Michelle O’Kane

AKA Feisty

Recent Posts

  • An Awesome Wave

    An ocean of iron(y) in my brain—
Coursing, rushing, flooding veins
Neuropsychologists 
inside my head
I think they think my brain is 
dead
Are they correct? 
Can they be right?
Have my once strong waves
Given up this fight?

I did I did I did
I did flee from memory—
My  wings were just
a few feathers
And I fluttered, searching
in the ether—

There was nothing
Nothing I could trust
Nowhere to cling

Sprinkled on the ground:
an infinity of waves
and fire and sound
Under, beneath—
I saw loss
I saw nothing
No one 
I searched—
for a way back to:
my world
my life
my son.

Like time—
my blood moves slowly
then shoots me
Memories are bullets–
shooting, blasting, missing—

Each hour 
more unclear
Who is this person 
in this mirror?
Girl, woman, old lady?
I don’t fucking know
I think I’m, now—
The American psycho.

  • Because I Could not Stop for Death

    This is my second life. We’re not supposed to live this long. We’re supposed to be dead by the time we’re thirty-eight. And that’s an old statistic. Sometimes I wonder if I’m still in my younger body because I missed something. I’m younger than they are now. By a long shot. Five years is a world of difference. Add another five or six on there and there you are, snorting lines with someone who’s never heard of Steely Dan. Then you turn around and your window is gone. All you have are years. 

    When I was three we had a house in Trinidad, California, where our backyard was an expanse of redwood trees from our yard, way past the border of Oregon. We had stories. We had a lighthouse. We had fairies in tree ears and a darkroom in our garage. We had poppies and a Ford. When we were driving, my dad would flick his cigarette out the window and point out flower fields. At home, he often told us that he was becoming an archaeologist and that’s why we were living in Humboldt County. Then he would take a syringe and go into the bathroom. 

    Dear diary,

    The best part about that Ford was the floor of the front right seat. I would sit in my mothers’s lap. There was a hole in the floorboard, about the size of a large and torn receipt. I would look down between my feet, and my mother’s feet too. I would lean down, my mother’s hands on my shoulders, and look through the hole in the floor of the station wagon, the patterns of grey concrete, gravel, and tar, sliding beneath us.
    Love, Michelle
    Trinidad, CA

    Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality.

  • With Flowers

    If recollecting were 
forgetting,
Then I remember not;
And if forgetting, 
recollecting,
How near I had forgot!
And if to miss were
merry,
And if to mourn were gay,
However very blithe the
fingers
That gathered these these
Today!

  • Sick

    “I cannot go to world today,
said Feisty Michelle K. O’Kane.
My entire body is—
Covered with speckles.
Like my red blood cells,
I have poikilocytosis  freckles.

A mass of iron rusting my brain—
Jumping jackasses on my portal vein.
My mouth
—it blows up when I sigh.
My retinal scan: one diabetic eye.

I cannot pull myself out of bed.
A shrink  is shrinking out my head.
As a child I was never properly labeled. 
No wonder I'm now mentally disabled.

My collarbone twitches
My elbow itches—
Now eyes are blue.
It might be instamatic flu.

My memories hurt when I move my chin.
My sanity has done caved in. 
My neck is broke 
in my right shoulder—
Perhaps because I'm now bipolar²

My blood is being such a dick.
My CBC says I’m now anemic?
Red blood cells are asphyxiating.
Oxygen is something they're
 no longer creating.

My h-h-H-hh-heartbeat is erratic—
Wait—now that cunt is static.
When it snows—I faint.
Ingemar Stenmark I ain't. 
(swish)

Meechelle, my bell—
Are these things that go together well?
No idea. 
My memory is hell.

I still drink boba tea.
Vanilla, peach and strawberry.  
Mmmm—so delicious.
My diabetic nurse says:
“You're inauspicious."  

I was climbing around, on my trusty ladder
I happened to fall right onto my gall bladder.
I lost that organ, and part of my brain.
Worse than all that—
I lost my mane

My teeth fall out when horses bray.
Then they pick up my teeth and say, 
Hay, hay, hayeeee

Hay hip hip hypoxia
This airhead has no oxygen—
No iron, no hemoglobin—
 C02 
Woe is me,
I got a lotta 
booboos

Temporomandibular disorder— 
Like bipolar, another disorder.
You know what sucks? TMJ.
Now my ear hurts when I pray. 

But I have nothing to fear.
The Spirit is the Conscious Ear.
We actually Hear 
When We inspect—that's audible— 
That is admitted—Here— 

—what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is motherfuckin' Tuesday? 
G’bye!
 It's honey lavender boba day.


