls of this world growing thinking or knowing that being Woman means they need to be weak. I don’t want to see people tremble when I speak. I want them to feel shame when I grow silent. I want to make my name a shout out against violence. I want to bring Lady Liberty to life and have her shine a light into all the darkened corners of this world. I want to uncurl the edges of the map and take an erasure to it’s borders. I want to sweep away the pain of war and leave behind a sense of order. I want to give no quarter when quelling the qualms and calamity that are constantly slammed at me from the mouthpieces of multimedia. I want you to see the face of your mother when I speak to ya`. For my words to breed like bacteria; infecting all I touch with a deeper sense of human compassion. I want to take kindness off of ration and stop this rationalization that this is how it has to be. I want women to be free. Unfettered from the confines of smaller minds and mealy mouths that tell them they need to keep to their own place. I want to heal the human race by lifting up the strength and beauty of my sex. I want women to realize that mother really does know best, and life is at it’s best not when she’s beating breast, but when she stands up for what is right. I don’t want to fight. I want to rock you through the night & sooth your weary brow. I want to talk you into sight & show you that this is how we can all be healed: Woman revealed and not reviled. The simple beauty in the nursing of a child. In the nurses and the teachers that take the time to reach to strangers just to let them know that they are loved. I want to bomb this world with hugs. I want to stop the rising tide of endless queries that quest in search of the value of who I am. Because I am not a question. I am the sheer expression of a light that sheds destruction and fills a life that’s barren of. I am not a question. I am forgiveness of transgressions and the bittersweet concession that we need to rise above. I am not a question. I am the last bastion of salvation that can tie together nations with brotherhood and love. I am not a question. I am an answer.

The foundation


Build me a man made of neon and broken concrete. Make him come complete with girders guarding a forgotten heart. And if he comes preassembled dismantle the parts that dissemble and leave me to test the integrity of the rest.  I need the intentions and attentions of only the very best, and I want what only money can buy here in America people, I want loyalty. So bear with me while I bare my soul and bet my bottom dollar against odds unknown that I know what’s best for me.That this gamble isn’t an awkward preamble to divesting the best from me-just a stress test to the mettle of me. I’ve just set down & met with the devil in me, and the affidavit I hold says that the contract’s complete. So don’t come at me like you know me, been to Hell and back & seen the streets been snowed in. been patch up and over again with soul-skin, and ain’t no shame that I’m not afraid to show it. And you know it. So build me a man that would rivet Rosie the Riveter. Stand behind the game that he’d spit at her. Who knows how to make a house a home and how to refrain from remaining a visitor. Because a visitors pass will not last long enough to build a life by, and I am a far cry from just some fly by-Knight or not, I prefer the sunshine. So don’t throw shade or I’ll toss my blade through those girders as I go by.

remember me?


Blood money

Smoke and smoke and mirrors

A sleight of hand has come to call

What once was held dearer

Has come to mean not much at all

And pages upon pages

Get ripped from slate-but save this!

You may need it in a second life


Trust in truth-but be wary!

You never know these days who’s false

Rust in proof when steel was querried

And wicker roofs against a squall

Sent cutting room in stages

Made sweet enough to taste it

Dissected to a sounding bite