Dessa is Woman fire in the blood. Her words emerge not from the realm of subjugated humanity, but of the wilderness where the once noble and strident howl and roar of old world humanity still can be found, rarely appreciated, for it doesn’t fit the pattern, it doesn’t flow with the Zuckerberg sold algorithm,  it doesnt lean in any way towards any hashtaghag### bullshit. It feels….open and absent of seeking an audience then working on how to slightly rearrange the script,  hollow wade in the shallow pools of vapid applause. She is fire and ice, blizzards and lighting striking the high ground…

tried sweet talk, tried dynamite
But I sleepwalk back to the battle site
Fight fire with fire but the fire won’t fight
We just fly these circles like tired kites
And you flash some fang
And I bat my lashes
And we’re back again
No end to this game with matches
We’ve been lovers and strangers and friends who get angry
Made mistakes and amends and brief moments of magic
We forgive and forget and give in to attraction
This whole thing depends on amnesia and madness
And I’d be leaving for good, I’d be looking for better
But I got this broken habit I keep gluing back together
The fever, the fire, the feathers
The fever defies measure
And good sense won’t venture where the moth will go
If you’re asking
I can’t say no
Just one more chapter
Our book won’t close
And I know it’s madness
To play these odds
It’s like giving matches
To paper, to paper dolls
People often ask me which poets I like, and I feel this weird sense of unease, for I assume they are going to talk of either modern hipster poets, some of whom are probably quite decent, or old poets such as Rimbaud (whose life and zeal I admired and found dazzling, and you should watch Leonardo playing him in Total Eclipse)…or Baudelaire…or Homer…or Poe…and I have delved into all of these writers and understood at least overtures of the value, but none of it has moved me in all that matters most. Deep within primal.
I’d like to suggest, and sometimes do, Dessa. Yet even when I present this stunning poetess, its more a pressure valve opening, for I’ve had enough of only the wrong kinda people looking to relate to me in something other than heart and soul, something which almost seems to be for others to hear…Yes yes! Sometimes I blow off steam beyond the steady rhythm which I stretch to show myself and hope its enough to appear a barely still lit with solar atmospheric flare wildling of the Galaxy beyond this realm.
And when I hear and feel this feminine animal whisper on the wind coming out the forest, as when I connect in the now with the one handful of  beacons of brilliance in human Woman form I love with my soul from any distance, I feel the demand to become more in tune with my Nature.
I rant of the politics,
prance haughty mocking the walking, talking avatars,
and yet listening to this woman roaring through the bored walls masquerading as intellect…
Too many of my senses go berserk and feel awakened and alive,
to avoid the conclusion,
that the reality,
what matters most,
of my word…
Nothing but Feeling.
like the weasels and rats and sparrows.
She is relentless,
hardened and wounded.
and beautiful in her wilderness.
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