1. Poikilocytosis refers to the change in shape of the red blood cells, often due to certain medical conditions. This can affect the ability of the red blood cells to transport oxygen throughout the body. 

  • I Measure Every Grief I Meet

    And then. Then people start drifting. They start floating. They must get back to their lives. They must get back to the people in their lives. The front door stays still. The phone is less noisy. The walks—shorter, scarcer. 

    I am my own world. My spinning world of love and grief and memories. My world of my worlds. My world of my words.

    At first, it’s a party. People come over.  They bring food and flowers and booze. They clean. They cook. They bring books and ask you to go on walks.  They help plan the deceased’s memorial. They stay by your side on that day of celebration. Like a birthday party, a memorial celebrates a life. 

    I see them on Instagram. I see lakes and trees and, locally grown produce—smoking grills. I see lots of plates of food. Their worlds are still spinning, spinning, spinning. 

    Now. For whom do I cook?  Who do I cook with? How do I comfort others? How do I adjust to a new life without their existence? In the beginning the disbelief, the shock, the phone that is a brick in my hands—these distractions numb me from grief. From grieving.

    Then, things start seeming kinda normal.  I cry less. I lol. I listen to npr. I begin to move without that encompassing emptiness of loss, grief, memories—and this is when I start to bleed.

    I no longer have shock or disbelief to numb me. I no longer have the fresh, bloody cuts to bandage. All I have are what’s under my now scarred skin:  severed arteries and punctured organs and smokey images. 

    In the 80s I was a kid at a new school. Lincoln elementary, Cupertino, Ca. That’s when I met Darlene. Darlene died in 2022.

    In my mind, Darlene will die again. I’ll wake up and I’ll forget she’s dead and I’ll process her loss again. Again. Again. Again.

    Once—I had a mother and a father and a sister. I had a first husband. I had a baby in my belly. I was in love with a soccer-playing waiter. I had a friend who always checked on me. I had a dog.

    I’m showing not telling but nobody’s watching. I feel like I’m washing away. I feel like a melting pile of snow. I feel like I should be in the forest, climbing redwood trees. I feel like I need a nap but I can’t sleep. I want to feel because I don’t know. I want to die. I want to live. I want to live a different life. I want to write something good. I want to write something well. But I don’t know what good is, and I’m convinced nobody knows what good.

    Today. Again. I stare into my bathroom mirror. I stare at a woman, an older version of me. I don’t want to look at this woman and her wrinkles and gray hair strands. I remember I’m a nesting doll not nesting.

    I can’t return to my life because now that life is an older version of what was my life. There will be new versions. And more new versions. And more new versions.

    A person with large sunglasses and a white bandana smiles outdoors. They wear a floral top, and have rose tattoos on their chest. Sunlight and greenery are visible in the background.
    A person with large sunglasses and a white bandana smiles outdoors. They wear a floral top, and have rose tattoos on their chest. Sunlight and greenery are visible in the background.
  • I Wonder if it hurts to Live

    I Wonder if it hurts to Live

    I am my own world. My spinning world of love and grief and memories. My world of my worlds. My world of my words.

    At first, it’s a party. People come over.  They bring food and flowers and booze. They clean. They cook. They bring books and ask you to go on walks.  They help plan the deceased’s memorial. They stay by your side on that day of celebration. Like a birthday party, a memorial celebrates a life. 

    And then. Then people start drifting. They start floating. They must get back to their lives. They must get back to the people in their lives. The front door stays still. The phone is less noisy. The walks—shorter, scarcer. 

    The carefully wrapped casseroles stop appearing in the kitchen. The flowers start wilting.  Like snowflakes and people—flowers melt. How are you doing?  The soft voices begin to evolve in tone, speed, intonation. Topics. Conversations evolve into the talk of life. Lives. The lives of the living. 

    I see them on instagram. I see lakes and trees and, locally grown produce—smoking grills. I see lots of plates of food. Their worlds are still spinning, spinning, spinning. 

    Now. For whom do I cook?  Who do I cook with? How do I comfort others? How do I adjust to a new life without their existence? In the beginning the disbelief, the shock, the phone that is a brick in my hands—these distractions numb me from grief. From grieving.

    Then, things start seeming kinda normal.  I cry less. I lol. I listen to npr. I begin to move without that encompassing emptiness of loss, grief, memories—and this is when I start to bleed.

    I no longer have shock or disbelief to numb me. I no longer have the fresh, bloody cuts to bandage. All I have are what’s under my now scarred skin:  severed arteries and punctured organs and smokey images. 

