The One’s We Can’t Save


Fictional story synopsis. Meet Fable, the character who is about to unravel the roots of her feelings of not belonging… and an entire world of the others who don’t belong either. Who is fable? Why is she here?

I thought about taking my cape off today and surrender to those who I wasn’t able to save. The children I didn’t see suffer, the signs I missed being too busy, occupied by my own mind.

There is so much we miss from not being present. The future holds our attention captive and the moment transforms into past tense in an instant and what was unseen is lost forever. Gone!

Or perhaps it’s stored somewhere deep in our subconscious. Maybe tonight it will reoccur symbolically in a dream and the chance to see what we missed will present itself as an opportunity again.

But most of us don’t pay attention to our dreams, so what’s the use? We wake up and forget about the knowledge bestowed in our dreams because as soon as the alarm goes off, we awake into zombie mode.

We are plugged back into the matrix, operating on a program that isn’t our own. And what was our own, was our dreams and all those stolen moments when we forgot to be present. Living our lives as drones. As soon as we awake we go back to sleep again.

Sleep walking to rush to get dressed and go to work. Sleep walking running errands, making love, partying, pretending to appear happy to others. Aren’t we all living to appear happy, and not really be happy?

I know I am. The last time Miss Michelle saw real tears streaming down my face, she told me, “Girl, you don’t get to show no emotions round here, you just be grateful you have a roof over your head and smile.”

My tears were warm, like hot drops of water streaming down my cold cheeks. My pain was absurd to her. Her disdain for me deepened my sense of not belonging. Feeling unloved must be an inescapable prison. But recently I’ve found a way out. Now I would never let Miss Michelle know about my escape. I learned if I don’t tell her everything, she can’t take everything.

I had a secret friend. Okay, not so secret to some of my peers. But Michelle was unaware I even had friends at all. I wanted to keep it that way. Janie lived 3 trailers down from me, on the side of the dirt road with all the trees. When Miss Michelle was busy hanging up washed clothes on the laundry line in the backyard our watching her daily programs on TV, I’d sneak out the back door to meet Janie.

Janie’s mom was never home. We were free. Had the whole trailer to ourselves. Janie and I played dolls often. Not with regular store bought dolls. We didn’t have any. We cut out the people in her mom’s JC Penny’s and Sears catalogs. I’d always choose the girl I wanted to be. The girl who smiled and wore cool, fashionable clothes. The girl in the catalog who really looked happy.

I’d choose parents for her that were also smiling. Parents who looked like her. Similar skin colors and hair texture. I wanted everyone to look alike so no one felt like the odd ball.  My family was like the story, “Duck, Duck, Grey Duck.”

I was the grey duck. I made sure my paper dolls didn’t have a grey duck. I imagined them all very happy together as a family. But sometimes Janie would interject and mess up my fairy tale. She would leave her paper doll kids at home and the kid would run to my paper doll families house screaming while they were trying to get a good nights sleep.

“Help me! Help me!,” Her paper doll would scream frantically. It was always the child of the paper doll family crying and scared from being alone. My paper doll mother would welcome her in our home and console her until she went to sleep.

It was through our dolls, we tried to exercise the demons that hunt us in real life. The hidden horrors of life in Saint Wards Trailer Park.

By Janell Hihi copyright@2017


Wet Ink Smudged Our Story

There’s a part of me 
That’s just for me
That he can never have
Loved me until he thought he knew me
But I don’t even know me, or what hidden layer might reveal itself right before he begins to Lose interest in our story
I’m a plot that keeps him open
My pages depart not only like my legs but like how we talk and I jolt him awake with words finessed like a paid lyricist
I am his dope
A rope binding him to keep reading my unfolding series where the ink digs into words after being wet from tears provoked by fears of my fated loneliness
As I find a way out of our story to smear and smudge our beautifully constructed lines, now a blur.
By Janell Hihi Copyright@2017

Relishing in Succulence


Can I write out the taste of you that is still in my mouth?

You live on the buds of my tongue, dominating my thoughts through your seasoned ingredients.

Gliding on the silky walls of my jaws

And I passed up freshly brewed coffee and an omelet

Just so I can keep you captive in the confines behind the lush gateways of my selfish lips.


By Janell Hihi Copyright @2017


Juggling Knives

They are too determined in their game to win. Relentless in their pursuit to oppress the oppressed until they are pressed into some block, like a cell… invisible.

I am stretched beyond the yoga of Nirvana locked into scarcity

Trying to make crumbs into a loaf of bread – singled out, single black female…

A tapered loneliness covered in photos on my wall

The other half of me is not here with me

And the substitutes won’t due

Artificial sweeteners never measure up to honey.

The blackness they hate




By Janell Hihi Copyright@2017

Keepers of The Light


Final Shots for Manipulated Light and Power Series
Final Shots for Manipulated Light and Power Series

The suppression of light denies it’s existential right to shine upon what hides in fear of being highlighted by that blazing, neon fury of getting to the bottom of surfaces masked with theory, conditioning.

