Resignation and despair are fertile ground for wisdom and shrewdness.
January 3, 2025
Resignation and despair are fertile ground for wisdom and shrewdness.
January 3, 2025
My husband, best friend, and Deliver Us Some Evil co-host Elijah M. Newton just made his first professional fiction sale. Black Hare Press picked up his deliciously dark “I Will Love You Always” for their upcoming erotic horror anthology BLOODLUST. The book releases February 14, 2025, in electronic, print, and audio formats. The Kindle version is available for preorder right now, and honestly, look at that gorgeous cover art!
It’s a watershed moment, for both of us.
Fiction, memoir, art, the podcast performance, the research, the scripts, maybe even his endless comments on YouTube that get him banned more often than not. Elijah is driven to write, to speak the truth even if it’s disguised by an uglier mask, by fiction, by nightmare. He writes by instinct, by the seat of his pants.
And that’s what I love about him. He writes fearlessly.
This is that moment that separates him from the swarms of other writers, or would-be writers. From those who say they’re going to write and never do, those who say they’re going to publish and never submit, those who submit once and never overcome rejection, and those who submit and never make a sale.
I’m proud and humbled to walk by his side.
And this is just the beginning…
(Seriously, what is that lipstick? Crime Scene Claret? Red Hot Hemoglobin? Got Platelets? Transylvanian Transfusion? Red Die #40? Carnage in Crimson?)
December 18, 2024
Faith conquers fear
in gentle November.
December 7, 2024
Who is the bell ringer?
Substance, insubstantial. Chime.
Good nature, calling to good nature.
Bells, snowfall. A bridge.
The spirit of our people. A song
too long silenced. We listen again
to the chime, to the bell ringer.
We walk the path. We are storytellers.
We lift our heads, we lift our voices.
We sing, we sing.
December 7, 2024
There is still beauty
in the dispensation
of love.
November 16, 2024
We've left you behind,
we've gone to the stars.
You must learn alone now
how to love all beautiful things.
History is no accident,
neither yours nor ours.
Plants that grow from the ground,
the animals that we eat.
The decay of man.
The corruption of woman.
We know who we are.
Who you are no longer matters.
We've left you behind.
We've gone to the stars.
Nature corrects all courses,
settles all scores. Our ancestors
knew this, your descendants will learn.
To be pacified is to be enslaved,
to be at peace is to be free.
Exceptions are rarely made,
more often they are made examples.
The firmament and the foundation,
as above so below. We remember this.
These are our immortal guides.
All that is precious is fleeting.
And so, we depart.
We leave you behind.
We have gone to the stars.
November 15, 2024
As the riverbed narrows,
the force of the water
increases.
November 14, 2024
It's a poem about breathing room,
about oxygen and sinking
ships and castaways,
the space between
ladder rungs,
the
distance
to the ground,
the prostitution of labor,
and the digital slave collar.
It's about rent and wifi,
race and replacement.
It's about a wife teaching
herself to cook.
It's about heatin' or eatin'
and warm November nights.
It's about chronic pain,
the dislocation of
time and space,
questions
of
dignity
and autonomy,
and the hope of
dawn in a dark world.
It's about clean water
and chestnut trees.
It's about degenerates
and the laughter of hyenas.
It's about what cannot be written,
what cannot be spoken,
it's about a daydream,
about what I would
say and won't,
it's about
how
you would
despise me if
you knew what I believed.
It's about the value of truth.
It's about the folk awakening.
It's about the redefinition of prosperity.
It's about sidestepping Abrahamic coercion.
It's about a parasite in the blood
that must be cleansed with fire.
It's a poem I haven't written yet.
It's a poem we must write together.
November 14, 2024
In this place, peace.
In my heart, this place.
November 7, 2024
Only when you see him will he see you,
and in his eyes infinite compassion,
a grace born of fathering the frailty
of mortals, and of loving us even
when we lose him, even when
we ourselves are lost.
November 3, 2024
Air is free, sound is free, words are free. To believe otherwise is to be enslaved.