    In the 80s I was a kid at a new school. Lincoln elementary, Cupertino, Ca. That’s when I met Darlene. Darlene died in 2022.

    In my mind, Darlene will die again. I’ll wake up and I’ll forget she’s dead and I’ll process her loss again. Again. Again. Again.

    Once—I had a mother and a father and a sister. I had a first husband. I had a baby in my belly. I was in love with a soccer-playing waiter. I had a friend who always checked on me. I had a dog.

    I’m showing not telling but nobody’s watching. I feel like I’m washing away. I feel like a melting pile of snow. I feel like I should be in the forest, climbing redwood trees. I feel like I need a nap but I can’t sleep. I want to feel because I don’t know. I want to die. I want to live. I want to live a different life. I want to write something good. I want to write something well. But I don’t know what good is, and I’m convinced nobody knows what good.

    Today. Again. I stare into my bathroom mirror. I stare at a woman who looks like an older version of me. I don’t want to look at this woman and her wrinkles and grey hair strands. I remember I’m a nesting doll not nesting.

    I cannot return to my life because now that life is an older version of what was my life. There will be new versions. And more new versions. And more new versions.

    My life—my war zone—keeps getting blown up. Loss is a grenade. Sadness is shrapnel. 

    I measure every Grief I meet (561)

    Emily Dickinson

    I wonder if it hurts to live –

     

     

  • Life In The Trees

    Life In The Trees



    Dear Diary,
    Hi!
    Well, lots have happened and I haven’t written in a long time. So, here I am. I don’t think I told you, but mom and I took a trip to Eureka a few months back. We saw The Center & Trinidad, all our old houses & a bunch of other stuff. I love it there. I want to go back. Danny & I went to my junior prom. It was pretty fun. We were really wired & stoned. I rented an ultra stretch limo & went with 8 other people. It was so fun! Danny wore a Harley bandanna around his head. I got a job finally. I work at 5–7–9. It’s a small sizes only store. We moved also into a bigger house. This one is so much nicer & bigger and we got a dog. I named her honey. She’s so sweet. I love her so much. Last night I went out with some of my friends. We stole a keg out of someone’s car. It was so funny. Imagine 4 girls running down the street with a full keg! Then 2 of my friends went back to get the tap, and they found a plastic bag with a bag of pot, a bag of shrooms, a pipe, and a bong! Guess who got the bong & pot!! And it was so cool. I have so much fun when I leave Danny at home!

    Michelle
    May 4, 1990
    Cupertino, Ca

    Dear Mother,

    Bob is using the typewriter to type s first report to the tribal council. They meet on Saturday & he has t    o tell them what he has been doing since he started. He also has to submit reports when he inspects an area for being a possible Indian burial ground. I had planned on typing this, which is why I mention it; as a matter of fact, I started a letter on the typewriter-but if I wait for Bob to finish… Don’t know what our plans are for Christmas. Bob really doesn’t want to drive down & back. He would like to fly, but that would mean we would have to build a fence for the dogs by Christmas & I don’t know if we can do it. So, everything is sort of up in the air (we will probably drive down). Our new house is really nice — very bright and cheery. Not really much news- just trying to put everything away — not many cupboards or closets. I’m planning on enjoying a long winter, making things for Bob & Michelle & going for walks to the beach when it’s not raining. Hope you can come & visit soon. Will write as soon as we know what we’re doing.

    Love,
    Kathi, Bob, & Michelle

    P.S. Michelle is really enjoying the house- lots of room to run around & play & she likes to go for walks & see the houses.

    Trinidad, Ca.
    1978

    Dear Mother,
    Jesus is not some abstract idea or person who died 2,000 years ago. He is alive. He said, “I will never leave you.” He knows you cannot do it alone. We are too weak, every last one of us. Who do you know that really “has it together”? No one- not you, not me — there is no security here. No perfection here — yet- until he returns. There is no plateau that we reach on earth where everything is happy and harmonious because of our physical appearance, our home, our job our income — that is grasping at empty air and only in our spiritual life will we reach only with Jesus accepting His Love — in believing in Him can we experience that security & happiness that everyone seeks.

    December 12, 1978
    Trinidad, Calif.

  • Memories, Life, Phone Sex, & Loneliness

    Memories, Life, Phone Sex, & Loneliness

    What you want to do is you want to put the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger. Die. Die in the bathtub, or maybe a field of gravel. Surrounded by blood: trickling, splattering, dripping. Sticky hair, messy. But not too messy, the point is to die with as little mess as possible, hence the bathtub. And a field doesn’t require a heartache of cleanup. Death is nature. It’s a method of problem solving. It’s a process of a set of rules. It’s Wikipedia. They trick you. They teach you your times tables, and that X=0 but they never call it a language or reveal that zero actually means nothing—just a number reflecting the money than you have in your pocket. 

