Protected: The Art of Sabotage

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

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

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


The Funeral of our Democracy


The age of the corporations has emerged! Today, more than any time in history, it is more beneficial to be a corporation than a human being.

If you haven’t already, go ahead and file the paperwork to become a corporation so you can evade taxes, create problems and sell overpriced solutions, receive government welfare checks in the form of bailouts, deliberately rip off millions of Americans and be able to retire as a billionaire with a huge payout upon your departure.

Democracy is dead, she died because she allowed herself to be bought. Sold to the highest bidder! Don’t be bitter if you sat around and didn’t stand up for your rights, what’s your excuse? Oh, you were living your life but now your unwillingness to fight has taken your life… the irony, right?

Rest in peace democracy, good morning inequality, let the wealth gaps widen between the social classes as we wallow in regret and sadness because we could of, should of, would of, did something to stop this regime.

By Janell Hihi Copyright@2017

The Guardsmen & The Bridge People: A Short Story.

bridge people

I created worlds to escape into, when the gunshots rattled and the arguments simmered then boiled over like the pot of boxed mac N cheese on the stove mom forgot about because she was dragged into a yelling match with dad, I shrunk into myself, became a vehicle, turned the engine on and headed towards a light that I hoped would help navigate me to a distant dimension.

Upon arrival to this place, this place I had no yet named. This place I refer to as going away… I was excited but also filled with anxiety… will I create a good enough world? Will things be safe, unlike my neighborhood that adults refer to as a ghetto?  Will there be no such things as drugs or disease? No funerals burying friends? No sorrows?

I had a lot to discuss with myself as I constructed the landscape of my new world.

I approached the gold shimmering gates that were so blinged out it hurt my eyes looking at them, it was as if I were looking at the sun. The gates appeared to be so high I could not see which galaxy the top of the gate extended into. I know it was far off and beyond what I could ever imagine. Maybe it goes into the infinite, the never ending.

Things always end where I am from. Friendships, love, life. Things stop and they don’t go on forever like the glittery gates at this place. In the material world, we even make up places endings go to when they stop being, when they stop living. Things like heaven and hell. Which I always thought was a bit contradicting because if we believe in endings, how is it that they are allowed to go somewhere else? To end is to cease to exist right? If uncle Bobby’s life ended and he went to heaven, it didn’t really end, it just went somewhere else.

I wanted to go somewhere else, especially when the claws of the material world pounced at me and threatened to pierce my young and tender skin.

Nightmares were a relief to reality sometimes, even monsters chasing me in my sleep were less terrifying than police, gang bangers and the god-awful rattling of guns and the lingering smoke left from drugs being devoured by those who want nothing more than immediate relief from reality. Addicts just wanted to get out of this place… who could blame them?

My trembling hands reached out to touch the knobs of the golden gates.

golden gate

But I was rudely interrupted by the guardsmen at the door who took their jobs a little too seriously.

“Wait just one-minute little lady! Don’t move!”

I replied confused

“What is it, I’ve arrived, I am ready to create my corridors”

The guards looked at me laughing… then begin speaking to me in a shrieking high-pitched voice…

“You bridge people are hilarious, show me your papers doll!”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head with confusion. “I don’t have any papers, what papers?”

The guardsmen appeared irritated with my ignorance and retorted…

“Your story!”

“My story I made up?”  I replied confusingly.

The guard impatiently answered, “Yes! Or you can return back to the other side and deal with the degenerates you call family.” They both laughed like witches tilting their heads back while their overly pronounced long noses shot up into the air forcing me to see things I’d rather not.

I could see the curly hair in their nostrils smothered in boogers and I couldn’t take any more observation of their self-important demeanor. Like everyone else, they thought they were better than me. I reached into my jeans and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and reluctantly handed it to the guards. I didn’t want them, or anyone else for that matter to know about my stories and the things I make up.

The guardsmen finally stopped laughing and put my story into their pockets and stuffed it far down into their camouflage pants as if I would never get it back again.

“Okay now, can I get through please” I quietly demanded, tapping my pink, pinky the princess sneakers against the slick silver pavement.

The guardsmen replied angrily,

“No! first, you need to drop your luggage, nothing from that awful place in which you live shall ever, ever, never be brought past these gates!”

I replied shaking my head in refusal, “But, But” I stuttered…

“These are my things, the things I will transform from the other side into something good on this side. I am Goddess of Transmutation. Princess Alchemy, I need my things, I need to fix them, I need to change them here, past those gates, they will be rebuilt into something fantastic!”

The guards looked touched by my plea but refused to allow the sympathy they felt for me to override their prestigious position as guardsmen. “Come here little bridge girl person, come on, let me see your ear. We cannot go against policy; you can’t bring your stuff here it will contaminate our environment. Perhaps if you are who you say you are, little bridge girl, use your alchemy in front of our very eyes now! Show us transmutation! Transform your baggage to make it allowable in the Imagine X Kingdom now!”

I was taken back by their demands.

The truth is I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know if I could spontaneously pull it off. On the other side of the bridge, I had to be running from something to access the powers they are now asking me to show them in this very moment. I had to transform from a girl into an escapist, turn on my imagination and walk into a story I construct.

In that moment, from that very thought, I believe I may have put it all together, the pieces of the puzzling puzzle! So, I think! The story was the doorway to the other side but how could I continue the journey if I am creating characters that challenge me? The gatekeepers only exist because I put them there.

What self-imposed test am I demanding myself to take? Why won’t I allow myself on the other side of the gate?


To be continued…


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 Un-Sexy Poem

A painful kiss from chapped lips scathing my flesh

I didn’t know crust could turn into blades

I want to taste his lips, not my own blood

I groaned, not from being pleasured but from being literally stabbed with his crust

His skin was ashy and icky like sand paper

His beard un-kept and the hairs growing back on his face rubbed against my cheeks removed the top layer of my epidermis

His breath was death

And if he didn’t hurry up and cum

Surely I too was going to die.


Love doesn’t smell, feel or taste good all the damn time. Let’s be real about those moments when the butterflies in our stomach is replaced with nauseation and a strong urge to vomit. When inward screams yell with fury, “I wish this gargoyle would hurry up and get the fuck off of me.”

By Janell Hihi Copyright@2017