Slow absorbing particles of articles that lurk in the darkness, making my cocoa into chocolate, as unpure as the hormone filled milk mixed to make your Milk Way so delicious. Is good really good?

She plays hide in seek behinds systems, cloaked in robes, sending men to warehouses to be tucked away into that oblivion which perverts my black into something sinister.

She lies naked in soiled beds with me, baptizing in my sweat but she won’t draw her weaponry of privilege to gain me even a spectacle of opportunity.

Her supremacy comes before her God, but she goes to church faithfully. I get superficial light from her that feeds my ego and rapes my soul.

I craved solar light infused with fire, youthfully riding the earth to reach the g-spot of my equator. Not the dim light she emitted like a dying bulb in a musty basement bathroom.

Her real light is given through her vote only to her own tribe despite the fact that I make her sing in orgasm and smile from genuine giggles only a belly laugh has the nourishment to invoke.

I hoped my kindness would provoke reciprocation but she dangled my climax like a carrot in my face – and like a silly rabbit, I chase. A race without a finish line. Running in the dark without light.

Nothing about what corrupts the dark is fictitious. My black was non-mythical until they wrote the stories, attached the records and gentrified it’s habitats at the peak of it’s thriving.

Blinding light is what has us all in a chokehold, gasping for air and fighting blindly because we can’t see.

Are you among them? The keepers of the light. Who swallow it just so they don’t have to share it with others. Who sells it for shares? Who manipulates it into other knock-off forms, bootlegging life?

Who won’t use it to look beneath the 50 shades of black stacked with generations of pain plagued in each membrane of the DNA passed along like a bucket of chicken at Ray Ray’s family picnic?

What has been passed along to me is suffrage uncorrected by those who inflicted it. Point the light into the depth of my dark and swim in it until you get the nucleus of truth oceans deep, where your ancestors hid it. Truth is the treasure that awaits you to create the bridge to unification. Where you can replenish all that you have taken away from us.

By Janell Hihi @Copyright 2017

Stringing Together Chaos


I’m not real. I am just an unfolding, fantastical, outlandish and absurd line of short stories that try to convert themselves into a novel cut up into a series, a motion picture but the film ends up flopping.

Ratings continuously dropping like the rain from the gray clouds I drew on the page to ruin my own day, not a ray of sunlight around, with heaviness abound I lay flat on the ground trying to lift this heavy crane off my heart.

And since I hate the consistent, like a raging rebel hates rules, I start again each day anew trying to stick to a plan, digging my own grave because I never can.

The six inch whole is finished and I jump into the abyss, not giving one, single, shit! Until one day I am driven to crawl out of this unmotivated pit where inbetweeners dwell, and procrastinators play with indecision like it’s their favorite game, she was the queen of the disorderly, and organizing chaos was her only claim to fame.

By Janell Hihi @Copyright 2017


Snowflakes in May

It’s snowing in Minneapolis today… what do they say?

April showers, May snows? Is that the way the song goes? SMH


Winter won’t go easy into the dying of her season

She wants to wind through our hair so that some part of us can fly

She wants us to scrunch our faces up at her cold

She likes when we try to hide from her elements

But most of all she wants us to know that she is necessary too

And that not looking forward to her, cracks her icy crust and it hurts

She’s jealous of the sun, how we crave its warmth

But she is relieved to know, we wouldn’t rejoice in the heat of the summer

If we didn’t know first, the harshness of her wintery chill.


By Janell Hihi Copyright@2017


The Poison of Privilege

I did some investigating and I found out that Privilege is the killer of empathy… she murdered that bitch… we’ve made empathy into a weakness instead of utilizing its inherent strength

It’s weak to feel

Appears as if we’ve become reducers… extracting the value out of everything sacred and true and assigning it to a group… liberal, conservative, female, white, black, rich, poor…

Narcissism is now strength and we are weak and codependent worshipping cruelty while we pledge allegiance to ignorance 

Privilege severs empathy like feeling for others is a poisonous gangrene in a limb that must be amputated.

we are cutting away pieces of ourselves to avoid feeling, to avoid relating, to avoid giving into or our humanness. 

Oh look at us! Celebrating our separateness like a happily broken family

Privilege is a toxin, the tumor in the body of humanity that wants to mutate a natural habitat in exchanged for egoic power. It is the stunt in the growth of our evolution and the death of a world that had a choice but chose domination.

Why is it we fear surrendering power for equality?

Where is the fear of equality born from?

Is it the things? We live for the accumulation of them & we’ve exchanged them for our own salvation…

Things have taken over, not the robots, not the faith in God we proclaim we have…

Only the things have power over us. All the gadgets, the cars, the designer labels, the shoes, the TV – THE THINGS.

I look forward to the day we can walk each other out of our egos.

In that day we will succumb to the drum of our hearts and dance to it’s beating.

By Janell Hihi Copyright@2017