    Meanwhile, at night, when you lie in bed, concentrate on the areas that bother you (your sinuses) let your mind sort of float through your sinuses. Then feel that the spirit of the lord is flowing there, soothing & healing – drying up your sinuses (you can even try it at work when you are troubled). You can ask Him to remove the pain. Just say, “Please, Jesus, take away my suffering.” Just try it.
    Love, Kathy

    It’s like when I would wait to take calls, like from the guy in Santa Clara who got raped when he was thirteen. While riding home from school, he got pulled off his bike. That man paid me $1.99 a minute to listen to the story and I was never given an algorithm for that. He raped himself every day, having unprotected sex with strangers, and then paid me to hear the stories. I could not fix him. I’m tough. Everybody has always said so. I didn’t complain, because I was tough. I would stand up to anyone. I would try most things, if they were dangerous. I mean, the times I was molested, it was done by trusted friends, family, and a gymnastic teacher on the floor, during practice. I was never abused riding a bus or walking around at night or walking around the Czech Republic in the dark. In the snow. I did get surrounded by a bunch of boyish men, on a train, on my way through Slovakia. They cornered me, around my seat. One sat next to me and touched me. I said, “Go fuck yourself.” It was the only time I’ve ever uttered that phrase and still been scared. So I got tougher. And so did the world. I was never tough enough. Unless I was drunk. Now, I’m in an apartment complex. Dallas, technically. Could be anywhere, I don’t care. I have no key and nowhere to be. I just want to see trees and my son’s smile. If it’s not broken, break it. 

    It’s the idea of people doing things before they die. I don’t feel that way. It’s been a while since I haven’t tried to die. On my own terms. I hope God still lets me in. 

    And I don’t, really, care if there were things I didn’t see or experience. I wish I could relive my life. I wish I could not be sick. I wish I could relive Flynn’s first Christmas, with all the dogs who are now dead. I wish I cook in that kitchen. I wish I had my garden. I wish I remembered my son’s twelfth birthday. I wish I remembered all of his birthdays.

    I remember the delivery room and how big his head was as he pushed his way out of my body. I wish I had my hammock in my tree. I wish I was smelling the flowers from my honeysuckle bush. I wish I was riding a snowboard down a hill for the first time. I wish I had a broken leg because I had the balls to play roller derby. I wish I still had friends. I wish my world dogs who are now dead. I wish I could cook in that kitchen. I wish I had my garden. I wish I remembered my son’s twelfth birthday. I wish I remember included something beyond this 8th story box with bed. I wish I had lived more than a fraction of my life correctly. I wish my idea of perfection would stay constant. 

  • Please, Jesus, take away my suffering.

    Please, Jesus, take away my suffering.

    What you want to do is you want to put the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger. Die. Die in the bathtub, or maybe a field of gravel. Surrounded by blood: trickling, splattering, dripping. Sticky hair, messy. But not too messy, the point is to die with as little mess as possible, hence the bathtub. And a field doesn’t require a heartache of cleanup. Death is nature. It’s a method of problem solving. It’s a process of a set of rules. It’s Wikipedia. They trick you. They teach you your times tables, and that X=0 but they never call it a language or reveal that zero actually means nothing—just a number reflecting the money than you have in your pocket. 

    Meanwhile, at night, when you lie in bed, concentrate on the areas that bother you (your sinuses) let your mind sort of float through your sinuses. Then feel that the spirit of the lord is flowing there, soothing & healing – drying up your sinuses (you can even try it at work when you are troubled). You can ask Him to remove the pain. Just say, “Please, Jesus, take away my suffering.” Just try it.
    Love, Kathy

    It’s like when I would wait to take calls, like from the guy in Santa Clara who got raped when he was thirteen. While riding home from school, he got pulled off his bike. That man paid me $1.99 a minute to listen to the story and I was never given an algorithm for that. He raped himself every day, having unprotected sex with strangers, and then paid me to hear the stories. I could not fix him. I’m tough. Everybody has always said so. I didn’t complain, because I was tough. I would stand up to anyone. I would try most things, if they were dangerous. I mean, the times I was molested, it was done by trusted friends, family, and a gymnastic teacher on the floor, during practice. I was never abused riding a bus or walking around at night or walking around the Czech Republic in the dark. In the snow. I did get surrounded by a bunch of boyish men, on a train, on my way through Slovakia. They cornered me, around my seat. One sat next to me and touched me. I said, “Go fuck yourself.” It was the only time I’ve ever uttered that phrase and still been scared. So I got tougher. And so did the world. I was never tough enough. Unless I was drunk. Now, I’m in an apartment complex. Dallas, technically. Could be anywhere, I don’t care. I have no key and nowhere to be. I just want to see trees and my son’s smile. If it’s not broken, break it. 

