The Consent Project

How the Internet Helped Elucidate Rape Culture For Us All:
A Moving Internet Installation


“grief is chaos.”


I went from being a frozen tundra:
algid, wide and growing fields of ground to cover with
no visible tracks to follow

unless the wind was kind and left
the prints

but it wasn’t often.
taciturn but for some
icy speech and bleak; 
caustic prose in
squalling breezes that freeze
and stick to your cheeks,
harden               bite your tongue
in frostbit chomps so it takes a while before we completely cut those
meek coughs off

just as they start.
before they form into spit,
white noise, handwritten
I sprout into a raging sun:

precocious and blazing
hot, I become
a long bending desert to
warm you up:
fields of sand to cover,
infinite high noon run,
no moon to come,
hollowing the others with
 promising mirages,
a wide and weaving

sudden sidewinders and a
slow and draining
drip that never hits and

never an inch of rain and you
find every trap I laid.

I start by slaughtering your brothers
in front of you to see
if you can stand it.


this next section is called:
datura moon, the video game.


what is it that I owe you?

IMG_0692welcome to the gauntlet.

“And you think you can you tell the difference?”
“Between a truth and a lie?”
“No, between how I got here and the weirdest thing about me.”

Book one:
The Woman Who Told The Stories


I have a piece of paper and
a dozen dead things wilted
in their vase.

there is a touch of red
sprinkled around the glass
that browns and sets as dry
on the sill in
my small uncurtained bedroom that
I pace
when I have too much on my
mind and today they
remind me
life is a patient rot
to tomb, a gauntlet and
fluid so I  better keep

life is a patient
gut to get to
wound     it was April
on Earth Day when I wrote
My Brother Is Dead
in the back of a notebook I would never
look at again.
it would be the thing thrown away
as I packed the car two years later
in December, in the frost of us and
in my big brown jacket that absorbed me in
synthetic down and
I’m twirling the stem of a
decaying feather
of a real dead sparrow in my jacket pocket,
the lyrids
are crowning across Colorado as
I am responding to
a nod, someone asking
was he your only brother?

as if that even mattered

yes, he was my only brother,
I hugged myself.
pinched the feather,
pinched the straw,
pinched the lining of leggings,
my inner thigh, below the knee and
every inch of skin
to keep me from vanishing
from the chair and
I feign a lot:
every feeling,

was he your only brother?
it is much easier to disappear
but the house moved with
me;  from
freeze to open
like an unattended mortuary
moved to resurrect itself
after years of
neglect and

did you know,
the bones given a soft
lick will sparkle
white  like fresh-caught
ivory and once it
feels the brush of
mouth will file
any joint to tip
with tooth
and gore the
things that touches
it, that holds it
near to chest or
safely in its palm?

as it shreds the flesh from
crown to feet,
someone says to me,


“with sincerest sympathy”


“if whatever you think comes true,
don’t let it go to your head,
and don’t forget to be humble.”

–waka poem

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