BIO
Simone Liggins earned her MFA in Writing at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics of Naropa University. The foundation for her love of writing and literature was paved at an early age and blossomed during her teenage years through the kind of tortured freedom that only the ostracism & funk-weirdness of being an African-American Gemini mystic can grant a person. Her various influences include but are not limited to: Sylvia Plath, Kurt Vonnegut, Dorothy Parker, Audre Lorde, Lenore Kandel, Laurell K. Hamilton, Octavia Butler, The Beatles, Lady Gaga, Fiona Apple, and Jimi Hendrix. Her work has been featured in Raven Chronicles, Buddy–A Lit Zine, BEATS Poetry Periodical, Boulder Weekly, Outsider Poetry, SurVision Magazine, Reject Press, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Visitant Magazine, and Petrichor Magazine.
Own It, Witch
Pull out the last blade—
this final drop of ruby
goes to my crown now.
Call of Two Roguish Equinoxes
Wild Things all have hearts that sing
though smoke has cracked this voice enough.
A fire-whirl born of Gemini and Leo
with a Moon squaring Pluto–
you claim this flame’s too much but not enough.
Obsession is this game’s name
and the price is blood ink to revamp the copyright.
Wild fire doesn’t always live in love;
sometimes even the breath offers no life.
No matter how we work to consider it handled,
there’s always something new to crackle in the broken hearth.
Lay down your sword before my shell without fear
because of course you found me where the Wild Things are.
Weary is the heart that keeps writing to empty winds and dry cups
portraying an 84 degree melody of unrequited Love Rain.
The secrets in the shadows have been revealed,
showing no purer love in this rare air.
We do our work, try our best to love, but truth only has so many times
to stand in the sun–for you, for me, for the all in between.
I’ve been told when there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire.
Well, welcome to the ashes & sip a while as I sift for the phoenix.
When you’re raised to be a Scorpio yet born a Twin,
Death is your Major Arcana for almost all the days while the Fool rules the nights.
Words will always be prayers, no matter the dialect, syntax, or rhyme.
With either foot in USA’s favorite color dichotomy, there’s little relief from the confusion.
But what am I allowed to complain about with my 61 cents to the dollar
while still (barely) paying my rent, popping corn, and dining with my wine?
What else must be proven as methods to the madness,
the reasons of the realms?
This is the America we made,
and the agenda for all lives, for better or worse,
still lives in the pulsing DNA.
This is how we see beyond, this is how we forgive & forget—
sans the forgetting part since that’s what PTSD is for.
If all lives matter, then all hues matter,
all genders matter,
all classes matter,
all nationalities matter,
all creeds matter,
all words matter,
and you can either c’mon & get schwifty with the ever-morphing spiral of time
or kiss your colorblind, complacent “peace” goodbye. That grain of sand in your foundation of bullshit is real, and you better find that space in the Sun before Saturn returns and makes you do it bloody. Welcome to Papa’s Desert after missing 18 years just to come make that big dick-swing attempt to whip your ass at 30. Because this is the Star-Stuff Way.
What life after 30 can you truly know & grasp?
How many white hats can you wear before they
turn grey in your own mirror?
How many blank stares?
How many Returns?
How many Retrogrades?
How many graves?
How many yeses?
How many nos?
How many sorrys?
How many escapes?
How many plays?
How many fouls?
How many fails?
How many dollars?
How many degrees?
How many books?
How many stars?
How many souls?
How many faces?
How many facts?
How many lies?
How many licks?
Our world, our generations,
our future may never know.
But please have some thoughts & prayers
that you find your clues in a Wild Song
beyond a shadow of a meme.
Neo-Gospel
Twitching time flows from beat to beat,
weaves a vein ‘twixt its own & mine.
Be the flow of air, hidden shine in shadow,
a heart set to a four-count to reveal
what is and isn’t present.
Speak clearly with the volume
of the Sphinx and let no lie
tear it asunder.
Let Dragon and Phoenix fire fill every orifice
whole & deliciously solid
as fresh flesh is pressed and made bold &
beautiful together, in purple, black & gold.
Bury the blocks that wish to snuff you;
this is the beauty of a witch’s burning—
when she finally wields her own flame.
Whimsical winds keep sylphs high & safe
and ready to whisper words of love & justice
with grounded will, sound & steady,
lifted wings, full & free.
Drops of Goddess from the gleaming moon
swathed in shimmering fallen light
follow that Beat Life down the veins
to bless the rebirth of a Queen,
and oh, maiden-goddess, how I so longed
for it to be you.
*****
