Category: Narrative

the last meal of a woman

On By ©️K.T. 2025In cancer, Death, dying, exposition, Hospice, Life, Life and Death, liminal, liminality, Narrative, Poem, poetry, thresholdLeave a comment

the last meal that She cooked for herself

was in the late afternoon of the 18th of September the Year of Our Hearts, 2023

that same evening
She would spend the last night together alone with her only child, her son, in Their house on Adams Street

he had already stopped at Chik-fil-A
– or Quesabroso? for his dinner

he, sixteen forever, for Her, not even licensed for a year yet

She thought, then said aloud to him

“pasta. i want some pasta.”

and so She very slowly set about

choosing saucepans, boiling water,
sautéing a little ground beef with a bit of diced onion, and minced garlic from a giant container from Costco,
adding in a half jar of Rao’s Original, some dried herbs — nothing too spicy or fancy now,
cooking her favorite gluten-free rigatoni,

or was it penne, mostaccioli?

She ate, rinsed the pots, loaded and ran the dishwasher, put the combined leftovers in her fridge

and at dinner time the very next day,

She told her oldest and dearest friend about it

her friend listened, and watched Her plate, reheat, and sit down to eat those leftovers — She wanting to do all that for Herself, still

She taking the smallest and most intentional bites possible,

every delicate swallow and cough amplified in the too-big-for-two, unusually quiet house, the parade of Her friends and visitors gone until tomorrow

“i’m not supposed to drink with these meds, but lemme have just one lil’ sip of your wine”

Continue reading “the last meal of a woman” →

“[S]he floats like a butterfly …”

On By ©️K.T. 2025In art, art criticism, artists, Black Artists, Black Women, Crone, Lajuana Lampkins, Mother, Muhammad Ali, Narrative, outsider art, Poem, poet, Reverence, street art, true things, women, WomenfolkLeave a comment
Muhammad Ali diptych
marker, paint, glue and chunky gold glitter
on 12”x12” square
gold metallic cardstock

These two gorgeous, requested works by the most gorgeous and extraordinary artist and person Mz. Lajuana Lampkins of Chicago.

You might find her making her art in the late night scene of her favorite spots in the Wicker Park/Bucktown neighborhoods of Chicago — or reach out to her on Instagram at Lajuana.Lampkins1 and peruse her art, her process and her community.

Lajuana Lampkins has had her art exhibited to great praise; she is a prolific and widely collected street artist; and she has edited and published a book of her late son’s essays, poetry and letters: The Collected Works of Prince Akbar AKA Jus Rhymz.

She is also a sister, aunt, friend, poet, community member and activist, writer, rapper, historian, archivist, fashionista, paralegal, social commentarian and modern philosopher — but most proudly, a mother, grandmother and great grandmother

— and to me, she epitomizes the Crone.


Champions aren’t made in the gyms. Champions are made from something they have deep inside them: a desire, a dream, a vision. They have to have last-minute stamina, they have to be a little faster, they have to have the skill and the will. But the will must be stronger than the skill.

Muhammad Ali

Mz. Lampkins works may be exhibited again in autumn 2023 in a community art show that she is hoping to create and develop —-and she aspires to publish her next non-fiction book in the nearer future.

She is also the subject of the forthcoming documentary “My Mother is An Artist” which follows Mz. Lampkins’s journey from 2019, eight years post-release from a 30 year incarceration as a wrongfully prosecuted and convicted young woman and mother —to 2023, as a working, locally-renown and yet-still-struggling artist living in these American systems of modern oppression and exploitation.

Continue reading ““[S]he floats like a butterfly …”” →

le claire [street] in june

On By ©️K.T. 2025In Chicago, Gnosis, june, Narrative, Poem, poeme, poetry, summer, TreesLeave a comment

originally published june 17, 2016, revised june 11, 2023

* please visit the website/app Falling Fruit to add a fruiting tree that is located and accessible in the public way to the foraging database for others.

the author’s mulberry-stained fingers

A clear glimpse
A clear thought
on this clear June night

Of age,
and Alzheimer’s
the old-timer’s disease

A clear memory recorded and archived tonight
An acute awareness of myself
tonight, in time and place
a new track to play on loop for a listener in my future life

a husband, friend, or son
a caregiver, a kind one
a visitor, volunteer, or nurse,
a grandson, or maybe — no one

A reddish dog, eating mulberries
from the sidewalk in shadows
Mottled concrete in the dim light of a city street lamp
obscured by the canopy of that beautiful, June, fruit tree

Woody Guthrie, the mulberry forager

A woman, middle aged, seems so young, even a tad pretty, in her mind’s eye now
Stretching her still strong body upward for plump, dark berries
Reaching for branches trimmed too high by the urban foresters
or arborists or surgeons, I forget what they’re called

On her tippy toes
grabbing, pulling, picking
squeezing the dog’s leash between her thighs
don’t let him get loose in the dark, don’t let him get skunked in the dark

contorted mulberry tree at night

the same contorted mulberry in Sun’s light: wowowow

Some of the best ones are lost in the awkward tussle
before she can palm them, save them, taste them
She triggers a reverberative rain from boughs on high
That precise, delicate sweetness of the bounty in her mouth

The dog’s belly full of the ripe windfall
sustained by both gravity and this woman
His name was Woody, or Digby, I think
He used to climb into our sleep

Smashed and whole
The street, sidewalk and cars stained
by the impressive purple mess
the dark grass hiding perfect treasures for doves tomorrow morn

She and that dog,
They were urban foragers and gleaners in June.