    It’s the idea of people doing things before they die. I don’t feel that way. It’s been a while since I haven’t tried to die. On my own terms. I hope God still lets me in. 

    And I don’t, really, care if there were things I didn’t see or experience. I wish I could relive my life. I wish I could not be sick. I wish I could relive Flynn’s first Christmas, with all the dogs who are now dead. I wish I could cook in that kitchen. I wish I had my garden. I wish I remembered my son’s twelfth birthday. I wish I remembered all of his birthdays.

    I remember the delivery room and how big his head was as he pushed his way out of my body. I wish I had my hammock in my tree. I wish I was smelling the flowers from my honeysuckle bush. I wish I was riding a snowboard down a hill for the first time. I wish I had a broken leg because I had the balls to play roller derby. I wish I still had friends. I wish my world dogs who are now dead. I wish I could cook in that kitchen. I wish I had my garden. I wish I remembered my son’s twelfth birthday. I wish I remember included something beyond this 8th story box with bed. I wish I had lived more than a fraction of my life correctly. I wish my idea of perfection would stay constant. 

  • Drivin’ Nails in my Coffin

    Drivin’ Nails in my Coffin

    What you want to do is you want to put the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger. Die. Die in the bathtub, or maybe a field of gravel. Surrounded by blood: trickling, splattering, dripping. Sticky hair, messy. But not too messy, the point is to die with as little mess as possible, hence the bathtub. And a field doesn’t require a heartache of cleanup. Death is nature. It’s a method of problem solving. It’s a process of a set of rules. It’s Wikipedia. They trick you. They teach you your times tables, and that X=0-) but they never call it a language or reveal that zero actually means nothing other than it’s a number reflecting more money than you have in your pocket. 

    Meanwhile, at night, when you lie in bed, concentrate on the areas that bother you (your sinuses) let your mind sort of float through your sinuses. Then feel that the spirit of the lord is flowing there, soothing & healing – drying up your sinuses (you can even try it at work when you are troubled). You can ask Him to remove the pain. Just say, “Please, Jesus, take away my suffering.” Just try it.

    Kathy, 1976

    It’s like when I would wait to take calls, like from the guy in Santa Clara who got raped when he was thirteen. While riding home from school, he got pulled off his bike. That man paid me $1.99 a minute to listen to the story and I was never given an algorithm for that. He raped himself every day, having unprotected sex with strangers, and then paid me to hear the stories. I could not fix him. I’m tough. Everybody has always said so. I didn’t complain, because I was tough. I would stand up to anyone. I would try most things, if they were dangerous. I mean, the times I was molested, it was done by trusted friends, family, and a gymnastic teacher on the floor, during practice. I was never abused riding a bus or walking around at night or walking around the Czech Republic in the dark. In the snow. I did get surrounded by a bunch of boyish men, on a train, on my way through Slovakia. They cornered me, around my seat. One sat next to me and touched me. I said, “Go fuck yourself.” It was the only time I’ve ever uttered that phrase and still been scared. So I got tougher. And so did the world. I was never tough enough. Unless I was drunk. Now, I’m in an apartment complex. Dallas, technically. Could be anywhere, I don’t care. I have no key and nowhere to be. I just want to see trees and my son’s smile. If it’s not broken, break it. 

    It’s the idea of people doing things before they die. I don’t feel that way. It’s been a while since I haven’t tried to die. On my own terms. I hope God still lets me in. 

    And I don’t, really, care if there were things I didn’t see or experience. I wish I could relive my life. I wish I could not be sick. I wish I could relive Flynn’s first Christmas, with all the dogs who are now dead. I wish I could cook in that kitchen. I wish I had my garden. I wish I remembered my son’s twelfth birthday. I wish I remembered all of his birthdays. I remember the delivery room and how big his head was as he pushed his way out of my body. I wish I had my hammock in my tree. I wish I was smelling the flowers from my honeysuckle bush. I wish I was riding a snowboard down a hill for the first time. I wish I had a broken leg because I had the balls to play roller derby. I wish I still had friends. I wish my world included something beyond this box. I wish I had lived more than a fraction of my life correctly. I wish my idea of perfection would stay constant.