Poem: Pounds Per Square Inch

Hurricane-synapse days are real assholes, mainliner,
No poetry, just meat, just lust, just the oil-slicked ink-seed,
Bass falls to the metal floor again and me I scrape the sky,
dark scarlet slips down the drying skin, no scent finer,
cockroaches and cigarette smoke wreathe the bloody-bright deed,
Face walls crashing down, salt-tears dust-dancing and I just let fly,
Numbers sing to the heartbeat pulse of my new shiner.
Memories of my childhood made apocryphal by need,
Lace crawls on my skin like a to-die-for sin, truth made a lie.

I am an imperfect Feminist. #EachEveryWoman

I am a feminist. Not a Radical Feminist, but an AWESOME one. I don’t HATE men, I actually LOVE them, even though I am  married to a lady. I’m a pro sex-positive feminist, (hello I write erotica?) I think intersectionality is crucial & that it’s way past time for cisgender feminists to speak up and support their trans* sisters and brothers I also think cisgender is no more a slur than feminist is. Honestly, it just means someone who is perfectly happy with their gender and their physical sex (no, not the bone-dance kind of sex, the other one.)

I’m also really flawed as a person. I fuck up, alot. My mouth is my foot-shaped. Though not intentionally so, I am racist, ableist, transphobic, and sexist, ignorant and bigoted in other ways I don't understand, even though I try really hard not to be. I have many blind spots. I make mistakes, it’s part of how I learn. When I hurt someone I try to apologize the right way right-away, by saying “I’m sorry I hurt you. How can I make it right?” Not the wishy-washy “I’m sorry if you feel offended” nonsense.

I often doubt myself. I Doubt what I believe. I challenge it. Have the facts changed? Am I wrong? Because what if I never doubted myself and it turned out that my self-confidence was baseless arrogance that hurt others? The idea that “I naturally could not doubt myself  because I’m not wrong” is toxic hubris. Still sometimes it’s harder for me to be confident even when I don’t doubt myself.

None of that makes me any less of a feminist, nor does it disqualify me from being pro-equality for men/women/other, the crazy idea that women and genderqueer people deserve the same respect, safety, and treatment that men expect, and that a feminist is simply someone who strives to make that a reality. 

I am an imperfect Feminist.

#EachEveryWoman Superquote poster

Everything I've said of importance in the last week about #YesAllWomen and #EachEveryWoman collected into one giant (seriously, you can print them as posters) image available for you here. Please feel free to download, share, print and hang up on your wall. I ask only that you not modify the text or remove the credit for it—that way I can see where it pops up in the world.  

Right click and select save to save this image to your hard drive.

Right click and select save to save this image to your hard drive.

#YesAllWomen is an important hashtag. But why stop there?

#YesAllWomen’s stories are important. Sharing them, listening and learning and talking are big steps for us. Let’s not let things end there. We can use our anger, sorrow and frustration to take further steps. I’m not an expert but I have a few ideas about how we can move beyond the hashtag and make this a movement. If you agree, please share this post. Reprint it, flyer-ize it, whatever. And please share ideas for how we can take it further with me on Twitter @Mari_Kurisato


1. Everyone: Read women’s stories. Share them. Listen. The hashtags #YesAllWhiteWomen and #CisGaze have so much to add to the movement. Women of Color and Trans* women have so much to say, and they need all our support. We’re all in this together.


2. Gentlemen: Ok, first, understand, #YesAllWomen are frustrated to hell and back with the misogyny they experience at the hands of men. Please understand that the women in your life probably don’t mean YOU when they voice their frustrations using this tag. You’re not a misogynist. But some men are. And we need you gentlemen to start doing your part beyond saying “Not me, I would never!" First, gather up your courage and read this short simple post on how to approach women without looking creepy:


2A. Gentlemen, please do us ladies the favor and stand up to sexism WHEREVER you see it. In real life, in League of Legends, in WoW, Eve Online. If you see a dudebro making a sexist joke, just say “That’s not cool, man. That’s not funny.” You can take it further than that, if you want, but even that much, from their peers, can get guys to rethink acceptable behaviour. Erica Friedman inspired this idea and has more to say on it here: 


3 Everyone: Of course if you see sexual harassment, abuse, assault, or worse in Real Life, report it to police. Intervene if you feel safe doing so. Some local women’s shelters in your area may have training tips on how to best intervene, but the gist is this:

If you see someone in danger of being assaulted

*Step in and offer assistance. Ask if the person needs help. NOTE: Before stepping in, make sure to evaluate the risk. If it means putting yourself in danger, call 911 instead.

*Don’t leave. If you remain at the scene and are a witness, the perpetrator is less likely to do anything.

*If you know the perpetrator, tell him or her that you do not approve of what s/he is doing. Ask him or her to leave the potential victim alone.

Taken from RAINN: more tips here: http://bit.ly/StepInAndSpeakUp

3. Everyone: Donate time and or money to local nonprofits that help fight misogyny in your area. You can donate to RAINN here:


Also: http://bit.ly/HelpStopViolence has more resources

This list is obviously incomplete, but I will be adding to it. 

Work in Progress Fragment

From the erotic short story collections (novella) (novel?)

She drove back into the business district northwest of the Oceanfront district, in the heart of old New Cal, taking care to avoid any Metro attention. She parked her car, paid the meter fee and carefully retrieved the gun case from the back seat. Most normals wouldn’t think anything unusual about the weapon case which gave no outward sign of being anything other than an oversized messenger box with a leather strap. Anyone stupid enough to ask her about it would either get shot with her SR45 pistol hidden under her jacket, or a punch in the face depending on her mood. She slung the case over her shoulder and walked up the steps.  She looked up at the top of the high-rise building at the sign that had once read VARIETY, noting that some joker had smashed certain letters so that it read ET. It was still a impressive building even post Fall, while most of the street level’s giant rectangular windows had been smashed out and boarded over, some enterprising soul had painted the wood to match the color of the sandstone exterior. Tellingly, there was no graffiti. The main doors to the building had either been left untouched or replaced, and in front of them stood two huge tanned boulder shaped men in suits, with black hair neatly cut.  Nanshe paused for a moment as she realized these men might be brothers.

    “You have an appointment?”  one of the two Samoan twins standing at the door to the imposing building, speaking politely, in a surprisingly high voice better suited to a tenor singing falsetto.  Nanshe nodded and opened her hand. She dropped the single razor blade into the giant’s palm—it landed flatly as he nodded in acceptance. She wondered if he ever got accidentally sliced by his boss’s strange calling card, and then realized if he did, he probably didn’t care. 

    “Name?” asked the other giant man in a suit. He nodded too, when she told him, and pulled out a small handheld transceiver and spoke quietly into it a moment. The reply was short and garbled, blunt. “Please see the receptionist inside.” the giant said.

    The inside of the former People’s Bank was clean, neat, and spoke of incredible wealth. She wasn’t sure what kind of wood the floor was, maybe pine or oak, but it shined and looked spotless, as did the smooth, brightly lit walls. Large canvases of ugly modern art were equally spaced throughout the lobby. The furniture was plush black leather and caramel colored wood, and the receptionist at the large desk at the end of the lobby looked like a former fashion model for a hair magazine. 

    She was dressed in a expensive gray suit, and came around the desk to escort Nanshe to the massive elevator off to one side with the clicking of pricey but conservative heels. Nanshe was taken aback by that. Who found shoes like that anymore, much less wore them?