All month long, her fingertips, feet and lips
tinted with their fuchsia dye, it didn’t even once occur to her to check his paws

A clear, recollection of acute melancholy:
this day — that day was also her son’s birthday //
The first birthday he ever spent away from home, away from her — in Nebraska, or was it Alaska?

That glorious tree, that good dog, that golden boy

an impressive purple mess-feast

2023 addendum:

Continue reading “le claire [street] in june” →

maundy thursday, daily

On By ©️K.T. 2025In exposition, Gnosis, Lent, Mother, Motherhood, NarrativeLeave a comment

mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos

As I sat on the maple floor of my kitchen in Chicago on a Thursday evening in 2017, voluntarily polishing my son’s chukka boots for the weekend — it became a meditation on my own father, who was actually my second father, who would often offer to polish or freshen up my scuffed, dirty shoes

— first, my white Keds-knock-offs from Zayre, Venture or Jupiter — the canvas stiffened bright white, an unnatural brand new/ the scent of that liquid polish and sponge instantly conjured/ me smiling/ did I remember to say thank you? did I know (how) to?

later, when I was in high school, he would clean and polish my beloved and preciously expensive pair of Stan Smith white leather Adidas /or were they leather Tretorns? then, when I was in college and always pressed for time or conversation, I began expectantly asking if he could please polish my black heels or black boots for work – but more importantly for the weekend — he always, obliging me.

she was not quite as good at it as he was,
but she tried, and she got better, each time

Every act:

Continue reading “maundy thursday, daily” →

Sentience & the exclusive velveteening of pets and familiar animals

On By ©️K.T. 2025In Animals, Earthling, earthlings, Essay, ki, kin, Narrative, Prose, velveteenLeave a comment

My dog, Woody, wakes up and wants breakfast – not just breakfast, but a very expensive kibble prepared with gravy and a quarter cup of warmed pumpkin (his dinner is more elaborate – it’s offered like a buffet plate or poke bowl). He eats, goes outside to do his business and investigate a little, comes back inside, and stops and sits on the rug to think, “Where is my baby?”

He goes around the house on a search for it, and comes back with a flying squirrel toy, ready to play. He bumps the laptop off my thighs several times to engage me, and we play. Later, he lets me know he’d like to go outside; we head to the basement, but he doesn’t want to wear his coat – he knows dogs don’t wear coats, and he hides behind the full clotheslines; we come to an agreement, and he permits me to put the coat on him.

We walk, but I don’t want to go to the park, so we walk through the neighborhoods; but when Woody gets to an arterial street which borders the park, he stops, looks, then looks at me, and pulls, to suggest that we should turn south right there and go to the park – because he’s actually in the mood for the park.

Woody Guthrie & the Twin Sycamores of Portage Park, Chicago 2016

When we finally arrive home after our very long walk, i dry his paws and legs one by one and also his undercarriage; he kisses my face in an annoyed gratitude; then, he lets me know he wants to be close – he has two comfy dog beds and my son’s vacant bed, but he wants to be near – and climbs into a deep club chair made for one – onto my lap – he weighs 65 lbs.

Continue reading “Sentience & the exclusive velveteening of pets and familiar animals” →

holy ghost: a statement

On By ©️K.T. 2025In art, exposition, memo, Narrative, poemo, Spiritive, Spirrative, velveteenLeave a comment

“The most important thing for everyone in Gringolandia is to have ambition and become ‘somebody,’ and frankly, I don’t have the least ambition to become anybody.”

Frida Kahlo

in the end, we are all just holy ghosts,

ghosts who sometimes want to feel, or be seen, or be felt by others who are also seeking, whether they know it or not — whether they become known forever after or become, forever unknown — to us.

if anyone were to speculate — or attempt to draw definitions or executive summaries about me — as one particular, ambitionless, ghostly being 






as a mother, poet, crone and Earthling — about my collection of words, opinions, ideas, poems, photos, ephemera, art, beliefs or altars — now, or when i’m dead and gone,





— in the end, and at the beginning,
this is and was, always a place for me to fundamentally 
better understand





my Self — for my self & by my self.





for me,





to try to understand my relationship to Others, to the World, to the Earth;





and also,





for me,





to try to understand my relationship to my creativity – the conception, process and act of creating 





and finally,





to try to understand this strange existence, in and of itself.










no one else has ever been essential to experience, interact with, interpret, interrogate or validate any of it — of mine, ever — yet, they are welcomed to do so — if they happen upon me





yet, my nearest and dearests don’t even know this collection exists




 Continue reading “holy ghost: a statement” →
			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Feed the wildlife! (a radical imperative)

						

				On  By ©️K.T. 2025In Essay, Intentional Opiner, Narrative, reciprocity, WinterLeave a comment			

					


		

			

I set out natural stone salt-licks year-round for deer on the perimeter of the land I occupy [I’ve witnessed birds, and I suspect other wildlife enjoy/require them too].





I buy bags of apples on sale and try to set out 5 lbs a couple evenings per week for the deer during winter; I cut up a few for possums and rabbits nightly. I set out all spent fruit too, rather than composting.










Deer in the full Wolf Moon’s light
January 28, 2021 
A deer foraging not on apples I set out, but on “weeds” – wildflowers, herbs and grasses
just beneath the triptych picture windows of my living room as I went to open the drapes to let in the Full Moon’s light – just before retiring to bed.










I feel like the salt lick, the small sweet apples and fruit scraps are my insignificant attempt at respect, alms, honoring and reparations for all we have destroyed — and for the survivors who endure and remain in the middle of a cold winter. This is agro country, and not a speck of corn or fruit is left behind for wild animals in the barren cornfields and orchards that were once forests filled with acorns, walnuts, pine nuts, pawpaws and twigs — and prairies filled with grasses, herbs, seeds and wildflowers.




 Continue reading “Feed the wildlife! (a radical imperative)” →
			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Crown

						

				On  By ©️K.T. 2025In Aesthetics, Assay, Beauty, Essay, Eve, Exegesis, Exxay, Feminine, Gnosis, Gnostic, Her, Knowledge, Narrative, Ode, Poem, poeme, poetry, Rebirth, She's, Shes, Spiritive, Spirrative, UncategorizedLeave a comment			

					


		

			
my hair holds memory,

i know this because


i cut my own hair today








20151002_1838021772227513.jpg
her, at ten.








as i held the ends


in my hands


i said


 


did you touch the Merced with me and my boy?


i said,


do you remember my father?


and my other precious loss?


i said,


do you remember the first dog?


i said,


were you here when


i still loved


and was loved?


i said,


you were there when my mother was so near death’s door


i said,


and when i found and lost,


and lost and found, my Self again?


smiles

sighs

cries

laughs

rage

wail

and

song


i still have possessions from all those times


and places


but no skin,


my skin long shed, my bone resorbed


and renewed over and over


but my long hair is still me from many years ago


that is why hair is so precious,


i thought,


this is the genesis


of what i have always


mistook as phobia


but no,


i know today


that


physical memory is held particularly, and only, in my hair


more than Samsonian


or vanity


or femininity


my long hair


is


my body

my health

my energy

my sensation

my emotion

my years

my identity

my essence


thank you


for growing


for remembering


for showing


for staying


for flowing


for tangling


for blowing


for graying


for glowing


for floating


for knowing


with me


all these years


 


no more cuts

without ceremony


and

i promise

i will never agree to lose you


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Open

						

				On  By ©️K.T. 2025In Adam and Eve, baptism, baptize, Death, Eve, Exegesis, Feminine, Femmes, Gnosis, Her, Mother, Narrative, Poem, poeme, poetry, Rebirth, Sacred Feminine, Shes, Spiritive, spirits, Spirrative, Uncategorized, water, WomenfolkLeave a comment			

					


		

			


I walk bare


out in the open


the Sun, Moon, Rain, Wind, Clouds, Sky and Stars

kiss me at all hours


did you see me open up

this Autumn?


after a Summer spent wailing,

wet, yet fruitless 

after a Spring spent wading into lies instead of soft blossoms and new grass

Winter approaches, maybe the frost will kill this disease,

for good


I bathe


nearly naked in sunshine, cold rainstorms, in wetland pools and moonlight




unapologetically


|out in the open|


unabashedly


baptising

my face,

hair,

and eyes,

my breasts

vulva

and legs,

my lips,

throat,

spine,

and my wild heart


ceremonially, first

with wine, like Magdalene, anointing and anointed,

in the name of the Mother, Sun and holy ghosts


|a cabernet henna|


then, with rainwater from the willow’s edge, like Ophelia,

lying in the woodland and meadow, flooded

to cleanse or drown [to live, or not to live]

in the name of the Moon


|I ponder the stone cistern laden with glacial deposits and ruminant bones|


the woodland is abundant with new mushroom, new overnight growth


the hint of ancient circles supplants my judgment with instinct

and overrides decorum with new delights


|and old delights, revisited |


an aged grapevine is rooted deep, climbing, trailing, snaking

hidden in plain sight, everywhere

and I’ve intuited It as Ol’ Scratch,

I take a hatchet to quell Its influence, here


You,

Your windows are not true eyes

Your lamps are not enlightenment


So, bless the dark


of the night


of the country night sky


And the Moonset


of my moon


it’s been decades,

but

this place wants to birth or impregnate me,


and I want that too

i want it to




|I come here and open up|